Road Flare + Rock Salt or Whatever = Chlorine Gas

It has come to my attention that my dear parents read this very blog. I know this because my dad is enamored with it. This I do not mind one bit, but it certainly strikes me as a turn of events I did not anticipate. So with that I’m posting for maybe the third time this little gem of a story. I like this one a lot. If someone asks me tell them a funny story I may very well lead with this. I figure I can post this without much fear because it isn’t like he can fire me or even ground me anymore and he might just appreciate the stupidity of his son. It also wouldn’t shock me if he already knew about this and has just never brought it up. Anyway, onwards!


Picture a warehouse with long orderly rows of shelves. On these shelves are pallets. The shelves reach skywards of up to 24 feet. It was my job, to go up and down these rows hour after hour, night after night; pulling product located on the pallets and send it to the stores. This process is called picking. Picking is boring work. By the second hour of a 10 hour shift you already have a good idea of where you’re going to be making stops in each of the aisles; the only thing that really changes is quantity.

There is a brief respite from the normal picking and that is if it is your turn to pick motor oil and the flame room. The “flame room” being short for flammable room. In this aptly named room is stored those little green propane tanks for Coleman and other portable stoves, spray paint, road flares, mace, anything, um, flammable. The flame room is a pretty brilliant little place because it is separated from the warehouse by a giant bay door and once inside, if one were so inclined, they can goof off out of the prying eye co-workers, or bosses, who, the boss of this shift, just also happened to be my dad.

Now the thing to really understand is that picking the oil and flame room is quick work. Anyone should be done by first break which would be great if they were allowed to go home, but neither I, nor anyone else was. Instead, as a reward for my fast and speedy work, I got stuck helping someone else in what was usually the absolute worst area to pick. This means that I usually did some minor dicking-off in the flame room so that at the very least I could get to first break before switching what I was picking.

This night, did I mention this is all during the graveyard shift? No? Well it was. I think people lose their minds a bit working graveyard. Anyway, this night I went for the gold in the All-Around Dicking-Off event. Towards the beginning of my shift I was in the flame room when what do I come in contact with? Some mace. Now being the non-violent, as in I’ll most likely never get maced, curious individual guy that I am I got to thinking, “how bad could this really hurt? Well can’t hurt to try” into the air I sprayed the mace and proceeded to walk into the aerosolized rape deterrent that hung at face level. Well it didn’t feel great, but not bad. Not bad? What the heck? Shouldn’t this really hurt? Well OK, round two, but this time with more! Well round two taught me a valuable lesson. Mace hurts, don’t get maced.

After recovering from the mace I left the flame room only to return 20 minutes later on what would be the final stop in the flame room for the night. It being the last stop meant that I had a little time to goof off before break. I’m not sure what possessed me to walk towards, and then ultimately pick up, the emergency roadside flare, but soon enough it was in my hand and I was turning it over reading the instructions. Seems simple enough, strike end on cap, put on road. OK, sure, but how hard is this striking? Well off the cap goes and I commence to with some tentative strikes of the end of the flare against the cap. Hmm, that’s not hard enough, what about a little harder? No? OK well what if a little old lady is in need of this flare, could she actually do this? Harder? Still nothing? And then, to my great surprise, really, yes, I was surprised, the flare lit.

Here I am in the flame room surrounded by flammable things, the boss’s kid, with a lit flare in my hand. Is there any good explanation for this should someone see me? Well I did what comes naturally, I ran. I ran in circles, I ran in lines, I ran in hopes that the movement of the air would somehow extinguish the flames like a person blowing on a birthday cake. This of course is flawed thinking. What about cutting off the oxygen supply, suffocation? I stepped on the flare. The only thing that accomplished was increasing the smell as the sole of my shoe began to melt. OK, OK, just think, there’s got to be something here. Yes, I see it a giant drum full of, what is that, rock salt? Whatever, I’m sure I can use that to extinguish the flame! In I plunge the flare and the flare, predictably, does not go out. Instead, The Flare + Rock Salt, or Whatever = Green Smoke, or in my severely freaked out little mind, chlorine gas. To be perfectly accurate the thought that ran trough my head at the time was “OH SHIT CHOLRINE GAS, I’M GONNA DIE!” All of this ate up about 6 minutes of time which I can assure you felt like a fucking eternity in my situation. Defeated I stood still, flare in hand, waiting for the thing to extinguish. In about two more minutes it did and I hastily left the flame room.

Thinking I’d made a clean escape I hear my name called and turn around to see a female co-worker, in her 50’s, not terribly bright but pleasant all the same, descending down the stairs from her work area which is actually on the roof of the flame room. She asks me if I smell anything burning. I look at her and with a straight face tell her I smell nothing out of the ordinary when simply nothing could be further from the truth. Her back is to the opening of the flame room and as she’s asking me about a burning smell there is smoke literally poring from the giant bay door. It is unmistakable and incredibly obvious that something was amiss. She looked at me and simply said “well, OK, but if you do smell something could you let me know?” I told her naturally I could do that and made haste to break.

Purgatory Dance Party