Dispatch from the Fourth Smokestack

I was the guy stuck in the smokestack.

Not the front, or the second smokestack, nor even the inconspicuous third smokestack. But I got stuck in the fourth smokestack.

The fake smokestack.

I had been peppering my boss, the head fireman, with little appreciated advice. Because when it came down to it, I knew how things worked, how they were supposed to work, and my boss simply didn’t.

I think that may have been why he tried to get rid of me.

But I digress.

On the day we hit the ‘berg, as I’m using the hip lingo of the stalwart crew, my boss warned me against giving him any additional unwanted advice. But I couldn’t help myself.

I could see that the manner in which he was contorting his body while shoveling the coal was inefficient at best. So I got the supervisor above him to come and see for himself why my approach to shoveling coal was the mark of a master shoveler, as opposed to that of my boss.

I had made a study of efficiency á la Frederick Winslow Taylor, who had greatly increased the output of shovelers, and thus capacity, at Bethlehem Steel about 12 years ago. I had voraciously devoured his “Principles of Scientific Management” and decided I would echo his teachings to my comrades below deck.

But how was I to know they would be less than receptive?

In front of everyone, I demonstrated how having a slightly larger or smaller shovel, as opposed to the uniform standard at that time, would make a marked degree in our efficiency such that we could accomplish the same amount of work in three hours as in four with their current shoveling technique.

“But you’re missing the point,” my boss started to say, when his supervisor tapped his shoulder.

My boss turned towards him, along with the attention of most of the others below deck.

“It seems,” his supervisor said with a quick nod towards my boss, “that the esteemed Mr. Picklebottom has taught us all something very valuable today.

“Through his study of efficiency and its trademarks, he has taught us all how to be that much more efficient at shoveling. However, he has forgotten that we have an optimal staff for this particular job, in that budgeting for everything for the duration of our voyage, including shovels, shovelers, food, water, and bunks, has been established by previous voyages on other coal steamers.

“As such, if one of us becomes significantly more efficient on this voyage, then it throws the entire mechanism off, particularly if said individual makes those around him significantly more efficient. If a bunch of my workers get bored, then that’s dangerous, because they’ll seek ways of getting entertained. Given the intelligence of most of these shovelers, it’s likely that they won’t necessarily seek diversions in contemporary literature or self-improvement. Rather, they’ll seek entertainment via more destructive methods.”

There was about a ten second pause after the fire chief finished his statement.

I raised my hands to speak.

“Actually, it’s Pickledbottom...”

“Can we toss Picklebottom down a smokestack?” one of my crewmates interrupted.

“Case in point,” the fire chief acknowledged the remark by pointing at the person who asked it.

I noticed all eyes turning towards me, and all of them with dull expressions in search of a momentary amusement.

I then had my considerable girth hoisted and carried all the way up the service ladder to the top of the fourth smokestack. My boss and his supervisor both removed their hats, and everyone else followed.

“Hey bossman?” one of the crew asked as we teetered over the top of the hole.

“Yes, Peppersquats?” my boss answered.

“How come there’s no smoke coming out of this stack?”

“Ahh,” my boss rubbed his hands together. “Well, that’s a bit complicated and it has to do more with marketing than practicality. The Titanic uses a more powerful boiler/engine to drive it through the water. As such, with the three boilers we have, we’re already the most powerful ocean-crossing vessel on the planet.

“But, that would mean it’s just a three smokestack ship, which to most people, looks off in this age of continuing industrial progress. Most of Titanic’s contemporaries, they all have four smokestacks. To keep the Titanic looking like it’s conducive with that mindset, they added the fourth smokestack.”

There was much grunting, “Huh,” and other monosyllabic references to excrement exchanged among the crew while they had me hoisted on their shoulders.

“Our bossman’s smart,” one of them remarked.

“Much smarter than this Picklebottom,” another one answered.

“By the looks of things, much lighter, too,” one of them grunted.

“That’s Pickledbottom,” I groaned.

