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bookandcranny · 4 years

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If You can Change Your Tune

The interloper arrives in a rented moving van, the same sort as all the ones before.

“Are you sure about this?” her friend asks as they pull up to the house. “I know you’ve always had a thing for fixer-uppers but this place might be beyond saving.”

Even as she unlocks the front door the wind whistles a note of warning through its rickety frame. The floorboards beneath their feet crackle and moan at the intrusion.

“All it needs is a little love,” the interloper retorts. Her name is Ann. I remember her from the showing, a woman of insufferably good cheer walking room to room with the equally annoying realtor of the week, a dopey smile hanging from her lips.

I didn’t think much of it at the time. People like her come around from time to time with aspirations in their heads of moving into the rural countryside to rehabilitate my thickets into sprawling gardens or write the next great American novel from within my historic walls. Seeing the reality of the place in person was usually enough to convince them to chase their fantasies elsewhere. However, it appears this particular happy-go-lucky thorn in my side needs a bit more work to dislodge.

“Are you sure you’re not in over your head?” the other one asks. I try to guess at their relationship. Friend? Sister? A lover? I’m sick to death of couples.

“It’s a little late for me to back out now,” Ann laughs, twirling the keys around her finger. “Don’t worry, Nick’s bringing his crew over tomorrow to start on the repairs. She’s a project but the foundation’s sound. Next time you see this place she’ll be a real beauty.”

“’She’?”

“Yeah, you know, like how people call cars or boats a she.” She climbs the stairs and runs her hand along the dusty banister. I think of splinters— with luck maybe she’ll get tetanus- but nothing comes of it.

The house is my body. Two stories, twelve rooms not including the attic, an old-fashioned spiral staircase, and me, the greatest antique of all, left to rot. Once upon a time a family used to live here: a mother and father, a veritable litter of hyperactive young children, uncles and aunts and cousins who would stay with them some summers and during Christmastime, and the wizened pale face of a grandfather who watched over them from above the mantle. It was all very precious, very southern hospitality, very postcard perfect. All very gone. Not even their ghosts remained; just me, and all the better for it.

Chesterfield is the name of the county as well as the nearest town, though from what I understand that’s using the term lightly. Most folks local to the area know better than to disturb me, but sometimes they get bold. Bored teenagers mostly, or suited vultures looking to see if there’s any profit to be squeezed from the property. In its heyday, the house was probably a sight to behold, but I wouldn’t know much about that. Memories of my life, if ever I truly lived, are slippery like oil on the water’s surface, impossible to grasp.

Though without eyes or ears or a mind to make use of them, I can “see” through my many windows— if eyes are the windows to the soul, maybe windows are can be eyes to the spirits— and “hear” any sounds that tremble through my frame. I’m grateful for these senses; they help me keep things in order. If someone starts to get a little too cozy with my corridors, and providing the spiders don’t scare them off first, I just slam a few doors, flicker a few lights, and they go running.

The interloper and her extra finish moving in the last of the boxes. She squeezes her arm and gives her a peck on the cheek.

“I’ll send you pics once I’ve got my room set up,” she says.

“Bold of you to think you’ll survive that long. This place is definitely haunted. Do you get cell service out here? I want to call a coroner and tell them to save your spot.”

“I don’t remember making this big a deal when you moved into your first place.”

“It had bed bugs, but it didn’t have ghosts.”

Ann makes a face. “I’ll take my chances with the ghosts.” She puts an arm around her shoulders. “Kim. You’re acting like I’m dropping off the map. You’re the one leaving the country.”

“For two weeks!” Her expression grows tense. “I feel bad leaving you like this. I should’ve been there for you, there was just so much going on.”

“It wouldn’t have changed my mind.”

She sighs dramatically. “No, nothing can, can it? I fear for whoever you end up tricking into marrying you.”

Ann slaps her playfully on the arm. “Do not start on that. Speaking of which, don’t you have a honeymoon to be on? Go on, get.”

Kim puts her hands up in mock surrender and backs out the front door. I raise one of the loose planks on the porch and she trips, just barely evading a tumble down the front steps.

“See? Cursed!”

“Go!” But she’s laughing as she adds, “Thank you for the help. It means a lot, even if Sophie is gonna kill me for keeping you this long.”

“I’ve got time to talk her down.”

The U-haul rumbles away down the dirt road until it’s a muddled blur in my perception and then, finally, gone. I’m alone with the enemy now. More importantly, she is alone with me.

I slam the door. It’s the easiest most classic trick in the book. Ann jumps and looks around. I know what she’s thinking. Just the wind? Or could it be…?

But no, one small act like that won’t be enough to convince her. With a shrug, she returns to the task of moving in. She shuffles around a few boxes in the foyer and starts moving them one by one up to the second floor. All things considered she hasn’t much to move in, but I’m not fooled. Where one intruder appears, more will follow, and bring all their junk and their noise and their petty living problems with them.

All my original furniture was auctioned off in an estate sale. It took place right here on the lawn, and I watched through my windows as they divvied up my family’s belongings, breaking them down into numbers and measures of worth for the masses. For the most part though I didn’t miss it. The absence of clutter made the space feel bigger, and I got used to the emptiness.

The interloper sets up in the master bedroom and unpacks some supplies to give the room a cursory cleaning. The agency normally sent someone over to prepare the place for new residence, but since the last few rounds of movers had come and gone, they hadn’t bothered. If Ann minds, she doesn’t show it, and I have to admit it’s nice to have someone sweep away the dirt and detritus.

After cleaning to her satisfaction, she starts opening boxes with foreign labels and assembling her furniture from strange little kits, turning sheets of instructions over in her hands as she nibbles on a hangnail. The result is a set of cheap-looking geometric furniture that makes her curse as she accidentally attaches the table leg to the chair and the chair leg to the bedframe. Something about watching her work transfixes me. Probably her comical ineptitude.

After she fixes all the furniture she dresses her new bed and starts cluttering her shelves with all kinds of bizarre toys and knickknacks. Among her affects is a paperback book titled “the art of moving in and moving on”. I scoff.

“This is a temporary arrangement. Very temporary, you got it?” I tell her, though I know she can’t hear me. I know this, but it still annoys me. It feels like she’s ignoring me.

