Ch13 - Good news never arrives wearing a straw hat

CHAPTER 13 GOOD NEWS DOESN’T ARRIVE WEARING A STRAW HAT Early July 1980

A Chevrolet sedan approached Weeds, trees & turf

halted near Knob Knoster, Missouri and nearby Whiteman Air Force Base.

Given the trainset wasn’t moving, their sprays were similarly halted. From nearly a quarter-of-a-mile away, Racer and Andy viewed a company sedan as its driver struggled to align the car’s with a railroad access road’s ruts before halting.

A railroad management pair, identifiable by emblematic straw hats began a brambly seventy-five yard hike toward Weeds, trees & turf. Racer recognized the sedan’s driver by name, Capataz Guzman and wondered why didn’t he join the others, taking note of Guzman’s folded arms. Racer’s fears ricocheted between the likelihood of an herbicide-contaminated creek or a photograph of Andy asleep at the spray control.

Instead the walkers initiated a harmless dialogue, one devoted to weather and baseball. The taller walker, one a bit older, too, finally steered it in a different direction. We heard you experienced some spray plugging issues last week?

Racer chose a more technical conversational axis. We added a kerosene wash and the plugging problem dissipated.

Here it came. Fellows, the Missouri-Pacific has leased the weed spray apparatus to a contractor. You may wish to touch base with Mr.

Lonnie Proffit, head man at St. Francis Railroad Services. So when you tie up this evening your employment with us concludes. We’ll figure your time so you can pick up your final checks next Friday. Be sure to remove all your gear when you leave.

So that was it, no sit-down with Goodtoast, no psycho-quality Roadmaster questions, most critically, no discussion. From the St. Louis visits Racer recognized that he and Andy had been mostly carried as seasonal but at other times as vacation relief employees.

The odd status might have inspired controversy if someone else wanted their jobs but no one did. M-O-W workers who generally accepted physical risks were less comfortable with those associated with poorly-defined chemicals.

As the hats retraced their path, Capataz strode toward Weeds, trees & turf, furnishing perhaps the first knowledgeable comment.

That wasn’t right, you should have been carried as exempt employees; I’ll ask the union to see what we can do but don’t expect much.

Andy rather abruptly retrieved a secreted metal flask.

Attempting gallows humor, he asked. Do I have enough time to merit a Rule G? Capataz then extended an invitation. to Again, not right but I’d like to invite to watch the All-Star game with my family at our place? We can speak further about this less the hats and your comedian friend here.

Where do you live, Capataz?

Preservation, south of Nicholson avenue on Montgall; you’ll spot a surplus caboose repurposed there as my kid’s play house. We’ll put something together food-wise and hope to see you at six-thirty next Tuesday.

Racer’s eyes clouded, his voice cracked, too. Sounds good, thanks by the way.

After the Racer and Andy tied-up that evening, Racer first retrieved the bike frame, again using it as concealment for the gun, returning to the odd trainset a second time for a stenciled duffel packed with herbicide-stained clothing. Racer abandoned remaining food items, leaving whatever was left for the Neff yard’s hobos.

Although its windows were darkened by a patina of No. 2 diesel and yard dust the Rambler started on the first try. Against Andy’s

wishes, Racer delivered his assistant all the way home, shortly driving to an Independence Avenue car wash where he hoped to improve on window visibility. Producing a markedly cleaner Rambler he drove to Ross Miller Cleaners in order to triage five pairs of Levi’s and three collared shirts, stuffing the remaining stained clothing items in a lobby trash-can.

Handing Racer a claim check, the laundry clerk inquired if Racer wished to donate the clothing discards to a charity. Racer only chuckled. I think those belong where they are.

Parking the Rambler on St. John avenue, he then popped the car’s trunk and began assembling the bicycle, securing wheels its frame. Bike tires inflated, he pedaled toward K-L-W. Even though he brought his shop key, Racer attracted George’s attention by rapping it on the window. Although most of Friday’s repairs had been complete, he was able to locate an unrepaired commuter bike needing a tune-up, somewhat of a motor-less counterpart to the Rambler.

Kern cracked ice. Railroad thing over?

Yes, they’ve leased or perhaps even sold Weeds, trees & turf.

Kern seated himself at the shop bench, hand scrubbing complete.

Racer reasoned shop time was over. After lighting the Shabbat candles, George unwrapped the Hoagie bun, one containing three cold case meats and no cheeses.

George moved the agenda toward sport. Are you racing Sunday?

A year removed from racing, Racer surprisingly answered in the affirmative. Sure, but where?

Kern named the place. St Louis, O’Fallon Park.

I can drive my Rambler.

Why would you? The Econoline clipboard and keys are where they’ve always been.

And that was how they returned to K-L-W-normal status. In Kern’s world neither out-of-town work nor military obligations altered friendship.

As others noted Racer’s return, George fielded inquiries K-L-Wstyle.

Haven’t seen Racer in a nearly a year.

More word poverty – He’s been spraying weeds.

Sunday afternoon Racer drove back from St. Louis. Although undertrained, he finished the O’Fallon park surprisingly well. True, Racer missed the race’s breaks but s more importantly, he missed its crashes, netting a tenth place finish, marginally in the prize money.

