Yesterday, Collin typed up and posted a thrilling tale which diagrams the dangers of mishandling chemicals (among other things). Reading this story got my little 2-cylinder brain fired up and a-thinkin'...I was reminded of my first "real" graphic design job out of tech school wherein I was an artist/monkey/slave for a screenprinting business called All-American Sports. For lack of anything better, I shall now share one particular experience related to my employment there...now:

All-American was (actually, still is) a small independent sporting goods store that would've gone flat out of business years ago if it weren't for the revenue generated by the "team sales" and screenprinting departments. When I first started there, the retail store and print shop were housed within two units in a crappy 70s strip mall on Carefree, just east of Academy blvd. with the sporting goods store on the north end of the building and the screenprinting operation occupying the south. (there were a number of people who never could figure out that the two were affiliated, much less connected. Ironically enough, there was a herd of losers who decided to steal a large number of items from the retail store one particular day. These geniuses parked right in front of the screenprinting area, figuring that they were far enough down from the store to make an unseen getaway. Dumb bastards...)

My "office" at All-American was really nothing more than a dirty hallway at the back end of the print shop. The computer that I was expected to design with was only a "computer" in the most basic sense. It was, in fact, a giant, clunky old Mac II, connected to a shitty black and white scanner. I had two "design" programs at my disposal on this machine...Aldus (not yet Macromedia) Freehand (version 1) and the earliest version of Typestyler. No Photoshop, no Quark, just me against the world. (there was no hope of ever upgrading that stupid machine, either. The floppy drive(s) ceased operation sometime prior to my arrival, presumably due to them being clogged with "filth"). I ended up doing a lot of shirt designs by hand and making the separations by cutting rubylith or shooting them with the massive fucking dinosaur stat camera. And yeah, I forgot to mention that NOW, I was "in charge" of the camera, the film, the darkroom and the developer unit, never mind the fact that, during my schooling, these types of things were more "theory" or "historical artifact" than actual design tools. At the tender age of 19, I was placed in total control of my own (completely obsolete) art department (whoo!). I could now lord over a filthy pile of useless junk with which I was expected to work miracles...

I was in graphic art Hell...

So, if you've been around a print shop of any kind at some time in your life, you're probably aware that there are many different "chemical smells" that hang in the air of such places. Screenprinting shops are no different, in fact there are a number of completely toxic and noxious items readily available in a screenprinting shop which, if you're not careful, could render you "screwy" (or even unconscious). If you'd like a quick rundown as to how the process of screenprinting works, click here (it doesn't cover EVERYTHING, but you'll get the gist, which is good enough). One of the things you'll learn pretty quick if you work in proximity to screen print ink is that the "ink" itself is a kind of "liquid plastic." As such, screenprinters utilize a chemical called Triple Blend to clean the screens during a print run or, with the combination of a "textile gun," to remove mistakes from printed pieces...

If you're even slightly astute, you've probably figured out by now that "Triple Blend" can dissolve plastics. Gold star for you...Move to the head of the class, smartass...

One of the things that I wanted very badly to do when I started working at All-American was to CLEAN UP MY DAMN AREA. I'll admit, I'm not the most fastidious person on the planet, but I refuse to work in abject squalor, which is basically what "my" hallway (and nearby darkroom) was. The day that I finally got around to getting some things in order and wiped down, I found (to my dismay) that most of the "filth" wouldn't come off too readily using traditional "soap and water" methods. As such, I turned to the magic scrubbing power that is contained within "Triple Blend." That shit could cut through the dirt and grime on any surface in my area faster than Motherfucking Mr. Clean himself, equipped with a pressure washer and a bad attitude (sure, some of these "surfaces" ended up "slightly marred," but it was a damn sight better than having to work through a 4-inch layer of "mystery scum" with Windex and a paper towel). During my cleaning (and marring) frenzy, at some point, I decided it would be prudent to spiff up the developer unit inside the darkroom...Finally...That friggin' thing was "icky"...

