Soufre Metamorphica

It was after noon when the malaise set in. Perhaps it was just the first bites of lunch finally offsetting the morning's caffeine that triggered it or maybe it was just gonna be another one of those days. She could smell the faint odor of sulfur, and knew it was imminent, the associated wretch, and the coughing fit. A quick search revealed that she had forgotten to bring her inhaler this morning in an abnormal rush to get out the door. She ceased the rummaging through her purse with a sigh and mentally prepared herself.

After the fit had subsided, Kate looked through the window at the bustling midday street, her lunch forgotten and her appetite greatly diminished. Were they really not aware? Surely they must be, everyone could smell it, right? But if anyone had become consternated by the odor of apricot and rotten eggs wafting in the air, they paid it no mind. Perhaps relegating it to a corner of their psyche, to be examined in the wee hours of a sleepless night. An examination into the unease of their day on Bazemore Boulevard.

The sun streamed into her little office, illuminating the traffic-worn carpet and the decades old desk with the chipped maple veneer and the loose drawer pull, the tightening of which was on a long mental list of fixes needed. When Kate shuffled the papers on her desk she saw the tempests of dust motes alight, becoming airborne and floating through the shaft of the sunbeam piercing a gap in the drapes, before settling on the exposed ankle of the Maven of the Mall, as Kate Murphy was known. As her office was in the building at the fore of the Bazemore Town Hall Mall, Park, and Plaza, and with her outsized influence within said confines, the title seemed fitting.  

Her thin, pale skin warmed quickly in the strong noon sun causing even more distress. The weather on this most glorious of days revealed more underpinnings of nausea for Kate. “But why are you all so unconcerned?” She wanted to scream at the passersby.

“Is it really just me?” She wondered aloud.

She marveled at the serenity with which everyone moved through the sound dampened glass. All moving to their own rhythmic beat, the music silent. Like an old film, the light flickering through the leaded glass, waiting for the script to appear, illuminating the plot and moment. She shuddered at the thought of joining them, of leaving her desk even for a second, despite the need for sustenance at this hour. She looked at the wilted salad in the tupperware resting on her desk, unappetizing as ever, and proceeded to find nourishment, if no enjoyment, in its contents.

*****

The Boulevard had seen better days, of course. The refining process of the Alberta Tar Sands crude oil to gasoline rendered a cheaper, more abundant brimstone. Their pale yellow blocks stacked in lines of gigantic assemblages, standing like a phalanx of headless Egyptian Sphinx’, guarding the Canadian prairie from dangers both mythic and temporal. Those oversized bricks patiently awaiting a return of healthier prices. Along with the ubiquitous Chinese competition in all domestic markets, the glut doomed businesses around town to waning alongside demand for the labor intensive Appalachian sulfur that the Town of Bazemore produced. Between that and the costs of doing business these days, times were troubling.  

The Corporation, of course, was steadfast as ever because the investment had been made. “We must see it through,” they had insisted. “Anything else would be folly.”

In the recesses of her mind Kate cursed the audacity of these men bidding their wards to lug the ore from the hot and humid floor of the sulfur mine where the fumaroles spat and hissed sulfur dioxide and steam. The men fully cognizant to the danger in an errant arm or leg or worse. Those men who needed the buck more than their sweat and vitality. Returning from the mines aware that another day without being blown sky high on a pressure wave or being buried under a pile of rubble when one of the slag piles gave way, was a good day. To find the way to Elysium through the suffocating weight of the refuse of this ancient element was an indignity not worth bearing thought.

The element was of utmost importance Kate well understood, gleaned from the frequent grandstanding of Mayor Bailey. She had witnessed him often enough, preaching the gospel of the mining executives, chortling to themselves appreciatively during their opulent country club speeches. She knew full well that copper needed the chalcocite and chalcopyrite, that zinc required the sphalerite, and the lead and the molybdenum mandated the galena and molybdenite found in the iron sulfides wrenched from the earth on the backs of the oxen-yoked men. These elements were vital to commerce, locally and globally. Vital indeed, she just wished there was another way.  

“Perhaps…? No, that couldn't possibly…” Ms. Murphy mused under her breath. “Well, maybe it could… If only.” Realizing the folly of her optimism, she sighed heavily and turned back to her work. Any glint of hope driven from her thoughts by the recollection of her station. She was as indentured as those men in the mines.

She had heard the rumors, of course, trickling down from the hemlock covered hills. Of kids gone missing, of the disfigurements. “Oh, the precious children,” the spinster thought with satisfying snark-laden heaviness. She had been at her post a very long time.