The interloper smiles to herself and takes out a black rectangle that she holds up like a camera, though the shape is far too small and thin. She lowers it, considering, and then from yet another box digs out a string of Christmas lights and hangs them up above the bed.

“It’s June,” I say, dumbfounded.

I look at the string of lights and put pressure on one of the bulbs until it bursts. She jumps, but the moment passes. She spends the bulk of the evening fussing with her camera-thing until she falls asleep.

Fine. If she wants to play hardball, I’ll play hardball.

In the morning, the interloper’s camera-thing plays a tune to rouse her. Her waking is both a curse and a blessing, for while I was glad to be free of her active meddling, even as she slept I was never able to completely ignore her presence. I feel her like an itch, like a stubborn pimple forming beneath my skin, and I’m glad to sense her rising if only because it means I can get back to business sooner rather than later.

The water heater and other facilities are still in good condition from the last unfortunate newcomers I drove from my doorstep, which frees her to take a long shower, singing obnoxiously all the while. This, however, is a perfect opportunity for me. When the heat from the shower fogs the chipped bathroom mirror, I brandish my loathing like a pen and write her a message. Granted, precision isn’t my forte, so the words come out a little smeared and crooked, but still the intent is clear as can be.

LEAVE

Ann squints at the streaked mirror. “Love?”

“Are you really that stupid?”

She looks around but, seeing no one, shrugs it off again and starts to brush her teeth. When she ducks her head to spit, I quickly try again.

MINE

“Mina? Who’s Mina?”

I groan. Okay, perhaps a more symbolic approach. I will the mirror to shatter, but just then a loud knocking sounds and Ann runs off in a frenzy before she can see the long crack forming down the center.

“Door’s open!” She calls from the landing as she hurries to finish dressing with one hand and wrangle her hair into a towel with the other.

I try to hold it shut, but despite my efforts, the door is forced open and a parade of half a dozen handymen file into the entryway. As they start setting up, a burly towheaded man breaks from the pack and goes to meet Ann as she’s bounding down the stairs.

“Careful, careful. Don’t put your foot through anything before I’ve even had the chance to bill you.”

“Nick,” Ann says fondly. “If these stairs could handle me, Kim, and the fifty-pound mattress we lugged up there yesterday, I think they’re stable.”

“You gals didn’t have to do all that. I could’ve—“

“It’s fine,” she insists. “You’re helping me out enough as it is.”

“Yeah, well, we’re even for that whole thing at Kim’s wedding now.”

“More than even,” she agreed. “I know this was last minute. Dinner’s on me tonight. I’ll order enough pizza for the entire crew.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep. You haven’t seen how much Seth can eat.”

Their easy banter disgusts me. Living people are all the same; wandering around with blind optimism or bemoaning every bad turn, blissfully unaware of how little it truly mattered. One wrong step with those tools of theirs and any one of them could be joining me among the shiftless dead. I don’t have any desire for that kind of company so I decide to wait until they’re done with their renovations before I risk trying to scare anyone again.

As it is they hardly need my help. Ann, it turns out, is more than just clueless, she’s a klutz. If that isn’t enough she insists on “helping” right up until she almost shoots herself in the foot with a nail gun. Nick warns her not to try it again but I don’t feel any anger from him. The crew are all familiar with one another and with her. They chat and toss around jokes between tasks; someone puts on music.

The feeling isn’t quite a tangible one, but then neither am I. It’s an energy I struggle to describe, something like wading in a river and being aware of a splash rippling from upstream. Compared to the sharp tang of fear I’m accustomed to, all this amicability is nauseatingly sweet.

Ann beams, and the high arches of her cheeks dimple and flush darkly, round as apples.

“What exactly do you have to be so happy about?” I hiss in her ear.

As much as I hate to admit it though, I can understand why someone like her moved so easily among the crowd. Even when she was getting underfoot, she’s a difficult person to condemn for it. How could anyone begrudge her excitement when it was so abundant? Or her love when it was so freely given?

Growing impatient with it all, I knock a toolbox off the top of a stepladder and send its contents scattering in all directions. It lands hard and the sounds of work, the music and the laughter, all come to an abrupt stop.

“What was that?” someone asks. A worker crouches down underneath the arch of the ladder to collect some of the scattered screws and I, with great satisfaction, tip the thing over on top of him. The damage is little, but it’s enough to get the entire crew good and spooked.

“I didn’t touch it,” the injured handyman insists as he nurses his bruises with an icepack. “It just collapsed.”

“Maybe this place is haunted,” another jokes, but her smile doesn’t quite cover her nervousness.

“Kim said the same thing,” Ann muses to herself. Nick looks at her and she startles, as if she hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud.

“I was wondering how you were able to afford this place, even with the damage.”

“Oh don’t start with all that black cat broken mirror stuff. You see bad omens in everything.”

“And you don’t see red flags until they’re waving right in the face. Not even then,” he accuses. Her guilty expression says there’s some truth to his words. “Tell me honestly, is this house haunted?”

“That’s silly. Of course not.”

“Then how do you explain what just happened?” I demand with frustration.

“Then how do you explain what just happened?” asks the injured worker.

“Thank you!”

Ann hums thoughtfully and looks up at my aged walls, my decrepit ceilings. “The realtor warned me there were rumors about this place. This house has survived fire, flood, and an attempted demolition; somehow nothing was ever able to destroy it, and every person who’s lived here had reported seeing strange things. Objects moving on their own, strange sounds at night.”

Nick leans forward in his seat. “And what did you say when they told you all that?”

“I told her it sounded perfect.”

He puts his head in his hands. “Ann. Mary-Ann Thorne. Tell me you did not buy an actual haunted house. When Kim told me you just up and bought a house on a whim I thought that was crazy enough but this…”

“I didn’t buy a haunted house,” she says. She stood up straight and spread her hands with a dramatic flourish. “I bought a survivor. Houses are like people. They have personalities, they have their own little quirks, their likes and dislikes. Old houses most of all. I could tell as soon as I walked into this place that… well that she had something special. I can’t explain it, I just felt so drawn to her.”

She places her hand on the wall and holds it there. If I were alive I think I would shiver.

“She’s been through a lot, but with some TLC she’s gonna sing, I can feel it.”

