The Angel Superfund Conspiracy

"Look Ma," the little boy said, "spacemen playing basketball."

Sarah Crenshaw smiled at her four-year-old son before turning around. She was about to tell him that there are no spacemen in this hotel or maybe she would have told him that spacemen don't know how to play basketball. But, she turned towards the basketball court; and there they were - two teams, of five people each, playing an outdoor game of full-court basketball in complete Level C personal protective equipment.

They did look like men and women from outer space. They were all wearing white Tyvek suits taped at the wrists and ankles with silver duct tape. It wasn't so much the Tyvek suits, the thick black neoprene gloves, or the yellow rubber boots that made these basketball players seem so unusual; it was the respiratory gear. She could hear the heavy breathing from their full-face respirators. Only portions of their faces were visible through the hard, clear plastic face shields surrounded by thick black rubber. Each face piece contained two cartridges sticking out the bottom left and bottom right sides of the mask. The cartridges were imprinted with purple and yellow stripes to denote protection from both organic vapors and particulate matter.

It was a hot July day in Norwood, Massachusetts; and she could feel the heat coming off the blacktop of the outdoor basketball court. It was too humid a day to be playing full-court basketball in a Tyvek suit and a respirator. There were puddles of perspiration building up inside the players' impermeable white suits.

"Excuse me, sir," the curious mom said to the guy on the sideline who appeared to be in charge. "My son would like to know what’s going on here."

Hank Finnigan stopped focusing on his air-monitoring devices and turned to look at the young woman and her son. The woman was in her mid-thirties with straight black hair. She wore a light summer dress and sandals. The boy wore dark blue shorts and a yellow tank top.

"It's a training course," Hank said. "These students are being trained to work at hazardous waste sites. The basketball game teaches them just how strenuous it is to work in these outfits."

"Yeah, look at how much they are all sweating," she said. "I think the chubby guy playing forward is about to pass out."

Finnigan yelled out to his weary students, "OK, everyone. Let's pack it up and get back to an air-conditioned classroom. Remember to use proper decontamination procedures as you walk through the decon zone. Don't forget to wipe down your respirators with rubbing alcohol and drink plenty of water."

# # #

Nicole drove her blue Toyota sedan into the Northeast Petroleum gas station and asked the full-service attendant to fill up the tank with regular. She had just gotten off work from her job as an assistant branch manager at a nearby bank. Her navy blue linen skirt and nylons seemed too formal for her surroundings, and she was thinking about changing into shorts and a tee shirt when she got home.

She walked over to the service station building to use the payphone to call her boyfriend. While she was waiting for him to answer the phone, she pulled a cigarette out from her purse. Nicole habitually smoked while she talked on the phone. She lit the cigarette and tossed the smoldering match onto the ground next to the building. As she spoke with her boyfriend, she turned her head to watch the attendant filling her car with regular unleaded.

A small flame developed along the crack in the asphalt. As the asphalt melted, the crack widened; and more gasoline vapors emanated from below the ground. A clear flame with blue flickering at its center quickly grew in size, and left a black residue on the white outer wall of the service station. Nicole didn't notice that her skirt had caught fire until she could feel her leg burning.

Screaming, "I'm on fire." she threw down the phone and ran away from the burning building towards a small grassy area that was off to the side of the gas station building.

The attendant yelled, "Hey, drop and roll...drop and roll!" She fell to the ground and began rolling around cursing and screaming. He ran over with the bucket of liquid used to clean car windshields and threw it on her burning skirt. Then he stomped on the smoldering dress with his boots. Another customer called 911 on the phone in the small service station office. Upon hearing the screaming, the station's car mechanic came out of the garage to see a wall of flames on the outside of the building. He grabbed a water hose and put out the fire.

Nine minutes later, the ambulance arrived; a fire truck came along with it. The paramedics rushed to Nichole who was still sitting on the ground obviously in pain.

"You're gonna be OK."

"No. The dress is ruined."

"Let me take a look at that leg. The nylon has melted."

"Don't touch me."

"Really, it is going to be OK."

"Why don't you just get me to a hospital?"

"Are you able to walk?"

"Yeah, help me up."

The paramedics helped Nicole into the ambulance and took her to the hospital. As a result of melted black nylon, the worst burns were on her thighs. The owner of the gas station arrived just in time to see the ambulance leave. A short while later, the local fire chief arrived and announced that, by order of the Fire Department, the gas station was officially shut down.

Before he left, the last thing that the fire chief said to the station owner was "Get yourself a good lawyer and a good environmental consultant."

# # #

Matthew Pearson didn't realize that his long hair, unkempt beard, and informal interview style was keeping him from getting a job with the federal government. His most recent rejection letter from the FDA followed previous letters from the CDC, NIH, ATF, and NRC. As was the tradition among his friends, Matt hung his job rejection letters on his bedroom door.

Student-occupied apartments in Boston had fairly informal living arrangements. Matthew shared a three-bedroom apartment with two roommates, his roommate's girlfriend, and some guy in his roommate's girlfriend's philosophy class who had been sleeping on the living room couch for the last two weeks. At the end of the month, Matt would divide up the rent and utility expenses among whoever was living in the apartment at the time. The original leaseholder had gone long ago; but as long as the rent got paid, the landlord never bothered them.

The apartment was small and crowded, but it was walking distance to Matt's classes at the Boston University School of Public Health. Matt would be graduating with a Master's Degree in epidemiology next month, and he still had not found a job.

The guy in Matt's roommate's girlfriend's philosophy class walked over to his door as he was posting the FDA rejection letter. The guy looked at the FDA letter and then he looked at Matt. Then he looked at the ATF rejection letter and looked at Matt again. He laughed and said, "The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, they must have loved you. Why don't you try the EPA?"

Two weeks later Matt had an interview at One Congress Street in Boston. This time he got the job. Five weeks later he started working for the United States Environmental Protection Agency analyzing the health effects of toxic chemicals in groundwater.