After parking the Econoline at the shop Racer cycled to his St. John-parked Rambler and drove to Land Lady’s rooming house, the home of suite 4-C. Land Lady greeted Racer as if he had never left, explaining she hadn’t re-rented Racer’s suite 4-C, unaware of his return date. This may have qualifying her as the most prescient among all those connected to the Weeds, trees & turf saga.

Monday morning timed with the renewal of his college-based relationships. His professor, Brooklyn, welcomed Racer, hardly surprised at the Weeds, trees & turf outcome.

Turning to work issues, Brooklyn explained that a Dr. John M. DeShario had inquired about their ability to analyze deciduous or baby, teeth for content, further noting how DeShario was likely the first of several lead analysis requestors. Brooklyn shared how DeShario had theorized that tooth lead concentrations would correlate well with levels of the same metal in children’s blood.

Possibly fatigued by Sunday’s race and drive home Racer quietly listened. According to Brooklyn lead remediation depended upon being able to identify its source, using a device commissioned for a non-clinical purpose. The favored blood lead testing instrument was often identified by the names of its developers, Messrs. Jarrell and Ash. Their Jarrell-Ash had been originally commissioned in Pittsburg, Kansas. The premature failure of the Citroen’s water pump in that city oddly factored into its Kansas City relocation. During his week at the Stilwell Hotel, Pittsburg professors had introduced Brooklyn to some local Eagle-Picher Industry chemists.

A further wrinkle arose from corporate eight-year capital equipment depreciation cycles. Given that the Pittsburg college already had one, the Eagle-Picher accountants needed a second Jarrell-Ash recipient. While neither the professors nor the Eagle Picher chemists could recall Brooklyn’s name, they certainly

recalled his Citroen water-pump woes. A Big River business card became their first lead to locating Brooklyn in Kansas City.

Excited by prospects of the donated instrument, Brooklyn phoned his dean with a cheery, yet confusing message, regarding what he termed an in-kind forty thousand dollar donation. As Brooklyn rambled the dean finally recognized he was describing a piece of equipment purchased eight years earlier, not a bank draft.

Brooklyn borrowed the college’s Econoline to transport the Jarrell-Ash from Pittsburg to their Kansas City college, taking about a week to reassemble it in the science building’s exhaust-ventilated alcove.

Brooklyn shared with Racer how he had also initiated a Special Projects account that would allow them to both buy Jarrell-Ash supplies and deposit analysis receipts. Racer daydreamed a bit listening to Brooklyn, contemplating an evolution from weed sprayer status to that of a contracted velo-chemist, a chemist – cyclist.

Before 1980, photographers and portrait artists typically framed their scientific subjects amidst laboratory glass. Whether Pasteur or Pauling, chemists’ faces were bookended by glass objects, often ones containing colorful liquids.

These depictions revealed more than chemists’ identities, they also suggested features of the work itself. Early chemical analyses had depended upon time-consuming color changes; the eye was not only the beholder but the principal means of detection.

By the mid-20th century, electronically-based optical techniques began to replace older visual-type methods. Analysts completed tasks in less time, but perhaps more importantly, achieved remarkably improved chemical limits of detection, oddly termed sensitivity. Lead ion was on the much-improved list.

Such improvements had curiously arose from non-musical duos, perhaps a Jarrell working with an Ash, a Perkin person collaborating with a last-name Elmer and a Hewlett partnering with a nonautomotive Packard. Skill sets stretched from optics to physics but typically connected through engineering.

The best remembered saga belonged to the Perkin-Elmer duo who devised an analytical technique critical to freeing Carling’s Black Label beer of copper contamination. While manual techniques

required a full work day to create perhaps three-four results, even a donated Jarrell-Ash such could match that in an hour. Brooklyn shared how environmental hazards often originated in construction activities, lead linked to paint and asbestos from fire-proofing.

Excepting lead, determining levels in body fluids like blood or urine remained rare. Brooklyn ventured past science, editorializing that public health advocates split into groups, those with access to blood lead testing capabilities, and others lacking it. He expounded that the availability of a well-trained technician and a relocated Jarrell-Ash would put Kansas City in the enviable position.

Reasoning the lead project would help Racer put the railroad thing behind him, Brooklyn handed his assistant two keys, one to the building’s outer door and a second to the Jarrell-Ash alcove. These two complemented counterparts matching the K-L-W front entrance and Racer’s car. He did not bother to carry a rooming house key given Land Lady consistently present greeted there.

Climbing the science building’s stairs the day following, Racer felt the keys strain against his pocket. Inserting the first, he reached for a light switch he hadn’t touched in more than a year.

Across that July 8th Racer figuratively fed, watered and groomed the Jarrell-Ash. Perhaps a scientific counterpart to an unrepresentative yet favorable first-time bowling score, Racer’s lab day passed without incident. The Jarrell-Ash made good on its end of the bargain. By late afternoon it had yielded nineteen results, each one representative of a child’s lead exposure history.