“That’s crazy,” Nick says, but she isn’t listening. Not to him. It’s almost as if… almost…

“Can you hear me?”

She doesn’t respond. Of course she doesn’t. I berate myself for even daring to expect something so deluded. However, her little speech seems to encourage the crew, or else they’ve just calmed down enough to put aside their reservations and get back to work.

Watching them I feel… strange. Even when my house had been lived in before I had never really felt so cared for. It’s all ridiculous of course, a blind act of charity sprung from some silly woman’s misguided and misdirected affection. While the workers patch holes and replace crumbling pieces, the interloper sweeps and scrubs, eager to do her part.

Evening falls, and Ann prepares to head into town to pick up dinner.

“The guy on the phone said they don’t deliver to this address for some reason,” she says. “Weird.”

“Why don’t I go,” offers Nick. “I’ve got the truck. There’s more room.”

“Okay,” she reluctantly agrees. “But I’m still buying, clear?”

“Crystal.” There’s a faint air of nervousness wafting from him, I think. I suspect he’s been hoping for an opportunity to get away from me for a while.

The rest of the crew seem mostly recovered from their brief brush with the supernatural. I intend to fix that.

I start by flickering the lights, another classic. Someone gets up stammering about checking the fuse box in the basement, but as he and Nick each go for the doors I slam them both at once, creating a nice echoing effect that rings all through the house.

“Try writing that off as the wind.”

“I got a better idea,” another someone offers up. “How about we all go into town for dinner? It’ll be nice to get out of— it’ll be nice to get out, let the dust settle here.”

“Come on, Ann,” Nick gestures. “We can swing by the bar after. It’ll be fun.”

She hesitates, a strange look on her face, and takes a step back. “You all go ahead. I’m not that hungry.”

“Ann.” He speaks more sternly now, looking something like an older brother with a neat wrinkle of worry taking up residence on his brow. “Come on.”

“I’m fine here, and you’re being silly. If you don’t believe me, bring me back something after you eat and you’ll see that I’m perfectly safe here alone.”

“But you’re not alone,” I whisper, for nobody’s benefit but my own. “What would you say, if you knew. If you really knew.”

“Besides, I’ve already spent the night here once. If something were going to happen, why didn’t it?” She pulls a smirk, puts her hands on her hips. “Maybe it’s just you guys my house doesn’t like.”

Nick huffs an almost-laugh and relents, not entirely satisfied but not looking to argue the point any longer. He tells her to call him right away if anything changes and then he leaves. The workers file out after him, the last of them gingerly shutting the door behind him, so as not to anger me.

“Why didn’t you go with them?” I ask her. My voice, such that it is, takes on a plaintive edge. Pitiful. I correct myself, refocus my aims. “You’ve had plenty of chances to run, and it’s only going to get worse from here on out. You know that, right? You’ve got to know this isn’t just some twenty-four-hour fever. You can’t get rid of me. It’s my house.”

She starts up the stairs. I follow. I have no other choice.

“Are you really this dense? How can you ignore the signs? How can you believe there’s anything here worth salvaging?"

She walks into the bathroom and stares into the cracked mirror.

“What are you doing now?” I complain. “Looking for answers? I couldn’t give them to you if I had them. Or are you just admiring your pretty reflection?” I stroke the mirror’s surface. “Must be nice, to be young and lively. If you leave now, you could have years and years of perfect ignorance, uninterrupted by those pesky reminders of death. You could have a life, and you’re wasting it.”

She touches her fingertips to the cool glass with a mystic look in her dark eyes.

“Mina?” she whispers.

“My name isn’t Mina.”

Or maybe it is. Might as well be, for all I know. I think I must’ve had a name once. Surely there was a word, a simple sound, some collection of syllables that meant I see you. Surely there had been someone to speak it and make it real in their mouth. But how should I know? And if such a person did exist, what does it matter now? I’m not a person anymore, I’m a thing that happened, a thing that’s happening still. I’m a box built to hold my history, filled up to the rafters with hurt and resentment. That’s as close as I get to living. If I could move independent of my dour walls like her, I think, I wouldn’t be wasting my time moldering in the darkness.

Ann shakes her head. “Silly. I’m being silly,” she tells herself. Looking up at the dim light fixed above her she adds, “I should probably check on that fuse box after all.”

She goes back down and opens the door to the basement. She flicks the switch on the wall a few times but that bulb's been long neglected. Even those who swear up and down they don’t fear the fables or superstition became suddenly shy when it comes to probing the deepest depths of this old house. Ann turns, presumably to seek out a flashlight, when her heel catches on one of the repairmen’s screws that had rolled loose. It’s not even my fault this time, technically.

Like some kind of morbid slapstick, her foot shoots out from under her and she stumbles backwards towards the open basement door. It’s a long drop that awaits her, followed by a fast end if she’s lucky. And I know well enough by now that she isn’t.

Without thinking, I push her. Instead of that foresworn drop down the basement stairs, Ann finds herself tripping backwards into the wall instead. She rights herself, takes in a sharp breath, and then releases it with a sigh. She’s dazed but unharmed. I find myself mirroring her relief.

She smiles. “Thank you,” she says.

Then she closes the door and walks away.

That has never happened to me before. Normally, to manifest, to have any direct impact on the physical world, I have to summon up a great deal of anger. That isn’t too hard for me; I’ve been angry a long time. But in that moment, I hadn’t been angry. I think I’d been afraid. For her safety? No, of course not. More likely I’d been worried she would leave behind a ghost and I’d be stuck with her invading my personal space for eternity. Still, I’d never… never done anything like that before. I’d never helped somebody. I suppose I’d assumed it couldn’t be done, even if I wanted to. Ghosts, spirits, malevolent spectral entities or whatever you like to call it, that’s not what we're for. That wasn’t what I did, until I did it.

I become aware of singing coming from the kitchen. The fool is never not singing or humming or whistling something. I know music; it’s not as if I’m totally uncultured. While I have no lungs nor lips to make sound, sometimes on a stormy night the wind whistles through my walls, each creak and moan playing for me the orchestra of slow degradation I’ve come to know well.

