escape from death|survival without choice

 

jueng

jm

The following is an account of an accident I had in the millroom of the old American Biltrite Rubber Company factory, in Cambridge, Massachusetts in 1976. I was almost killed, and the fact that I am still in one piece is a miracle. The factory itself was located between MIT and Harvard University, although was it was a little off Massachusetts Avenue up by Albany Street. I operated what they called a Roller-Die, a huge extrusion based machine that pushed out rubber soft flat goods, rubber used for place mats, doormats, driving range mats, tire treads, well you get the idea.


The story itself is a story of survival, where when faced with death or dismemberment or whatever could have happened, my survival instincts took over, I acted without thinking, because there was no time to think, and I saved my own life.


Things were going pretty well, and without incident, until the feeder mill that fed the hot rubber directly to the die, via a series of conveyor belts, became overloaded. This happened because the guys in the mixing room upstairs gave us more stock than we could handle. The were fucking Haitians or whatever, and did what they wanted and never listened to anyone. Since the roller-die was running smoothly, I went to the overloaded mill to help out my mill man, whose name was Wyke. Wyke was a short, stocky powerful black man from the Bahamas, who was cooperative and helpful, and seemed to try to do the right thing. He helped out a lot with the other guys, and made the job easier. As I worked the mill, I took off my long sleeved shirt becasue of the ehat generated by the hot rubber on the hot steel mill, and stripped down to a tee shirt and gloves. It was a warm evening for September, and the heat generated by the rubber and machines made it close to unbearable.


As I worked the secondary mill in an attempt to aid Wyke in getting rid of the excess rubber, I noticed that the vibration and sound of the roller-die had changed. Each different type of stock that we ran through the die had a unique blend of pitch and tonal quality all its own. The sound-vibration pattern produced as each individual stock ran through the machine was a good indication that things were either going well, or that they were not. The millroom was a symphony of the ethereal and existential, a breeding ground for primal sounds, currents, energies and vibrations. It was the embodiment of anything metaphysical that I could ever imagine, or had read about; it had a life an existence all its own, a was a reality all its own, it was a portal to another dimension.


Over time I acquired the skill of knowing, by sound and vibration, whether or not my machine was working correctly. I could be on the other side of the building, or in the bathroom, and knew in an instant when something went wrong at the roller-die. I could feel and sense that something was not right. After awhile I got used to every nuance and subtle variation of vibration. It was an extremely powerful, yet incredibly sensitive machine, that seemed to have a mind of its own.


As I felt something was amiss at the roller-die, I left the feeder mill and walked around the corner to investigate. My intuitions were correct, as I quickly saw that one of the two waste strips had broken, and the rubber was now winding around a small roller, that was supposed to guide it up to a conveyor belt that took the waste, in turn, back to the secondary feeder mill. It was imperative that I get the problem solved  at once. If I could not get things running the way they were supposed to be running, I would have to shut down the operation, and clean the entire system before we could start again. The correction procedure involved cutting the built up waste with a mill knife while the machine was still running at top speed. Then I had to peel waste off the roller, and get the waste strip running up to the conveyor belt. If I was lucky, the whole correction would take thirty seconds. Since this stock was hot and soft, I did not expect any trouble. I had done this same procedure a hundred times without incident.


I began to cut through the built up waste, and started to peel the waste off the small guide roller, when I noticed my glove was caught between the waste rubber and the roller. I usually worked barehanded, but since this stock was very hot, I needed protection. Time began to decelerate. I saw the glove being pulled away from me. As I usually let the fingers of the glove dangle, and just used the palm to shield my hand,  the worst that could happen was that the glove would be pulled off my hand. This time was different. The glove caught at the base of my thumb, and my hand and arm started to go into the roller along with my glove. I knew I was in trouble. I pulled back with my arm in an attempt to get free of the glove, but I was not successful. Before I knew what had happened, my hand followed the glove in between the hot rubber and the rollers, and my arm was now pinned in between the rollers right up to the shoulder. I was being pulled into the rollers when I felt my head and neck jolted and bang against the top waste roller, as I was pulled off the ground a ferocious speed... I felt like an idiot. Time slowed to a standstill. “You stupid son-of-a-bitch!”, I thought to myself. How could I ever explain the fact that I had been killed in the roller-die? I thought of many people. Light and reality itself became a crystal clear image that was blurred in a stop action frame of reference, with me caught literally and physically in the middle. Time stopped. A million thoughts went through my mind. I was over come by a total sense of serenity, calm, and relaxation. In the time frame of what seemed like an hour, that in reality was only a few seconds, I came to the awareness of where I was and of what I was up against. The roller-die was running at top speed, and I my arm was caught and being ground between two rollers, and hot rubber. I was lucky my arm was still attached to my body.