Nobody truly believed the stories mind you, but then who could really be sure. Not with the prevalence of home birth and the resulting lack of birth certificates and Social Security Identification Numbers amongst a certain crowd. Rarely, if ever, would a bereft parent from The Ridge report a missing child that never existed in the first place. Not with the real-world ramifications of the action. There would be men in khakis and button down short sleeves and women with their sturdy shoes in floral print dresses and pastel sweaters arriving in silver Detroit sedans with adequate gas mileage and state plates. Well-wishing busybodies with their paperwork and their questions.

“Asking about their precious little Johnny,” Kate spat into a sea of dust and sunbeams, her spittle hanging briefly on the shaft of light before snowballing through the air collecting dust and more as it plunged to the floor, creating a void itself along the way.

In the hallway there was a clattering of something resembling a brace of broom handles falling against the cheap linoleum tiles laid out in checkerboard fashion along its length. Somebody had the nerve to jar her from her mindless reverie.

“Probably that asshole Bailey running around the china shop, the bull he is.” Kate thought, “Looking for someone else to blame, in all probability.”

Kate made a mental note to remain scarce for the rest of the afternoon. Not that she would deign to a too early exit, but if she busied herself until 4:50 or so and then left through the side door that would work. That side door providing such relief, currently propped open by a stantioned sign to let in the afternoon breeze. That warm finger of air moved marginally by the low speed click-click-clicking of the ancient fan stationed between the peeling crown molding and chipped plaster of the hallway ceiling.

It appeared to Kate that one blade was still pulling at the web of an unfortunate spider, allowing for the dust to find purchase in its tangled entrails and to swirl in the void left by those cheap brass plated blades of pressboard. The hallway having grown quiet again, the sound of the wall clock beating tempo raised its stature in the new silence. The clock and the fan knew the ominous fate of the occupants of the municipal complex. They knew the obsolescence that would find them all in time.

*****

As she stepped into the sunshine, Kate grimaced reflexively. She had intended to merely squint her eyes until the dilation of her pupils had dissipated. However, the late afternoon glare was more disturbing than expected and her functional contortion had morphed into a reflection of her true feelings on the subject. She didn't want to be outside, not with the sun, and not with this smell.

“How can no one smell that?” She felt it welling up again.

She hurried along at a too rapid a pace, closing the distance to her capsule of air conditioning and bench seats as quickly as possible. Upon entering she shut the door with a quiet thunk, her pulse beating heavy in her heart, her lungs straining at the exertion. In the sealed environment with the noxious odor of the town masked by the fir and cedar of her Town Car’s fragrance. It was still strong but somehow more palatable to her exerted lungs. In her car’s welcome embrace, she was saved from another coughing fit.

Allowing her pulse to settle she forced her breathing to comply as well. The deep breaths soothed her aching lungs. Relief at last. Momentarily.  

Almost as soon as she started the car there was a rap on the window, stern and urgent.

“Crap, what the shit? You almost gave me an aneurysm.” She angrily hurled at her attacker, “Are you trying to kill me?”

“Um, I am so sorry Ms. Murphy. I didn’t know if you had the car in gear or not. I, uh… didn’t want to get run over.” Jon Barton stammered into the ground, refusing to make eye contact with his victim. Kate could plainly tell he realized he was in the wrong. It was just…

“It was just that Mayor Bailey gave me this envelope with your name on it and said to get it to you today. I had to… I mean, I tried to make it to your office before…” He trailed off, knowing full well the error of his ways. Never chase a woman into a parking lot, even if there is still 10 minutes left in her day.

In his trembling hands, slightly damp from perspiration, resided a familiar shape. The manilla envelope he clutched held her worst nightmare, overtime. She drifted in thought for a moment, recalling her evening plans that were now doomed. The ice cream, her shows and the Pinot Grigio would have to wait, it appeared.

“...and so he was hoping you could, you know, on your way home…” Jon trailed off again, belatedly realizing that his words held no audience with her.

“Give it here,” she said with a deep sigh that conveyed her mood concisely. Snatching at the boy’s manilla package she started raising the window. Though there were no more words, the sentiment was clear. The AC had started to cool and there was to be no more chit chat. Without another glance at the lackey she backed out of her space, threw the car into gear and pulled out of the lot, hoping to avoid speaking another word today.  

*****

As Kate had anticipated, the envelope contained a nasty little surprise. She knew it was due, the report from the State Medical Examiner, but she had wished to avoid this unpleasant task. The Errand-Boy to the Corporation was for some unwitting underling, not her. “I guess Bailey found his scapegoat.” Kate grumbled into the blaring radio, the adverts shouting right back at her.