This is not that. This is… I don’t know what to do with this. I don’t know the words. Is it too late, I wonder. I can’t. I’m not ready. Oh but if you can give me time, stranger, I think I want to learn your song too.

#my writing #short story #ghosts #haunted house #paranormal romance #lgbt #horror romance #4k words #first person #original fiction

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rocketwerks · 5 years

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American Tobacco Company South Richmond Complex

AKA, Tom Walker Warehouse Group

400-800 Jefferson Davis Highway

Built, 1926-29 (Re-Drying Plant), 1936 (Stemmery), 1939 (Warehouses & Research Laboratory), 1947 (Boiler House & Garage), 1980s (Research Laboratory additions)

VDHR 127-5832

November 2019 — Stemmery & Re-Drying Plant

A sprawling campus from the Golden Age of Cigarettes.

(Rarely Seen Richmond) — Tobacco Warehouse Scene

Throughout the nineteenth century, most tobacco processing occurred at a local scale, with independent producers maintaining their own supply of tobacco and process for marketing it. As tobacco production centralized near the end of the nineteenth century, producers became increasingly concerned with the need for quality control, in order to ensure that the taste sought by the consumer was at least somewhat consistent throughout a given brand’s production. This was the beginning of the concept known as the “blend;” the combination of tobaccos (and, later, fillers) used to reliably create a particular flavor profile for a given brand of tobacco products.

(iStock) — A tobacco warehouse in Louisville, Kentucky, USA, with barrels of tobacco lined up outside — Harper’s Weekly, Saturday, 5 April 1890

The advent of maintaining a consistent blend and increasing production speed brought about challenges for older production facilities, including those in Richmond mostly clustered in the Shockoe Valley area. Most of these facilities were multi-story, elevator-serviced warehouse buildings that could contain an adequate supply of tobacco on-hand to keep up with the older, slower, cigarette-manufacturing equipment.

(Evolving Cigarette) — Bonsack Machine, the first automated cigarette maker

However, as newer high-speed cigarette manufacturing machines increased in speed and efficiency, and proprietary blends required a much larger cache of tobacco, including multiple varieties and stages of aging to be on hand, cigarette manufacturers found that their facilities were incapable of holding enough supplies of processed tobacco to maintain production.

(VDHR) — Rail Cars at the Warehouse Loading Docks, Facing North, Circa 1930s

On October 27, 1910, the American Tobacco Company paid the Manchester Land and Manufacturing Company $25,000 for the 25-acre property bound by the A.C.L. Railroad and the Petersburg Pike. At the same time, arrangements were made with the railroad to allow for the construction of rail spurs off the mainline leading into the property. Construction was begun immediately of 14 new-design, tobacco storage warehouses. The warehouses were sited throughout the property to make the most efficient use of rail access, with spurs extending along a loading dock on one side of each row of warehouses.

(Digital Forsyth) — Hogsheads, Packed With Leaf Tobacco, In R. J. Reynolds Tobacco Company’S Storage Warehouse, 1956

It was stated by the company that the sheds would be “scattered over the large area of land in order to lessen the fire hazard and will consequently render the insurance rate lower than it would be if there were only large warehouse.” It was also said that the design of the storage sheds offered a more satisfactory method of keeping tobacco than the usual warehouse. The capacity of each shed was to be about 1,200 hogsheads allowing a total storage of around 31,000,000 pounds of tobacco.

November 2019 — Warehouse

The individual buildings were a single tall story in height, eliminating the need for elevators and the resulting extra personnel necessitated by all of the additional handling. Their enormous capacity and ease of access were the essential characteristics of their design. The 14 warehouses each enclosed roughly 14,000-square feet and were built in a grid of three rows throughout the property. The wood frame of each building was clad with galvanized iron siding with large louvers open on the bottom to permit circulation of air throughout the interior. The floors were elevated and consisted of soil covered by 4-6 inches of cinders, with concrete aisles.

November 2019 — Warehouse

In 1929, the American Tobacco Company embarked on a half-million dollar expansion program at the Chesterfield Warehouses in South Richmond to increase storage, and thereby, production capabilities of Lucky Strikes. The new buildings were built in the spaces between the existing 1911 buildings to make three continuous rows of warehouse space. New brick bulkhead walls were built at the ends of the existing buildings, to reinforce them, as well as provide better fire protection. The additional warehouses were stated to increase the overall storage capacity from 31,000,000 pounds of tobacco to 50,000,000, making it one of the largest storage plants in the South.

(Érudit) — Imperial Tobacco Company of Canada advertisement promoting tobacco research

As of the construction in 1929, the new building also became the center of leaf research for the American Tobacco Company. Originally based in Brooklyn, New York, the research department of the company was founded in 1911 and included only a few scientists whose job was to study the tobacco leaf to better understand its physical properties and ensure quality control of the tobacco purchased and used by the company. When the research department was moved to Richmond in 1929, it at first consisted of just four chemists; however the department would grow dramatically over the following decade.

(VDHR) — American Tobacco Company Research Laboratory, Front Façade and North Side, Facing Southwest, 1939

By this time, the complex was also now called the Tom Walker Warehouse Group, named after the manager of the facility, T.J. Walker of Richmond.

In 1938, the Tom Walker complex underwent yet another expansion, this time fueled by the growth and prominence of the research department based there. That year, the American Tobacco Company announced that the facility would be the site of a new, state-of-the-art laboratory for the company research department. American Tobacco Company Research Laboratory

(VDHR) — One of the tobacco analysis laboratories in the new research building of the American Tobacco Company, 1939

The role of the research department in the success of the American Tobacco Company became so vital that in 1938, the company announced it would open a brand new, larger laboratory with state-of-the-art equipment and a great many more researchers. The new laboratory was to accomodate five highly specialized research divisions with roles including control operations of tobacco and original research; analysis of supplies used in all processes and in packaging; tests of the physical properties of processed tobacco and cigarettes; investigation of smoke and the operations having to do with the actual use of smoking tobacco; and biological research, including studies of the effects of smoking.

(VDHR) — Unidentified Researcher at the American Tobacco Company Research Laboratory, 1952

When completed in 1939, the new research laboratory was considered the most modern and fully equipped tobacco research laboratory in the nation with high-tech equipment and an extensive reference library on tobacco containing nearly 1,700 volumes, considered one of the largest such collections at the time. The laboratory maintained a fulltime staff of one director and assistant director, 29 chemists, 2 engineers, 1 bacteriologist, 1 librarian, 11 technical personnel, and 17 assorted other staff.