The emergency shut off rope that I could have pulled on to stop the machine was removed, so I dod not have that option. It did not make any difference. There was no time to do anything, and I could not reach it anyway. I was on my knees, and pushing down on my left shoulder with my right arm, as my left arm was being pulled away from me. If I did not act fast, or if I gave up, my entire body would be pulled up into the one inch space between the two powerful rollers, and I would be squished out of existence.  I was painfully aware that my time was running out. In a gesture of serene finality, I figured that the only way out of this predicament was to push my arm sideways, and just let it fall out the opening at the end of the two-rollers. There was no point in trying to pull myself out. Since my arm was still attached to my body, the only way out was sideways. I pushed my arm to the left, and as it slid between the two rollers, and as I shuffled along on my knees, pulling down on my shoulder joint with all my force, and pushing to the die in the same motion, my arm finally fell out from between the two rollers that were still going at top speed. I could feel every millisecond of hot steel grinding against my flesh and bone. I thought that I was lucky that I took off my shirt a few minutes before I got caught. If I was still wearing long sleeves, there would have been no tomorrow.


The next thing I remember was being on my knees, and looking at the grey colored dust covered concrete floor. I was holding and rubbing my left arm with my right hand. I saw Wyke come running around the corner from his mill position, and noticed his face was pure white. Wyke was a dark black man, and seeing his face this white seemed a little strange. I slowly became aware that I was watching this entire scene from above myself, from the perspective that was normal for me from the time I was a small child, in a position that allowed me to see the entire millroom. I saw Wyke come over to me as I knelt on the floor. He told me he heard a horrible scream that was so loud that he thought somebody died. I do not remember anything but silence. Wyke asked me what happened. I tried to tell him, but all I could utter was a series of disjointed sounds in slow incoherent sentences. I tried to gesture, and was transported back to my vantage point high in the millroom. I saw myself kneeling next to Wyke, trying to explain myself. I was dusty with long curly hair. My mill knives  were sticking out of my back pocket. I was thin, with my shoulders hunched, and had tan brown work boots on my feet. I was watching from the ceiling at the same time that I was kneeling on the floor talking to Wyke. Suddenly, this psychic split healed itself, and I merged back together with myself.


I was not sure what happened. I was not sure if that was me, or a part of me that was kneeling on the floor. An excruciating pain swept through my body, then eventually settled in my arm. Then just as suddenly, I was numb, and felt absolutely nothing. What a relief from the agony of a few minutes before. I tried to figure out where I was. As I looked at my left arm, I saw rubber burnt into my wrist and biceps. There were burn marks up and down my arm, all embedded with black rubber.


Wyke helped me turn off the roller-die, and said I should call the foreman to report the accident. The foreman was nowhere to be found. It was lunch time, so I went to the lunch truck and bought a sandwich and Pepsi, then returned to the roller-die. It was three o’clock in the morning. We had four more hours to work before the end of our shift. Since I was not in any great discomfort, despite the imbedded rubber in my arm, and the burns and bruises, I decided to finish the shift. Wyke made another unsuccessful call in his effort to find the foreman, then told me to close down and go to the hospital. I told him I was going to finish the shift. Wyke lit a cigarette, shook his head, and said “You de boss, mon.”


When the crew returned from lunch, I started the roller-die. They worked with a determination and zeal that I had never seen before. Nobody said anything. They worked hard, and we kept the machine running at record speed. The millroom was eerily filled with a deafening silence. Workers who ignored me in the past worked like dogs when I gave them and order, and their black faces turned white with fear when they saw me walking toward them. As they snapped to attention in my presence, I felt like some kind of  a supermon god like, mon. After they found out what I had been through a half hour earlier, I could have asked them to jump off the roof and they would have done it. Something was changed. I felt no pain, and did the job of seven men as we put tons of rubber through the machine in record time and in perfect condition. I moved with the sensation that I was floating on air.