The developer in question was a small (but strangely bulky) "tabletop" unit that sported a set of rollers to direct undeveloped film through a chemical bath. The "chemical bath tray" was so corroded with old, crusty "chemical goo" that I couldn't even tell what it was made of. I assumed that, since everything else in the darkroom was nearing antique status, the tray HAD to be metal. With this in mind, I poured some Triple Blend into the tray with the intention of having it eat away the corrosion, leaving the tray nice and shiny (if not somewhat marred). I then closed the door to the darkroom and went off to clean up some more. Admittedly, as I got into knocking layers of shit off of other things in the hallway, I forgot about the developer...Eventually, lunchtime rolled around which meant that I would eat whatever I had brought and then go out for a nice walk. Upon returning from my excursions around the neighborhood, I would often hang out for a few minutes in the print shop and chat with Scott, a likeable guy who, for whatever reason, called me "Chief."

This particular day was no exception, true to my routine after "walkies," I was standing in the shop with Scott and the other printers when "Kit" walked through the area. Kit, at the time, was a stern lady in her 80s. She had been the original owner of the business and, after having sold it to the current owner, stayed on to monitor operations (or some such nonsense). However the situation shook out, Kit was an old, grumpy lady who rarely smiled. This particular day, she walked through the front door of the print shop, stopped by the darkroom door, looked around, glared at me, glared at scott, looked around a few more times and then walked out through the back door, which led (eventually) to the main retail area. Not long after that, I noticed a horrifying, powerful stink-odor. I looked at Scott and asked "do you smell that?" He replied that he could, indeed, smell SOMETHING and whatever it was smelled very bad. "What the Hell is that, Chief?" Scott inquired? I shrugged my shoulders and offered up the only cause I could think of at the time...

"I think it might be Kit."

Hey, shut up, it seemed plausible.

The other folks in the shop nodded in grim acceptance of this possibility and went back to work, fully expecting the "stink" to dissipate in no time. Unfortunately, though, the odor became steadily worse and soon smoke, coming from the direction of the darkroom, began filling the shop. Scott and I both ran to the darkroom and flung open the door (not the smartest thing ever) and were instantly greeted with a blindingly noxious cloud of smoke and fumes, which damn near rendered us unconscious. "EVERYBODY GET OUT!" Scott screamed, and we ran like Hell for the parking lot, finally fleeing the stink. Soon, we were joined by the rest of the employees, including the owner who was, understandably, quite scared and more than a little confused. "What happened back there?" he asked. Scott, not knowing the details of my earlier marring spree, replied "I don't know, the developer just blew up!" Sheepishly, I nodded in aggrement, even though I knew FULL WELL what had really happened. Well, I didn't know EVERYTHING for sure, but I had enough information to make an educated guess...I didn't offer any of that up, but it's probably painfully obvious to all of you by now...

The tray of the developer unit was, indeed, made of plastic. The Triple Blend that I added to it did it's initial job very well and ate through the corrosion. The problem arose when it got to the actual tray, and began to eat through that as well. Once it made it's vile way through the tray, the only place it could go was into the chemical reservoir where it must've combined with the developing solution to create one of the most horrid reactions that I've ever had the misfortune to be a part of. The fumes that resulted smelled like burning poo and seemed to sear my eyes and ears shut when I came in proximity of them. The whole expereince was like being in the monkey house at the zoo, but magnified 1,000 times.

It certainly didn't improve the ambience of the print shop in any way.

Since the owner didn't want to call the fire department, Scott and I wrapped wet towels around our faces, put on safety goggles and went in to face the threat head on. Our mission? Remove the developer. Fighting the noxious cloud, we made our way back to the darkroom and picked up the unit. When we got the damn thing outside and hosed it off, we found that there wasn't much left of the tray, in fact it had damn near melted into oblivion. The whole unit smelled like piss, vinegar and burnt fecal matter. I was pretty sure that, even if it worked, I didn't want to use it again.

I was quite fearful that I would be fired over the whole incident. Even though it was a crappy job, it was MY crappy job and I needed it. Luckily, nobody was terminated (not even me) and we all got to go home early that day. Should I have confessed? Sure. Would it have changed things for the better? no. Did anyone die? Not yet. I DID learn a lot of different lessons that day, not the least of which is that Kit, even though she was as unpleasant as she was, never did smell as bad as that chemical reaction. If there's a moral to this story, it would be simple and direct..."Upgrade your equipment, you tightwad!"

Don't force me to blow up any more antiques...It won't be pretty...

Labels: indignities, lame stories, me roots