(VDHR) — Unidentified Researcher at the American Tobacco Company Research Laboratory, 1952

Research included the investigation of the chemical composition and physical nature of various types of tobacco, and the specific effect of manufacturing processes upon them; investigation of the chemical and physical nature of tobacco smoke; the correlation of composition of smoke with constitutents of tobacco; investigation of the physiological significance of the constituents of the smoke of tobacco products; the development of methods for the scientific control of purchasing, processing, and blending tobaccos; and fabrication of tobacco products.

November 2019 — Research Laboratory

The new lab, as well as its staff, quickly became nationally recognized and awarded for their achievements. In 1941, both the director of the laboratory, Dr. H.H. Hanmer, and assistant director, Dr. W.R Harlan, were appointed as two of the seventeen Virginia scientists to serve as delegates to the Convention of the Alabama Academy of Science, an organization formed to stimulate scientific research in the American South while developing public interest in such work in order to create grants-in-aid for research studies.

(Flickr) — 1951 Old Gold Cigarettes Ad, with TV Announcer & Actor Dennis James

However, by this time, the American public was becoming increasingly aware of the health hazards of smoking tobacco, brought to light by popular reports published by the American Cancer Society and Reader’s Digest. In 1951, the Lorillard Tobacco Company launched a national campaign claiming that a 1942 Consumer Reports article showed that their cigarette brand, Old Golds, was “lowest in nicotine and tars.” While this was technically true according to statistics included in the article, the point of the article had actually been that differences in tar and nicotine were insignificant when it came to the harmfulness of all cigarettes.

November 2019 — Stemmery & Re-Drying Plant

As opposed to advertising campaigns, such as that by Lorillard, that were more about bending the facts in others’ research efforts for their own benefit, other tobacco companies actually released their own counterargument articles. In 1952, the Liggett & Myers Company widely publicized the results of tests run by Arthur D. Little, Inc., showing that smoking their brand, Chesterfields, “would have no adverse effects on the throat, sinuses or affected organs.”

November 2019 — Stemmery

In 1953, executives from many of the large tobacco companies arranged a meeting in order to find a way to deal with recent scientific data pointing to the health hazards of cigarettes and plan a counterattack on these studies. The following year, these companies sponsored an industry-wide advertisement disputing evidence that cigarette smoking causes lung cancer.

November 2019 — looking southwest along Kern Street towards Re-drying Plant & Boiler House

In 1955, the American Tobacco Company responded through the completion of a massive expansion of the research laboratory at what was by then known as the South Richmond Complex. The expansion doubled the size of the 1939 building with additional laboratory and research space. The laboratory was expanded with specially-built and -designed equipment used to do chromatography, micro-organic analysis, electrophoresis, mass spectrometry, ultraviolet and infrared spectrophotometry, electronic titrimetry, extraction, refrigerated centrifuging, and low temperature vacuum fractionations. A new radiological laboratory was equipped to use soft radiation-omitting radioisotopes and other facilities included a pilot plant, photographic dark room, cold storage room, drying room, tobacco conditioning rooms, and a library.

November 2019 — Boiler House

Research continued on many of the same subject matters although with an increase in the biological nature of tobacco as it relates to health effects and ramifications. Studies were conducted on how nicotine is formed in the growth of the tobacco plants, the nature of pyrolysis products during the burning of a cigarette, and collection and formation of volatile constituents. One advancement made by the research department at this time was the development of the compound, activated charcoal filter, first used in the company’s Tareyton brand cigarette and the mentholated filter used in Montclair cigarettes.

November 2019 — Garage

American Tobacco Company was also the first to print tar and nicotine test results on the packages of Carlton brand cigarettes at this time. While these health-related studies were being undertaken in response to the growing national awareness of the hazards of smoking, the American Tobacco research laboratory also continued to conduct research aimed at improving cigarette flavor and composition to retain their existing customers as well.

(World Vector Logo)

In 1994, the American Tobacco Company was acquired by Brown & Williamson, the American arm of the British American Tobacco Company. In 2004, Brown & Williamson merged with the R. J. Reynolds Tobacco Company. (VDHR)

... and then...

November 2019 — City of Richmond seal at the DPU Ops Center

Of the original 25 acres, 14 were carved off to become the City Department of Public Utilities (DPU) Operations Center, occupying the old Research Laboratory, at the corner of Maury and Jeff Davis Highway, and its additions.

Unfortunately, that left the buildings on the 11 other acres to crumble to the state that you see in the warehouse pictures above.

November 2019 — reconstructed Warehouse building at Port City

Enter Port City and a $60 million dollar overhaul of four interconnected brick buildings and 11 former tobacco storage sheds into 291 apartments plus 23 artist studios, creating upscale apartments for workforce housing (Richmond Times-Dispatch). So the good news is that the dilapidated state of affairs along Jeff Davis should be addressed by mid-2020. The even better news is that the developer also plans to do the same for Model Tobacco right next door, which means that this corridor is, at last, getting some much-needed uplift.

(American Tobacco Company, South Richmond Complex is part of the Atlas RVA! Project)

#mustseerva #rva #rvahistory #maurystreet #jeffdavishighway #kernstreet #atlasrva #cityatomic #rvatobacco

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thegreenfairy13 · 5 years

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Salacious Start Part 1/2

A Gobblepot Fanfic. AU. Edward Nygma leaves Oswald Cobblepot for Mrs. Kringle. Heartbroken, Oswald tries returning the goods he bought for a very special night with his boyfriend. At the sex shop, he runs into sales assistant Jim Gordon and develops a massive crush. Read it on Ao3 here.

Her name is Kirsten, or Kristine, or Kristen. Oswald doesn’t know, doesn’t care. All he knows is that her name, whatever that might be, numbs him, makes him feel weak to the core. Red hair, wherever he spots it, feels like being engulfed in fire; he’s sick of red hair, and frumpy glasses, and pencil-skirts. Heels make him want to gag.

