Kotzenburg Ch.4

Microwavable Dogma

By Chris Wunderlich

                Aron Warburton’s family traced their roots back to the original settlers of Kotzenburg, witnessing the folly of the port, the boom of Barth House, and the general lack of anything positive until the arrival of the Hesse Company. When the Microwave Manufacturing Facility opened its doors, Aron’s father was first in line for a job. For the Warburtons, Hesse was a godsend.

                Aron’s father started on the production line but soon rose to the rank of supervisor, overseeing the floor where the glass turntables were made. When Aron turned fifteen, his father pulled him out of school and put him to work in the factory, molding the plastic shells that held all the major electronics in place. Most boys would’ve condemned this fate, but Aron was meek and eager to please. Hesse owned the Warburton family home and charged a fair rent. They controlled the wages of both Aron and his father, granting them enough money to save and prosper—pulling them out of lower-class struggle and into middle-class comfort. Factory work was hard on the body, and it dulled the mind, but it beat cleaning roadkill off the train tracks. At least, that’s what Aron’s father told him.

                As the years went by, the working conditions at Hesse deteriorated. Mr. Skinner, who had been an enigma in town since the Hesse arrival, disappeared, and those left in charge let the business run on autopilot (after all, microwaves practically sold themselves). It was at this time that Aron’s father was forced to retire early against his wishes. He passed away shortly after from an unknown illness, all too young. Hesse denied any responsibility, claiming both the factory and microwave technology to be perfectly safe. This triggered the workers, and a rally started almost immediately.

                At first Aron disagreed with his fellow laborers—sure, he missed his father deeply, but how could Hesse be at fault? Hesse was the company that put a roof over his head and provided him with a job, a purpose, and enough money that if he wished, he could treat himself to an ice cream cone twice a week. The other employees saw bigger issues. They saw sickness becoming more common and sick days going unpaid. They saw the cost of living rise and wages stagnate. They saw faceless management that didn’t care about them, and they decided to unionize. Aron went along with the crowd—what else could he do?

                Things didn’t go smoothly. Workers clashed with each other as fiercely as with management, arguing for every degree of radical action. It seemed any attempt at a union would fail unless they could find common ground. Luckily, Lake Erie would once again step in, as if by apology, to answer the town’s woes.

                One blazingly hot summer’s day, Aron decided to take a dip. It was generally considered foolish to wade into the muddy waters along the shore, but Aron was never the brightest, and he’d exhausted his ice cream budget earlier that week. As he attempted to dip his toes in the scum, it became apparent that Lake Erie had retreated even further than usual. The mud went on and on and on as Aron trudged through, determined to reach refreshing waters. It was there, far out from shore, that Aron stubbed his toe and finally stopped. Thinking there was a fish trapped in mud, he reached down, pulling up a surprisingly heavy treasure instead. A man, fully dressed and quite stunned, rose out of the muck and wiped his glasses and moustache. George, Kotzenburg’s long lost sheriff, had been inexplicably preserved in the mire. Aron led him to shore. For all he knew, George had been a fellow swimmer, out taking a nap in the mud.

                George resumed life much as he’d left it decades earlier (though this time the townspeople couldn’t wrap their heads around calling him “Gay-org”). He maintained his natural aura as an authority figure, and the workers of the Microwave Manufacturing Facility quickly elected him their union leader. George was a natural, taking the laborers’ concerns and presenting them to management in his grandfatherly, old-timey way. The union was able to secure healthcare, better working conditions and a slight salary increase. George was happy just having folks to talk to.

                Shortly after George’s ascent, another figure rose from the past—Mr. Skinner, ready to herald in a new era of Hesse domination. George and the union whittled away, losing all benefits and bargaining power, reverting back to the mistreated labour force they’d been before.

                But before the union’s demise, tragedy struck, and the workers gathered to defend one of their own—one Aron Warburton. It was midday, and as Aron performed his usual duties, he felt unusually troubled. Upon coming back from lunch, he’d witnessed a large, strangely dressed man near his workstation. The man had fiddled with every lever and knob, switch and button, and dial and meter before moving on. It took Aron over an hour to reset his equipment. He never had the chance to approach the man, searching the floor for him without any luck. Only twenty minutes into his work, Aron’s equipment began to malfunction. The electronics, inside their usually harmless plastic shells, had somehow been activated. First smoke, then fire arose. A large explosion sent Aron flying back. They say microwave radiation poured out over every inch of the floor. Aron awoke at the local hospital a day later.

