Chapter 1: Accidents Happen

There's a myth about fat people that they are almost always happy, fun-loving men and women. It is false. In fact, it isn't even close to being true. Most fat people are desperately unhappy. Why? Because they are fat. An object of ridicule in a world that prizes slim, elegant men and women.

Now, this is somewhat of a contradiction, of course. As the average adult population gets more and more overweight, fat people cease to be a noticeable minority and become ... part of the mainstream. We've even decided to categorize fat people as overweight, obese, and morbidly obese. And it isn't just adults any more either. Our children are following in the ever-deepening footsteps of their parents.

None of this will come as a surprise to anyone. It's been an ongoing topic of discussion for many years now. We've been blaming the fast food industry as the culprit, but the truth is, it's us. We're the guilty ones. We eat too much. We exercise too little. We piss and moan about our weight problems, but in the end, we keep on doing the things that perpetuate the problem.

So, where am I going with this? I am ... or was ... one of those people. I used to weigh two hundred sixty-five pounds. That's not so much if I were six-seven, but I am five-seven. Climbing the stairs to my second floor bedroom was an effort each and every time.

That bedroom on the second floor was in the house where I used to live. I don't any more. My ex-wife decided that I was unsuitable as a husband and role-model for our three children. After trying unsuccessfully for several years to get me to lose weight, she got rid of the whole body in one fell swoop. She divorced me.

Diane was a slim five-foot-two and stayed that way throughout our ten year marriage. She was dedicated to fitness and that included involving our children as well. She was a stay-at-home mom, so she had the time, whereas I was a working stiff pulling an eight-to-five shift. I was on my feet most of the day and, after fighting rush hour traffic, I was tired by the time I got home. The last thing I wanted to do was to jump into some shorts, t-shirt, and sneakers and head to the gym or go for a run.

You would think that the divorce would be motivation enough for me to get off my ass and do something about losing all that excess weight. Well, you'd be wrong. I was upset at my failed marriage and losing my children. I loved them dearly, just as I loved Diane. Worse than that, she found a job in another state and I was denied the privileges of seeing them frequently. In short, my life had turned to shit.

My job was to monitor the controls on a number of machines that added batches of pigment and chemical additives into various mixtures. The company I worked for, Traylor Coatings, made special paints and coatings for all sorts of exotic applications. Some of the mixtures were benign and nothing particularly special except that our objective in the plant was to produce a consistent product. If you ordered a particular formula with a particular color, our responsibility was to see that it was the same every time. Hence the need for sophisticated additive and mixing equipment.

Some of our products were toxic. They contained various chemicals that would resist rust, or mildew, or insects, or heat, or an assortment of things that could attack various surfaces. This area was in a separate room and access was restricted to specific personnel. As supervisor, I was one of those persons. Since many of the mixtures came in powdered form, we had to wear masks that included breathing apparatus. Breathing in some of the stuff we used could be fatal, so we all paid strict attention to the safety measures posted clearly on the outside and inside of that room.

Accidents happen. You can count on it. They are unplanned events that no one can predict. It was on a Tuesday afternoon, a very hot July Tuesday, that one such accident took place. I had just entered the hazardous materials (HazMat) room and noticed immediately that the temperature in the room was well in excess of one-hundred degrees. There were three other men in the room at the time, and I could see that they were sweating profusely as they went about their work.

I picked up the phone and punched in the number for the maintenance department.

"Gerry, the damned air conditioning has crapped out again in the HM Room. I need someone here pronto."

"We're already on it, Doug," the voice came back. "It should be back on line in about ten or fifteen minutes. We had a leak in the coolant line."

"Okay. I'm going to stop the guys until it's on again. This place is a sauna and we don't need an event to happen when they're in this situation."

"Got it. I'll let the office know."

Gerry Silweitz was a good guy and knew his stuff. He would follow procedure just as I would. This place was too dangerous to have guys working this kind of heat unless it was an emergency.

"Okay, guys. Take a break. The air conditioning will be back on in a few minutes. Get out of here for now."

There wasn't a single objection to my instructions. They needed to get out of the sauna and cool off. In the meantime, I went on an inspection tour to make sure everything was shut down and in "safe mode."

I was about to leave the room when I noticed a container of fungicide powder looked as though the lid was improperly fitted. It was one of the smaller 35 lb. containers with a clamp style lid that would prevent spillage if it were accidentally dropped or knocked over. When I inspected it, the clamp was set but the lid was riding up on the lip of the base. That wouldn't do.