In the rightfully lauded 2011 video game Portal 2, the player at one point encounters a deranged robot sphere known as the "Fact Core," which dispenses entirely true facts ("An ostrich’s eye is bigger than its brain."), near truths ("Cellular phones will not give you cancer. Only hepatitis."), entire falsehoods ("In 1948, at the request of a dying boy, baseball legend Babe Ruth ate seventy-five hot dogs, then died of hot dog poisoning."), and something one might call a mixed bag. My favorite of these was always "Marie Curie invented the theory of radioactivity, the treatment of radioactivity, and dying of radioactivity." In fact, of course, Marie Curie only invented the dying of radioactivity part. It occurred to me though that there was a whole period of time we, in our modern hustle and bustle, have forgotten about. A wild west of magical realism, where radioactivity wasn’t maligned or feared but instead heralded as anything from a patriotic path to victory, a miracle tonic, a gateway to a futuristic society, and much more. Today, I’d like to reflect on some of the more extraordinary ways we threw caution to the four winds in favor of curiosity, daring-do (read: stupidity), or just plain profit-mongering.
Starting out with what may well be the best known (and most fucking depressing) of all the misuses of radium in the early part of the 1900s has become known as the "Radium Girls." A group of young working women enlisted by a watch-making factory was hired to paint the small dial faces of watches. None were informed of the dangers of doing so, though it became clear that for the majority of their employment, the company knew very well (managers got PPE, workers did not, etc.). The radium paint used was "self-luminous"—that is—it glowed in the dark. This was something entirely new, and during WWI, soldiers being able to see the numbers on their watches while huddled in trenches without giving away their locations was absolutely invaluable. Beginning around 1917, the factory paid the women to do the painstaking, detailed work—charging them for any excess brushes used and encouraging them to re-point the tips of their brushes with their lips and tongues. This was amusing at first, as it made their teeth glow—as well as their sweat—and if they painted their nails or lips with the excess, those as well. It was all fun and games until they started dropping like flies. Decades of slow, miserable, agonizing deaths followed. It took decades of litigation and appeals, but eventually (after most of the women who were originally hired had died), the courts relented, and the women were paid a pittance for their suffering, which is hard to enjoy if most of your face has fallen off from radiation poisoning. Radium paint was, nevertheless, used in watches up until the 1970s. Cool stuff.
On a lighter (?) note, are these no doubt vitality-restoring suppositories. Infused with a crackpot passion for exploitive moneymaking, Vita Radium suppositories will fill you with all the lost vigor of your youth. They will re-awaken within you the stag of youthful passion, the essential strength of...uh...yeah...you know, impressive words. So, send us some money and put these radioactive bullets up your bum—satisfaction or your money back. Or you could just die of ass cancer. Who knows if you don’t try?
Remember, kids, radium, uranium, and thorium weren’t the only dangerous forms of radiation available to the average consumer. A charming novelty in use from the 1920s up until even the 1970s was known as the "X-Ray Shoe Fitter," where one could go and check their shoe sizes by...examining their bones, I guess? A customer could look down and see the haunting image of their own mortality, squeezed into the confines of a new pair of loafers, which provided both amusement and existential dread, I’m guessing. Did it work in determining shoe size? Not really. Did it expose the average joe to massive doses of unnecessary radiation? Absolutely.
If cramming pellets of radium up your rectum doesn’t hold appeal, perhaps just straight-up eating it will do. Manufactured between 1931-1936 by Burke and Braun company, it was advertised to similarly renew and restore lost vitality and help one look and feel younger. There was also radium bread for those who prefer savory to sweet. The upside is you’re 100% less likely to get ass cancer.
Another tragic-comic figure in the history of recreational radiation was one Eben Byers. Bailey Radium Laboratories in New Jersey was founded by one William J.A. Bailey, who had a doctorate from the school of "say it enough, and people will believe you." He claimed his new tonic Radithor was possessed of near-magical qualities of restoration. Similar to the other radium-infused "curatives," it promised vague-but-impressive sounding benefits, claiming to be a sort of "liquid sunshine." Eben Byers, a talented sportsman and playboy, born with both money and talent, became enamored by this scientific-sounding drink after injuring his arm and being advised by his physician to try Radithor in small quantities. Apparently, the placebo effects were enough to convince the young man that this was a mana from heaven, so to speak, and he began consuming vast quantities of the expensive and deadly water. It all seemed to be going well for Eben, that is, until 1931 when his jaw unexpectedly detached and fell off his face. It didn’t cause him pain since the 1400+ bottles of radioactive sludge he’d been drinking had turned his nerves to mush. If you want to turn your stomach to mush, try Googling Eben Byers without a jaw. Or don’t. It’s as awful as you think. Surgeons built him a new jaw, but after another year, he died anyhow and had to be buried in a lead-lined coffin. He was exhumed in the ’60s, and his corpse was still highly radioactive.
Honestly, this only barely scratches the surface of the many, many ways our creative marketing and fascination with the fanciful and new can lead to a vast, cavernous pit of idiocy. I, for one, am excited to see what stupid shit we can come up with next.
Esmeralda Rupp--Spangle is only slightly radioactive, but bring a Geiger counter just in case. She can be found on Instagram as @EsmeraldaSilentCitadel if you feel like throwing rotten tomatoes or asteroids at her.
