An Author's Note: Cliff Ahead. This is not a satisfactorily self-contained snipped, but ends rather abruptly as there is a doctor's appointment this morning. My appologies.
This is it, I thought, I’m out of the boiler room for good. I bounced out of bed and did a little dance in the middle of my tiny cabin. I reached past the stained coveralls still occupying their hook and grabbed the pressed jacket/slacks/shirt combination neatly folded over a hanger.
Three seconds later I was dressed and in the corridor, a spring in my step and a whistle on my lips, shiny shoes on my feet and brand-new stripes on my shoulders. I could feel the hum of the turbines through the deck plates, and frowned just a little bit at the note they transmitted: something was out of alignment somewhere.
The frown turned into a grin as I remembered that this might, in fact, be my problem, as the new head of third shift in Engine Seven.
I was early for breakfast. The galley served twelve meals per day, evenly spaced around the clock, as each shift in turn cycled through breakfast, lunch, tea, and supper; third shift breakfast was not for twenty minutes, and first shift supper had ended forty minutes before; the dishes were done and something delicious was going in the galley.
One of the first shift engine supers was sitting alone at a table in the middle of the room. My heart raced a little bit; I wasn’t sure of the protocol... it was possible he was there to speak with me, in which case I should sit down across from him. On the other hand, it was possible he was just enjoying his cuppa in relative peace, in which case I should leave him the hell alone.
As a fellow super, I should technically greet him... but I didn’t want to be presumptuous.
As I approached, tentatively, he solved the problem for me by hailing me.
“Carlson,” he said, “Sit down, I was hoping I’d see you before your first shift.”
I sat down across from him. I didn’t know the engines supers well; I’d been in boiler two for three years, rotating through the shifts, as was customary, and knew the boiler room supervisors as authority figures to be watched for and obeyed, but the engine guys were a cut above boiler people anyway, and the engine supervisors were completely outside my experience.
I knew them by sight, of course, but I’d never talked to one of them before I’d completed the round of interviews preceding this promotion.
A steward appeared with a cup of thick, spicy tea. I sipped it gratefully.
“So,” the engine super said, “First day.”
“Yes...” I paused. Supers technically rated a “Super,” not a “Sir,” but as I was wearing three stripes on the cuff of my jacket myself, I was not required to give the honorific.
“Yes,” I said, blushing a little bit. He grinned back at me, almost certainly following my thought process perfectly.
“I’m Dennison, I’m the first shift Super for Engine Seven. I wanted to talk to you before you started, give you a little background on the position you’re walking into.”
“Thank you, Dennison,” I said, a little formally. “I appreciate whatever you can tell me.”
He shifted a little bit, started to speak, then stopped. He took a sip.
This is it, I thought, I’m out of the boiler room for good. I bounced out of bed and did a little dance in the middle of my tiny cabin. I reached past the stained coveralls still occupying their hook and grabbed the pressed jacket/slacks/shirt combination neatly folded over a hanger.
Three seconds later I was dressed and in the corridor, a spring in my step and a whistle on my lips, shiny shoes on my feet and brand-new stripes on my shoulders. I could feel the hum of the turbines through the deck plates, and frowned just a little bit at the note they transmitted: something was out of alignment somewhere.
The frown turned into a grin as I remembered that this might, in fact, be my problem, as the new head of third shift in Engine Seven.
I was early for breakfast. The galley served twelve meals per day, evenly spaced around the clock, as each shift in turn cycled through breakfast, lunch, tea, and supper; third shift breakfast was not for twenty minutes, and first shift supper had ended forty minutes before; the dishes were done and something delicious was going in the galley.
One of the first shift engine supers was sitting alone at a table in the middle of the room. My heart raced a little bit; I wasn’t sure of the protocol... it was possible he was there to speak with me, in which case I should sit down across from him. On the other hand, it was possible he was just enjoying his cuppa in relative peace, in which case I should leave him the hell alone.
As a fellow super, I should technically greet him... but I didn’t want to be presumptuous.
As I approached, tentatively, he solved the problem for me by hailing me.
“Carlson,” he said, “Sit down, I was hoping I’d see you before your first shift.”
I sat down across from him. I didn’t know the engines supers well; I’d been in boiler two for three years, rotating through the shifts, as was customary, and knew the boiler room supervisors as authority figures to be watched for and obeyed, but the engine guys were a cut above boiler people anyway, and the engine supervisors were completely outside my experience.
I knew them by sight, of course, but I’d never talked to one of them before I’d completed the round of interviews preceding this promotion.
A steward appeared with a cup of thick, spicy tea. I sipped it gratefully.
“So,” the engine super said, “First day.”
“Yes...” I paused. Supers technically rated a “Super,” not a “Sir,” but as I was wearing three stripes on the cuff of my jacket myself, I was not required to give the honorific.
“Yes,” I said, blushing a little bit. He grinned back at me, almost certainly following my thought process perfectly.
“I’m Dennison, I’m the first shift Super for Engine Seven. I wanted to talk to you before you started, give you a little background on the position you’re walking into.”
“Thank you, Dennison,” I said, a little formally. “I appreciate whatever you can tell me.”
He shifted a little bit, started to speak, then stopped. He took a sip.
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