Toxic

One of the things Adam (labelled by E. with the affectionate nickname "Psycho I") left behind at the house last year was a foul-smelling, slowly-leaking can labelled "Wood Preservative (with phenol)." Pretty useless. I wanted to get rid of the can, but it screamed toxic waste.

But it did say wood preservative. And I had some wooden timbers bordering my driveway that, while already preserved, looked they could stand a coat of this foul, oily liquid. So, yielding to Adam-like thoughts, I poured out some of the gut-churning Love Canal goo into a cup and painted the top of one timber.

Big mistake. Big, big mistake. It was SO smelly, so noisome, that it threatened the entire neighborhood. E. came screaming out of the house "MMMMMMMMAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRCCCCCCCC!" It was clear I had recreated Love Canal in my driveway. So, I hurriedly ripped the timber out of the ground, threw it into the car, and drove off before my ex-cop next-door neighbor came poking his head into my driveway to find out what was going on (I missed him by two minutes).

I always wondered why people engage in the practice of illegal dumping. It seems so anti-social. Sometimes, though, it is driven by raging necessity. Like today.

When I returned, I continued the cleanup, tossing 20 lbs. of tainted gravel into garbage bags and lugging them to the garbage can, and throwing away befouled towels and clothes (sadly some good ones too). Unfortunately, I got a bit of the oily goo the upholstery of the car, so now my car smells like the industrial ass of Pittsburgh. I may have to resort to extreme measures to get relief, like hacking the upholstery out of the car with a knife.

And I still have Psycho I's can of dark, oily phenol-laden liquid.