Kirstine Krankle. That’s her name, probably, maybe, could be, doesn’t matter. Before that bigoted witch entered his life, everything had been fine. Deep down he knows it’s not her fault, but the wound is still too fresh, his love for Ed still too deep for him to think clearly. Only days ago, they had been in love, almost ready to go public, to tell the world that the entrepreneur Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot and his bookkeeper, Edward Nygma, are a couple. Of course, that was before Ed found Kirsten - and back to God, whatever that might mean.

“You know, Oz,” he said, holding his hand too tightly for it to be comfortable, sweating profusely while doing so, “I’m not really gay.”

The table had been set for a romantic dinner. Olga, his housekeeper, had placed flowers on the dining-room table, candles had been lit, silver cutlery and crystal-glasses sparkled in the pale light. A metal clamp grasped Oswald’s heart and squeezed it tightly.

“I’ve never been,” Ed carried on, and honestly, it would have been more merciful if he had just shot him into the guts. “You’ll understand, in my line of work, it wouldn’t look good if I was with a man.”

Oswald’s ears are ringing. Not really gay? What's that even supposed to mean?! What line of work? He’s a bookkeeper, for fuck’s sake! Not that he’d ever say ‘fuck’ out loud, he’s way too dignified for that, but in his own head, he can swear all he wants.

“I won’t deny it, I’ve been infatuated with you, but you’ll have to admit, we’re not suited for the long run,” Ed said, looking expectantly at the man who had only seconds ago been ready to spend his entire life with him. “It was a misstep, and I’m sorry if I hurt you,” he said gazing intently into his eyes. “But we can remain friends,” he suggested and Oswald wanted to vomit.

“I understand,” he said instead, forcing a broad smile onto his face.

And that was basically the story of how Edward Nygma walked out of his life.

Well, almost.

There was still this little, discreet, white plastic bag in the corner of his bedroom. It should have been a surprise for Ed.

Oswald knows Ed likes it rough. He himself isn’t particularly fond of pain but who is he to deny Ed his pleasure? So one fine day he set out and bought shackles with pink plush covering the metal, a whip, and a blindfold. He wanted to give Ed a special experience, an unforgettable night. Now, those items just make him want to cry.

Entering the sex-shop once more, even weeks later, isn’t any easier than it had been the first time. His heart is beating too fast, his hands are shaking, and not even his sunglasses grant him any sort of privacy. He’s constantly looking over his shoulder, hoping nobody he knows will recognize him here; despite the fact that those people would be shopping here too.

He rushes through the aisles, hoping to find a salesperson soon. Oswald just has to return the items before they drive him crazy.

He bumps into a man built like a locker: broad shoulders, heavy biceps, perfect abs, gorgeous blue eyes, hair like the color of the sun.

Swallowing heavily, Oswald reads the name tag: ‘Hi, I’m Jim,” it reads and there’s another button right next to it: ‘Don’t be shy, I’m bi.’

Oswald feels the blood rising up his cheeks as he takes the information in. His throat runs dry when the other man arches his eyebrow at him, staring him sternly down. All of a sudden, he can see the appeal of whips, shackles, and blindfolds with absolute clarity. And good graces, he does feel shy.

“Can I help you?” the man asks and if Oswald ever heard thunder, well, it’s not half as intimidating as this deep voice. It’s a low rumble, the sound of molten lava on its way to destroy entire villages. It's only purpose is to wipe out each and every resistance. Oswald’s knees go weak.

“Yes,” he squeaks, having never felt smaller in his entire life. The man talking to him is a Roman god come to life, he’s Apollo, he’s Ares, he’s gorgeous, perfect, beyond words.

And he?

He’s Oswald: too scrawny, too pale, too black-haired, and he’s got a disability. Ever since that damn car-accident, he limps, his knee is turned sideways at the weirdest angle and he can’t even outrun a snail.

‘Hi Jim, I’m bi,” could probably outrun a sports-car if he wanted.

Swallowing heavily, Oswald clutches the plastic bag tightly to his chest. And no, he’s definitely not ogling the man, not a bit, no sir! He’s just very tastefully checking him out, that’s all.

Jim rolls his eyes and waits for his tongue-tied customer to speak at last.

“I’m certain you can help me with all kinds of sorts,” Oswald blurts out, mentally kicking himself how that came out. For a second, the employee looks taken aback but he composes himself quickly enough. By that point, Oswald’s cheeks probably resemble a wildfire.

“I simply want to return some goods,” Oswald finally shares, slowly releasing his death-grip on his plastic-bag. In comparison to Mr. Ares, he sounds like a teenage girl talking to one of the Jonas brothers.

“We don’t take anything back unless the sanitary-seal is still intact,” Jim informs him cooly while already holding out his hand to take the bag from Oswald’s trembling fingers. “You’ll understand that in this kind of shop we only resell stuff if…”

“I perfectly understand,” Oswald interrupts. “And I can assure you that my seal is perfectly undamaged, untouched,” he rambles on, fighting the urge to bite his fingernails. “You can totally check if you want,” he adds nervously. “In fact, I’d love you to see…”

Oswald thankfully snaps his mouth shut when observing Jim’s eyebrows slowly creeping up to his hairline. It takes him a moment, but then he finally understands. Slapping a hand over his mouth he just stares at Jim, mortified.

“That,” Oswald stutters. “That,” he soldiers on, stumbling awkwardly through the words, “that wasn’t me trying to tell you I’m a virgin.” “My seal is broken,” he rattles on. “I mean if I had a seal,” he adds, earning himself a bewildered expression from his newfound Roman god.

Shaking his head, Jim takes the bag mutely from Oswald’s hands. “I think I’ll check for myself,” he mutters flatly and the raven-haired man prays for a hole in the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

One year! One year he had been with Edward, his first boyfriend, his only boyfriend. It just hits Oswald now how easy everything had been with him. Everything had progressed naturally, no awkward flirting on either part had been necessary, and thank god for that! He’s terrible at it!

To Oswald’s endless mortification, Jim tips out his purchases over the counter and checks if the original packing is indeed still undamaged. “You still got the bill?” he asks, not a hint of emotion to his voice.

“I, yes,” the embarrassed entrepreneur rasps out, checking each and every of his pockets and coming up with nothing.