                The union claimed the mysterious large man was a Hesse agent, sent to sabotage the factory and besmirch the workers. Hesse claimed Aron was incompetent. Doctors examining Aron were flabbergasted. He had a bump on his head, a burn on his finger, and a slight cough from smoke inhalation, but no other obvious injuries. Their medical expertise told them, however, that radiation, in all its forms, was terribly dangerous. It was expected that Aron’s skin would start to fall off; his blood, boil; his organs, misbehave. But these predictions never came to pass. Aron was fine. The union was unimpressed—they wanted increased safety measures, with security and medical benefits from Hesse, but Aron was proving hard to make an example of. He wasn’t a very convincing victim.

                This led to one of the strangest decisions in Canadian medical history—widely believed to be the result of a union bribe. Aron’s doctors declared that, although his physical and mental health remained virtually unchanged, the blast of microwave radiation had destroyed Aron Warburton’s soul. He was a husk of a man. And it was all the fault of Hesse.

                At this time, George and the union still held a great deal of power. They demanded compensation for Aron’s injury—and Hesse replied by promising that in due time, Aron would be provided with a prosthetic. An artificial soul, as it were. Meanwhile, Aron believed his doctors, and had only one request: he wished to understand what it meant to be a man without a soul. He’d already consulted with the local Kotzenburg church and spiritual leaders, who provided him with much to think about. But the union had a more expensive suggestion—they wanted Hesse to pay (a lot) for Aron to travel the world—a necessary spiritual journey, they argued. George came back from the bargaining table with a compromise. Hesse would send Aron to Germany in a freight plane filled with microwave parts. He’d have to settle for the answers he found there.

                This solution suited Aron just fine. He’d never left the borders of Kotzenburg and the thought of lands beyond excited him. The train ride to the big city airport was a thrill in itself. Landing in Germany, Aron thought he’d left the planet Earth. He used Hesse money to take taxis, stay in hotels and visit churches all across the newly unified country. He understood little of what he learned, never figuring to learn the German language, but still tried the beer, trekked the trails, and tasted every pleasure the local cuisine could offer. He met pretty girls, helpful men and others who felt new and out of place in that strange land. And yet, he still could not understand what it meant to be without a soul. Only one place, he thought, could hold the answers: the home of his provider, his saviour—the Hesse Company Headquarters.

                He arrived in Rhine-Ruhr by limousine without a second thought about the exorbitant fee. The Hesse Company Headquarters stood in the city’s center like a church of industry, all glass and steel, and inconceivably tall. It was perfectly rectangular, reflective, and awe-inspiring. Aron felt as though he’d finally found his holy place, nearly falling over in the crowd of businessmen that fluttered about. In the structure’s center lay an infinite atrium, and as Aron stood in the middle and looked up, he could see all floors of the building, watching them disappear into an artificial horizon. It was like staring into infinity itself.

                As Aron paused, mouth agape, pondering the wonders of the universe, he was approached by a receptionist. She attempted to assist him in German, but quickly realized only English would work. Aron acknowledged her, ignoring the buzzing beehive of businessmen rushing about, and never took his eyes off the infinite space he’d been staring into. He first asked the receptionist about the nature of the soul, to which she replied by citing the story of Hesse and its founding. Aron asked about his father, the afterlife, and the purpose of man. The receptionist responded by explaining how Hesse had brought the German people much prosperity. Conceding, Aron asked how Hesse might be responsible for all the good in the world. The receptionist listed subsidiaries, named factories, and espoused the glory of the many products Hesse was responsible for.

                This led Aron to believe that, although Hesse was great and powerful, it too was perhaps without a soul. And that made him feel much better. He made his way back to Kotzenburg, and shortly thereafter the doctors had a peculiar, spherical metal contraption implanted into his chest—the artificial soul, as promised. It bulged from his body like a grotesque, armoured goiter—and yet, with “Made in Kotzenburg” stamped into the steel, Aron beamed with pride.