I guessed at that point, I would be tossed over to a messy and humiliating death.

“Hey bossman?” one of the masses asked.

“Yes, Pansysnuffer?”

“Why not just add a fourth boiler and make the ship that much faster? Especially given the length of time spent away from our families and such.”

My boss and his supervisor looked at each other slyly.

“We actually suggested that to the engineers, designers, and investors of this great vessel,” the supervisor responded.

There was a five second pause.

“…and?” Pansysnuffer waited for the answer.

“…and, in response, they made us in charge of you lot,” my boss answered, wringing his hands. “They had no interest in furthering our suggestions to improve the ship and instead insisted on Thomas Andrews’ original blueprints, causing me and Supervisor Putridmuncher considerable consternation.”

“It was essentially a put up or shut up moment,” Putridmuncher added. “We both needed the money, so we opted to take what we could get. Granted, it would have been nice if we could have gone a bit faster, especially given my pending engagement to my sweetheart, Miss Puffinsquasher.”

There was much more grunting, “Huh,” and other monosyllabic references to excrement exchanged among the crew while they still had me hoisted on their shoulders.

“That’s a hard lot, Supervisor Putridmuncher,” one of them tipped his hat.

“Indeed, it is,” my boss acknowledged. “But as one of our descendants will no doubt paraphrase into a more marketable form of media, ‘You can’t always get what you cherish deeply.’”

“Hey bossman?” a third empty vacuole asked.

“Yes?”

“If and when you get hitched, have you considered hyphenating between your last names? It’s what all the belle-epoque folks are doing.”

At that point, we heard someone yell, “Iceberg, dead ahead!”

In addition to hearing a crunch and the squeaky sound of metal being ripped apart, I was finally tossed into the depths of the fourth smokestack…whereupon I got stuck, hanging upside down roughly 15 feet above the first-class promenade.

With the additional sounds of my belly flesh squeaking against the interior of the ventilation smokestack, several of the first-class passengers happened to look up and express haughty indifference, before scurrying around to one of the 20 lifeboats. For appearance’s sake, the marketers decided it would look better if the ship just had 20 lifeboats instead of Andrews’ requested 64.

As the ship began to lurch a bit more violently, I started to realize the depth of my current predicament. While I certainly didn’t intend to die aboard this vessel, it looked increasingly like it was to be my fate. At one point, I happened to see Andrews, the ship’s designer, plodding stoically across the promenade.

“Ahoy!” I gave him a raucous bellow.

He looked up and puzzled a bit.

“Hmph,” he stated, throwing his arms up. “If only I had listened to Putridmuncher and added the speed obtained by a fourth boiler, we could have been that much farther ahead of these damnable icebergs.”

“Hindsight is 20/20,” I added, encouragingly.

He nodded deeply and said, “Indeed,” before continuing to plod with heavier steps.

Later, as the ship was sinking, one of my shovelers happened upon the promenade.

“Hey Picklebottom!” he yelled, “We’re out of lifeboats and life preservers. Could I use you as a life preserver for me and my mates?”

That…was the last straw.

“It’s not, nor has it ever been, Picklebottom!” I exasperated. “My name is Pickledbottom!”

“Oh, weird,” he tsked. “Must have been awful for you as a kid.”

The ship suddenly lurched and the rear end of the ship was thrust high into the air. For a few seconds, I felt the grip on the sides of my entrapment loosen. Then I, like all of those doomed to die, was thrust underwater to what I thought would be my dismal end.

As the pressure increased around me, I thought for sure my ears would explode. However, I suddenly found myself pushed backward and expelled from the smokestack, flying 50 feet above the flotsam to land within inches of a mostly unoccupied lifeboat.

As I clambered aboard to take my position among the survivors of lifeboat number 1, they all asked me my name.

“Pickledbottom,” I replied.

“Really? That’s awful,” they all collectively lamented.

“You can call me Picklebottom if that’s easier.”

“Okay, Picklebottom,” they said collectively, and we drifted till we were rescued.