When I was young and working for a manufacturer’s rep firm on Long Island, I wanted to get some hands-on experience, so I visited a larger family-owned fuel-oil dealer and asked if I could work for a day or two as a helper to their best technician. Most of the service managers I asked laughed and asked why I would want to do that. I explained I needed to feel what they felt because I wanted to write about it. I wanted to clean boilers and work on steam pipe and rub sweat out of my eyes. They smiled, told me to report at 6 a.m. in old clothes, and insisted I didn’t wear sneakers.
I never told my boss I was doing this, though I did it again and again across Long Island, New Jersey, New York City, and upstate New York. Those guys gave me dirty jobs to do, told me stories all day long, and taught me about their tools.