As she waited for traffic to move along the intersection where The Boulevard met I-67, she debated the next move. Most times, when overtime was “offered”, she would wait till the most inopportune time for her task to be completed. “Malicious Compliance, they call it.” Kate acknowledged to herself. She had surely mastered that art. If there were an Olympic competition for the sport she most assuredly would be in the running for a medal. But today there was a catch, the show she was rushing the afternoon’s work for wouldn't wait. “The Mid-Season Finale is worth a little hustle to catch live,” she reasoned.

In pulling into a bleached and vacant parking lot on the east side of town, she moved decisively in her decision to compensate her inconvenience with a quick peek inside the package. She decided to ignore the pink Post-It with directives scribbled alongside the address for delivery. Ignored too were the block letters of “Confidential” on the face of the package.

She tore into the bulky envelope, enjoying the subversive act of destroying such an easily replaceable item. Discovering what she expected, a gift from The Mayor, acting as Usurper of The Throne in this role, to his golfing buddies at the Roanoke Mining Company’s Board of Governors. It was a singular loose leaf atop a neatly stacked, collated, and clipped stack of papers. It was indeed the expected medical report, how Bailey got it she could only fathom a guess, Surely not by any reputable means.

“Jezus Bob, what did you get yourself into this time?” She hissed. “And why the fuck did you drag ME into this?!” Her complaints were well founded, as this wasn’t the first time. Nor would it be the last, she understood. With that thought she pulled out of the lot and back onto the secondary arterial and moved towards the upslope that signaled the end of the valley. Towards the Eastern Heights.

*****

“...and so you see,” the man at the lectern continued, “sulfur is the 10th most abundant element on the planet and is safe and nontoxic in most of its forms. It is only when we start handling it in mass quantities and transporting it large distances does it become perilous for humans and animals. The molten sulfur liquid will be held at 266° to 309° fahrenheit for transport, any temperature above that increases the danger for employees as it forms sulfur dioxide and becomes volatile.”

“Oh great,” Kate exclaimed silently. “I interrupted.” She had arrived earlier than she had hoped. It appeared a training seminar was in session and now her presence had been witnessed. ”I should have taken a more scenic route.” Plausible deniability just flew out the window.

With a small sigh she made her way to the man she needed to see. The man was standing at the back of the room, overly-confident, in a fine cotton shirt, crisp slacks and a power tie, the tie pin and cufflinks matching of course. The room with sparse and economical, plastic folding tables and dated cushioned chairs, with a bank of windows looking towards the setting sun, looking out upon an empire of blight.  

A view to the west, down into the river valley carved from the basalt and limestone. The valley of Bazemore, named after the founder and first Chairman of The Board of RMC. His vision conveniently modified for the pleasure of the current governors. A bit of willful ignorance at the behest of their heirs and stockholders.

She sidled up to Blake Everly, as the speaker layed into the thick of it. “...turns an orangy-red when in its molten state, now yellowing as it cools here. Now, please refer to the color chart in the info packet. You’ll see if you look…” Kate stopped paying him any mind when the lawyer spoke.

“Mrs. Murphy, what a pleasure to see you again.” He said knowing full well her unease with being unmarried at her age. “I was told to look for you. I hope traffic wasn’t too bad.” Again, knowing full well the impossibility of that being the case.

She said nothing and just handed him an envelope identical, down to the bold lettering on the front, to the one handed to her this afternoon by the Mayor’s lackey. He looked at it and said nothing in return. Just examined it a little too closely for her liking, A twinkle in his eye from sensing the truth at hand.

With the business concluded, Kate turned to go, supremely unhappy. The dancing around her culpability was not amusing at all. He knew full well that she would say nothing, could say nothing, without admitting her own snooping guilt. And so she slinked out with her tail between her legs.  

However, before she made any noticeable progress back towards her evening's rest, the most incredible sight met her eyes. As she made her way to the Lincoln waiting in the parking lot overlooking the bluff and with it the westerly view of the river valley amongst the blue ridges of ancient mountains ground to dust, something in the approaching dusk stopped her cold.

Stretching into the distance a web of brilliant blue fire and the resulting gasses, usually near invisible in the daytime, the perpetual fires of the sulfur veins underlying the town were creeping like a vast tangle of varicosity into the darkness of the evening. Splayed out before her in unearthly blue and orange, the burning sulfur slowly spreading toward the far end of paradise. Turning the streets yellowy-brown with the poisonous gasses and blotting out the street lights, taking over their lighting duties with more ominous tones. Causing tear gas-like symptoms to the citizens caught unprepared, without a gasmask, respirator, or even a damp scarf or towel. The metamorphosis of the once pleasant hamlet was made complete by the noxious plumes.

“Christ on a Cracker!’ The Maven of The Mall exploded, thinking of the inquiry to come.