Seven a.m. finally arrived, and my shift ended. We shut down the roller die for the weekend, then I walked into the millroom office and told Pat what happened to me earlier in the shift, recounting the event in the best detail that I could remember. My awareness gap shifted back to the ceiling, and I could see myself explaining everything to Pat, as my arms waved in gesture. There was only silence, as I watched the two of us in Pat’s office, he was sitting at his desk staring at me in total disbelief, and I was stadning in front of him. At times I was back inside my body, and at times I was split between watching from afar and being back inside my head at the same time. At other times, my consciousness was totally divorced from my physicality, and took seat high above and off to the left.  The seat of my awareness shifted with a will of its own as time passed in its natural progression. I felt nauseated, and felt as if I, in my awareness, was being pulled up and down on a yo-yo string.


Pat looked at me for what seemed like a very long time, asked me to repeat my recollection of the incident, then asked me to take him to the roller-die to show him first hand what exactly happened. I complied easily with all Pat’s requests. Pat kept looking at me and shaking his head in disbelief. He asked me why I did not shut down the machine and go to the hospital. I told him both Wyke and I called the foreman a few times, but we could not find him. Pat examined my left arm, and looked closely at the black rubber that was ground and melted into my flesh, and he looked at the burns that were up and down my arm. I assured Pat that I was not in any pain or discomfort, a fact that he had trouble believing. Pat then took me back to his office, called a cab, gave me twenty dollars, and told me to go to the hospital in Brighton.


The emergency room doctor looked me over, and told me it appeared that no bones were broken. The doctor then treated the burns on my arm, and tried to remove the rubber that was embedded in my skin.  He also said that the reason I was not in any pain was because of a post-accident shock of some kind. The doctor asked what my plans were, and when I told him I was going back to New York for a two week vacation, he said that I should see a neurologist as soon as possible. Since there was nothing else that he could do for me at that time, and since I seemed to be in control of all my faculties, the doctor said I could go about my business, but that I should be careful, and be on the watch for any sudden physiological changes that might occur as the shock began to wear off. I thanked him for his help, then took a cab back to the factory. I went inside, and told Pat what the doctor said, and told him I would see him in two weeks. My U-Haul was still parked in the north lot, so I jumped into the drivers seat, and drove to my apartment to load my belongings.


Chapter 34


I quickly loaded everything I had with me into the U-Haul, walking up and down four flights of stairs and carrying rolls of paintings and rolls of blank canvases, roll end of liner materials that I had taken from the millroom. It was a pleasure to be leaving Boston. Despite my accident and injury, my arm was functioning normally, and I was still not in any pain. I was, however, extremely animated. The extreme quantity of adrenalin that saved my life the night before was still running through my veins. I felt calm, yet very strong, almost invincible. The truck was loaded with my belongings, so I locked the apartment door, and drove the U-Haul up Newbury Street to drop my keys off at the realtor’s office. From there, I headed west to the Mass. Pike entrance that was just a few blocks.


I was happy to be leaving Boston. It was ten months or more since I had been anyplace other than Boston, except for that one trip to New Jersey with Lenni. My last stop would be at Mike’s house in Natick, where the last of my canvas rolls was stored in his basement. Natick is a twenty minute drive to Boston. When I arrived at Mike’s house, his sons were playing in the backyard. I went over to them an said hello, and exchanged some small talk. Shortly thereafter, Mike’s wife came out of the house and started grilling me about my factory accident. She told me that the factory called, and summoned Mike to work as part of an investigation into what happened to me the night before. Mike’s wife said that Mike was frantic and very worried. Since she was being very rude and obnoxious like she always was, I decided to ignore her, so I went into the basement, and retrieved my canvas rolls, one at a time. The rolls weighed more than one hundred pounds each, and were very cumbersome. I think I was getting tired. Mike’s wife watched me as I carried the rolls from the basement to the truck, and I could tell she was having a hard time believing that I was in an accident a few hours earlier.


In my altered state of dynamism, I was also having a hard time believing that I was in an accident in which I was almost killed. My movements took on a new fluidity, and I felt as if I was somehow a different person. Life was effortless, and easy. The last of my canvas, and a few paintings that I stored at Mike’s house, were finally on the truck, and it was time to leave. I told Mike’s wife to tell Mike that I would call him when I arrived in back home. So I said goodbye to the boys, and drove away.


My Roller-Die Accident