“Sorry,” Jim tells him flatly. “Not taking anything back without the receipt,” he adds with determination and if that attitude doesn’t make Oswald’s blood run hot and cold at once! This man is steadfast, he can tell, and it’s a massive turn on.

But Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot isn’t used to taking orders. Especially not by some sales-assistant. He’s used to getting his will and right now, he wants to get rid of his Ed-memorabilia - right the fuck now.

“I’m sure there could be something arranged,” he whispers conspiratorially once he found his voice again. He doesn’t know it comes off as slightly disconcerting. “I mean,” he continues, dropping his voice an octave in order to sound more persuasive, “it won’t be that hard for you to just issue an invoice for your, eh, services." Oswald’s eyes wander down Jim's chest, reading the name tag once more, and really, somebody should have told him to be more subtle. "The tip I’d leave would be as handsome as you if you know what I mean, Jim,” he adds with a clumsy wink, trying to sound flirtatious.

Jim drops the bag as if it had bitten him. “I’m sorry?” he asks slowly, sending off all sorts of alarm bells in the other man's head. “I think I’ve misheard you,” he says, drawing out the words very slowly, almost angrily. He straightens himself. With his back stiffened and his chest puffed out, Jim looks even taller - and a lot more intimidating.

“I, no?” Oswald asks insecurely, shrinking another two inches.

Shoving the bag back into the pale man’s hands, Jim backs away. Eyes narrowed threateningly, he goes into a lecture the usual sales assistant wouldn’t dare to give a customer. “The button on my chest might say ‘don't be shy’, but that sure as hell doesn’t involve proposing paid sex," he informs him bluntly. "It's just our way of encouraging our customers to ask questions. If you need someone to fulfill your desires,” he adds with a knowing twitch to his lips and simultaneously shoving the bag back into Oswald’s arms, I’d go to another establishment. But I’ll happily answer any question on penis pumps you might have.”

With those words, he turns on his heels, leaving a mortified Oswald behind. Again clutching the bag helplessly, he’s right back where he started with the only difference that he made a complete fool of himself. Cursing under his breath, he tries figuring out how that encounter could have probably gone so terribly wrong. Worrying his lower lip, he considers calling after Jim but the man won’t even look into his direction.

Shoulders slumped, Oswald decides to leave the store and wait until Jim finishes work. Well, in hindsight he really should have given that idea a second thought.

#gobblepot #gobblepotsummer2019 #fanfiction

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archhousingstl-blog · 5 years

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Arch Interim Housing

Arch Interim Housing is a St. Louis-based Corporate Housing and Furnished Apartment provider, specializing in temporary housing and extended stay apartments. Locally owned and operated, we are passionate about providing all the comforts of home while you are away on a temporary stay. When you stay at one of our St Louis corporate apartments or temporary housing locations, we want you to feel at home. We are committed to making the transition into your new home smooth by offering fully-furnished apartments in desirable locations that make it easy to settle in, relax and enjoy your extended stay. We offer multiple extended stay locations in the St Louis area, including St Charles, Downtown St Louis, Central West End, St Louis County, Clayton, Brentwood and Metro East Illinois.

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When you're in need of corporate housing in St Louis, MO or furnished apartments in St Louis, MO, allow Arch Interim Housing to show you how we're different. The Arch team is driven by our shared passion for creating the ultimate corporate housing experience for our guests, and you can trust that we will go above and beyond to exceed your expectations. Whether you're looking to reserve an extended stay in St Louis, St Charles, Chesterfield, Clayton, O'Fallon, Creve Coeur, Mehlville, or anywhere else in the Greater St Louis area including the Metro East Illinois, Arch Interim Housing is guaranteed to have the ideal fully-furnished apartment for you!

The next time you need corporate housing in St. Louis MO, call Arch Interim Housing. We've got just the place. Book now by calling 1-866-921-5888.

Arch Interim Housing

897 Fee Fee Rd.

Maryland Heights, MO 63043

(636) 946-5888

(866) 921-5888

Mon - Fri 8:30 am - 5:00 pm

[email protected]

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archinterimhousing-blog · 6 years

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Arch Interim Housing

Arch Interim Housing is a St. Louis-based Corporate Housing and Furnished Apartment provider, specializing in temporary housing.

The next time you need corporate housing in St. Louis MO, call Arch Interim Housing. We've got just the place. Book now by calling 1-866-921-5888.

Arch Interim Housing

897 Fee Fee Rd,

Maryland Heights, MO 63043

(636) 946-5888

(866) 921-5888

Mon - Fri 8:30 am - 5:00 pm

[email protected]

Arch Interim Housing

Areas Of Specialty:

Arch Interim Housing

Apartment For Rent

Apartment Rental

Temporary Apartments

Furnished Apartments For Rent

Temporary Furnished Apartments

Temporary Housing

Short Term Housing

Corporate Housing

Corporate Apartment Rental

Corporate Suites

Pet Friendly

Corporate Housing St Louis, MO

Corporate Housing in Clayton and Brentwood, MO

Corporate Apartments in Downtown St Louis, MO

Corporate Housing Apartments in West County

Corporate Housing in Central St Louis, MO

Corporate Housing in Central West End St Louis, MO

Corporate Housing in St Charles and O'Fallon, MO

Corporate Housing in South County St Louis

Corporate Housing Apartments in East Illinois

Social Media:

Facebook

Twitter

Google+

Instagram

Yelp

List.ly

Brandyourself

Zintro

Pixelhub.me

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Mix

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chamberlainsremovals · 2 days

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Dronfield Household Removals: Your Move, Our Expertise

Moving to a new home can be both exciting and stressful, but with Dronfield household removals, you can ensure a smooth and efficient transition. Our expertise in residential moving guarantees that your move is handled with the utmost care and professionalism.

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Summary:

Household removals in Dronfield by Chamberlain's Removals provide the knowledge and individualized attention required for a smooth transition. With specialists who understand the nuances of residential relocation, you can enjoy a smooth transition to your new home. Trust the professionals to handle every detail, making your move a seamless experience and allowing you to start your new chapter with ease.

