In a stunning display of industrial pyrotechnics that would make Michael Bay weep with envy, a paper mill in the great state of Maine has decided to reinvent itself as a battlefield. One worker is dead, nine are missing, and the entire town of Jay is currently breathing air that tastes like the inside of a battery. The explosion, which rocked the Pixelle Specialty Solutions mill, was powerful enough to launch debris into the next county and send a plume of chemical smoke drifting over the landscape like a funeral shroud woven by a very angry spider.
Officials are tight-lipped about the cause, but local gossips whisper about lax safety protocols and a workforce pushed to the brink by production targets. The company's stock price, meanwhile, did not explode. It merely fluttered downward like a wounded sparrow, then recovered. Because markets, like God, have a sick sense of humour.
The missing nine are presumed dead, though no one says that out loud because hope is a drug and we are all addicts. Families huddle in churches and community centres, clutching photographs of loved ones who went to work this morning to make toilet paper and came home as statistics. The one confirmed dead is a man named Michael, or maybe David, because the names of the working class blur together when you're trying to remember a number over a hundred. He leaves behind a wife, three children, and a mortgage.
Meanwhile, the company's CEO, who probably hasn't set foot near a vat of bleaching agent since earning his MBA, issued a statement expressing 'deep sorrow' and a commitment to 'a thorough investigation.' This is the same boilerplate language used by every corporation when their quest for quarterly dividends results in human ash. The workers' union, predictably, is furious and calling for a full inquiry. They will likely get a memo and a gift card.
The irony is thick enough to curdle milk: a paper mill, which transforms trees into the very substance of civilisation, cannot keep its own workers safe from the chemicals that make it all possible. We have created a world where the toilet paper is softer than the lives of those who make it.
As I write this, rescue teams – or recovery teams, let's be honest – are sifting through the wreckage with the grim efficiency of men who have done this before. The wind has shifted, carrying the stench of burnt ambition and failure across the state line. In Jay, they are now the epicentre of a tragedy that will be forgotten by the time the next news cycle hits. But for the families of the missing, the clock has stopped.
This is the price of modern convenience. This is the hidden cost of every sheet of A4, every cardboard box, every glossy magazine. We are all complicit. So the next time you unwrap a toilet roll, spare a thought for Michael, or David, or whatever his name was. And maybe send a strongly worded letter to your MP. Or better yet, invest in a bidet.
