There was a man who had a perfect tarnished wife and whose job was to drive around in circles. Whose job was to follow his orders, moving containers around the port, from Zebra to Bobby to Apple, never knowing what was inside them. The containers were rust-red and clay-brown, refrigerated or unrefrigerated, and it was not his job to know what was being shipped or where. Sometimes on sunny days he would open his machine’s windows, and if he happened to be eating from a bag of Cheetos he would flirt one out the window until a crow gusted down, pawed onto his window sill and daintily sniped from his hand that orange mystery. 

The man’s workplace was full of characters—all you needed was your GED to get on the cardboard, and there were more than a few guys who’d done stints in Colchester. The man ...