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jr255 · 3 years

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How You Can Plan A Stress-Free Removal Service

To shift from one place to another is a stressful task. Even if you have to relocate within the city or the same neighborhood, it needs to be a stressful job for you. So, the question is how you can get stress free removals service in Chesterfield. Relocating is not about packing your bags and home furniture and going to your new destination. It is not like you are going on a vacation. Therefore…

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chamberlainsremovals · 16 days

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Experience top-rated moving services in Dronfield with We Do Your Move. Our professional team provides reliable and efficient moving solutions, ensuring your belongings are handled with care and your move is completed seamlessly.

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steveramsdale · 4 years

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Money Saving Expert Blog 10.8

And so, the never-ending cycle begins again.

There was a binary choice for the title this week and I’ve gone with Money Saving Expert. But you’d seen that. You’ll see the other option soon.

On Saturday I went to Olay Bazaar first time for ageeees. I wanted a different walk. I also wanted to get a матрёшка for Freddie. That’s a Russian doll, in case you’re wondering. He likes the one we have at our house so I thought he might like his own. I also, on the way back, bought my first арбуз. That’s a water melon, in case you’re wondering. You know I love to have one in the fridge to chip away at once it gets properly hot here. I have no pool to cool off in.

Now to my title-inspiring double whammy. I used up my Le Bazar points and my Korzinka loyalty points in one weekend. Really. Le Bazar is the grocery delivery service we used a bit last year and I used a couple of times at the start of our lockdown. If they don’t have things you have ordered, the money gets credited on to your account for next time. I noticed that I had 60,000 so I decided I’d do a small order and use it. It worked. It is now clear. I also went to my nearest Korzinka, on the way back from an early walk to my favourite coffee shop. I didn’t buy much and offered my loyalty card to pay for my goods. Each time you shop, you get a percentage added to the card. This can be used as cash another time. I cleared that card as well, with a small amount to add to it to meet the balance. If only Martin Lewis could see me now.

I had to ‘sign in’ at ecopark - second time he didn’t want to know.

I went for a long walk on Sunday. It was unplanned. I ended up at the other supermarket but the park was closed so I had to walk back the long way. None of that was planned.

I saw several more kittens. They are everywhere.

Now we come to the second potential title.

The ‘funny things kids say’ this week features Freddie. My little Freddie. Due to the wonders of video calling I am not totally missing out on his development as a speaker. They (Keir, Emily and Fred) went and met Mairi in our garden this week and Mairi says his speech has come on a long way and he has lots to say.

One day, we were having a video call. Keir and Fred were sitting on Keir’s bed and Fred was near the edge. Keir put his arm around Fred’s midriff to make sure he didn’t fall but Freddie didn’t want to be restrained. So, the sentence that could have been the title was uttered. It was beautiful. I can’t decide wether to put it here or wait until the end of the anecdote. Wait, I think.

You could just ‘hear’ the micro-pause as he worked out how to finish the sentence he started. He was reviewing previous sentences - don’t hold my leg, don’t hold my hand, don’t hold my ear - they would all work, he knew there was a way to make it work. But he could not work it out. It was such a tiny, tiny pause. But I heard it. There was a word missing here, a word he could not locate or did not know. What was Daddy holding? What did he say, quite indignantly?

Don’t hold my me. Don’t hold my...me. The pause was not that long. It was lovely.

On Tuesday I drove to school. I think I told you last week that the road-trip is off. We are shipping the van. I am sorting paper work and packing. We were told we could go back into school so I wanted to go and collect all my personal stuff. I could not find my ID badge which had the cupboard key on. Did I mention that? I searched the flat at least three times and decided that I must have left it in the classroom when we all fled, screaming, weeks ago. Anyway, I went early on Tuesday and the badge was indeed there, the key protruding from the lock. It didn’t take long to collect my things and delete any saved passwords from my classroom PC. It could be the last time I go into the building. It might not be as we had an email saying we could go back in - so we were expected to go back in. I have requested that I be allowed to work from home. As horrible as it is being here alone all of the time, I think it is a risk I can’t take. There is nothing I can do in my classroom that I can’t do at home. I am fairly sure the students won’t be back in now.

As I left, I remembered when we drove away with Ben for the last time, two years ago. I remember that I thought I would be heart-broken if that were me. It was the same when Mairi left. I thought the same. This year, being here alone, and the way things have worked out, I will be happy to board a flight whenever that is. I think I will be sad later.

On Thursday (I think), a woman knocked at the door. She was begging. The main door downstairs is often left open, so I suppose she seized her chance. Of course I gave here some money. Later that day, I was taking my rubbish down to the bins. I may have mentioned before that there are people who sort through the rubbish collecting anything of value, especially plastic bottles. You see people on bikes carrying huge bags filled with plastic bottles. A couple were walking up the street with their collection from ‘my’ bin. They asked for the rubbish I was carrying and took it all. They also asked if I could spare some money. I could.

Later, I saw another student. This was a girl I taught in Y4 who is now in Y7. At first I thought it was her, then I thought it was a much older girl who looked like her, then I realised it was her. We had a little chat.

On morning, I took my empty cereal bowl back to the kitchen after eating. Later I discovered that I had Put this empty bowl in the fridge.

I started looking at jobs for next year. I even applied for two. If you are in the Chesterfield area and know of a suitable, part-time, job for a person with my unique skill set, please let me know.

On Thursday, Mairi came to my lesson. I know. We were finishing the book Holes, which she loves, so she came a read it with us and we discussed it and what the children might expect in Y7. It was fun.

I also met more colleagues accidentally on the street. I was out for an evening stroll and met Miss Viktoriya. She was waiting for Moss Marina so I waited with her. We had a chat. We had a quick video call with Mairi.

On Friday morning there were three (or four) police cars across the road, possibly investigating an incident at the new building. I say (or four) because there were three parked in a row. Then the front one was driven away. A little later, there were three again but it could have been the original front one back again but now at the back.

I talked in Russian on the phone to three different people I don’t know. Two are from a Russian/English language exchange group on Facebook. The third is a person dealing with my van shipment. She is based in Romania and we have been exchanging emails but she wanted to talk about some details. She is an good English speaker but also speaks Russian, as do many Romanians. It was good.

And that was/is my week. I hope you liked it as much as I did.

Which title would you have gone for? ‘Money saving expert’ or ‘Don’t hold my me’?

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