Sixteen of these lead-in-blood readings met current public health criteria although two corresponded to over-exposures, ones originating with biologically-unrelated adoptee children housed on Spruce avenue, identical 30.0-unit values. The third lead overage corresponded to a six-year-old girl from Preservation who registered 13.2-units. Per 1980, values exceeding 25-units were red-flagged while ones in the 11-25-unit range merited further review.

Racer walked the report to the dean’s suite, the only office equipped with a facsimile (fax) machine. Dialing Woz’ fax number, he listened through two sharps and a flat, confirmed an electronic hand shake.

Returning to Brooklyn’s space, he joined a speaker phonemediated conversation. Woz, we analyzed your samples and appreciate your grouping them. It takes nearly the same amount of time and reagents to analyze twenty as opposed to just a handful.

Woz’ dialogue centered on Racer’s findings. Sixteen children display readings less than 10-units, that’s good. We won’t be doing much except forwarding educational materials to their parents. Given that the CDC has tracked blood lead levels since 1976 we’ll ask the city to send a codes inspector to the Spruce avenue home. The city health department will work with the girls’ adoptive parents to reduce the 30.0 red-flags.

Both girls will need to come back for more blood work. Dr. Beers at the health department may add more requirements. Regarding Preservation’s 13.2-unit child, why don’t you have Racer talk to her parents? They’re going to need a figurative lead eraser.

The conversation shortly migrated to a topic beyond Racer’s purview; Brooklyn was asking about Graves’ disease outcomes.

Racer waved goodbye, anticipated spending a baseball viewing evening with his railroad family.

Given the All-Star game’s first pitch was scheduled for seven, he arrived thirty minutes early, ditching cleated bike slippers before entering. The Guzman’s polished hardwood floors hadn’t seen a shoe, certainly not a boot, since George Taylor had transported it there. Mrs. Guzman reinforced her husband’s greetings.

Introducing herself to Racer as Connie, she offered him fresh salsa, chips and a soda.

Capataz and Racer then shared unfinished railroad business, developments surrounding weed-spraying. Given former employees were hardly welcome on railroad property, the foreman was Racer’s sole information source. Capataz named a St. Louis hiring official, last name possibly, Sweetbread who had shared news involving a short line railroad’s improper herbicide application. Capataz related the misapplication had originated with a person labeled as Wurst.

This Wurst person had reportedly been observed dumping an expired defoliant concentrate in the Monongahela river.

Capataz’ words carried railroad-specific meaning. That guy backed the railroads off in-house weed-spraying. Bottom line, nothing

you could have done but don’t be surprised if they ask you to join their new contractor, somebody named Proffit.

Racer chuckled at the prospect of joining a contractor venture.

The Rambler isn’t much of a car but I don’t think I’ll return to weedspotting soon.

Capataz then shared other concerns. Last month we received registered letters from our general union chairman noting declines in dues-paying members. If these declines persist, we’re in financial free-fall.

Oddly enough Racer was nowhere close to financial free-fall.

Phyllis, the chief teller at the railroad credit union consistently greeted him by name. Given her central role in all-things-railroad, she was likely informed of his termination before Racer left his Levi’s at the dry cleaners. Learning of the Guzman’s All-Star gettogether she had baked a chocolate cake for the occasion.

Racer’s June-to-June deposits existed nearly intact, totally nearly fifteen-thousand-dollars. Shortly after he and Andy had been hired, a car clerk, one collecting grocery receipts from their frequent companion, the wrecker trainset, waved to Racer and Andy.

Hey, don’t you guys eat while you’re out? Racer wondered what the clerk meant but responded in the affirmative. Yes, sure do.

The clerk probed deeper. What kind of groceries?

Reasoning he meant their permanent grocery list, Racer expanded. ...Usual stuff, coffee, bread and crackers, sugar and salt, plus staples, no Spaghetti-O,’ nor Beanie-wienies, though.

The railroad drill down began. Then why aren’t you submitting receipts?

And to that, Racer had no answer, which turned out to be the correct response. The clerk continued. Let me have your grocery receipts and I’ll see how the M-O-W superintendent reacts to paying them. It appears you don’t have many food choices; that’s when the railroad feeds you.

The clerk’s intervention created a scenario in which Racer and Andy spent a year living, perhaps more importantly, eating for free.

Each pay period Racer deposited his check, less a seventeen dollar health insurance deduction payable to Traveler’s Insurance.

Tiring of negatives the Montgall-based viewing trio focused on the All-star game. Given Kansas City’s American League affiliation,

they were understandably disappointed at yet another National League victory. One American League player’s name stood out, though, although for a different reason, a pitcher with two first names, Tommy John.

Noting eyes growing heavy, Racer offered good bye - thank you's.

Astride his bike, Consuelo handed him a wax paper-wrapped cake portion secured with toothpicks, requesting Racer drop it with Olive so the Smiths could enjoy cake. Similar to gezellig, railroad family affections and relationships defy simple descriptions.

Consuelo then phoned Olive to inform Andy’s wife that Racer was on the way, as she termed it, carrying cake. A forty-watt porch light outlined her silhouette on the rented house’ porch. Olive regretted Andy wasn’t home, rather desperately hoping he and Racer could talk. Their chat would wait.