The Smoking Section

The Smoking Section


The ship is sinking but we don’t care. We are the smoking section. We are better than disasters.

There are twelve of us. We are a diverse bunch, standing in groups of three. And then there is Stan, the chief steward. He’s in the middle. There are no women.

We are on the top deck, port side, near the bow.

Alarms are sounding. The non-smokers are running. They are in disarray, lost. The ship is listing but not enough for concern- our concern, that is.

We continue smoking. We lean back against the white walls. We converse. “Might rain tonight,” we say. “Where you heading?” That sort of thing.

We hear a significant crash. A lifeboat has fallen. A man hangs on, screaming. We look half-heartedly and ash our cigarettes.

We are veterans, ready under pressure. Though, we feel none. When the time comes we’ll know what to do. We decide to have another cigarette. I light my Lucky Strike. I help John light his. He says, “Thank you.”

An announcement gives orders. It’s a little too panicked for us. It hurts our ears. People are in the water now. Most are poor swimmers. A fire breaks out on a lower deck. It’s electrical we decide.

Stan looks at his watch, pushes his long hair over his shoulder. He takes a deep breath. He looks bothered. And so he should. The sinking ship is ruining our day.

Without saying a word we follow Stan to the nearest lifeboat. He releases the lines. We help ease the lifeboat down. Then we get in one by one. There is no pushing, no shoving. It’s orderly. We are considerate of each other. Stan gets in last and lowers us the rest of the way.

We hit the water and function like an organism: six per side, stroke for stroke. Stan sits at the head, like a coxswain, except he has no need to yell.

The ship is partially submerged. Non-smokers keep hurling themselves over the railings. The fire has spread. The ship’s funnel has fallen into the water. It’s not looking good.

We row. Our blue plumes of exhaust are evidence of our efforts.

We approach an island and bring the lifeboat ashore. We pull it onto to the beach like we are pallbearers. We are solemn. But that’s because we are inconvenienced.

We sit on a grass covered point and light cigarettes. We sit twelve abreast, Stan behind us, like a father.

“It’s a real shame, bout the ship and all,” Thomas says. “She was a real thing of beauty.” We nod because we agree.

The ship is pretty much under by now. There’s a lot of debris floating on the surface. There are no signs of struggle. It’s gotten real quiet over there. We’re certain no one has survived but us.

Philip says, “The disaster was rather biblical don’t you think?”
James says, “Yeah, it was beyond belief.”

The ship is completely gone. It’s silent, save for the seagulls that hover above the wreckage. The sun burns through the clouds.

Stan opens a fresh package of cigarettes, passes some out. We get up to leave. We walk towards the mountain single file, smokes in hand. Stan will know what to do next.