Arle the Shoveler

Waiting for change always seems to take longer than you would expect. Arle had spent the last twenty years of his life shoveling sludge from the thick tar-like fields into cast iron barrels, all the while convinced that he was minutes away from promotion to the shiny suits and fancy smoke belching vehicles of the bossmen. His potential was being wasted, he would say to his fellow sludge shovelers, his wife, and all who crossed his path. He was destined for great things; Assistant Shoveler was just a rung on the ladder of Arle's ascent to greatness. No amount of nay saying could convince him otherwise. Perhaps the fumes from the raw fuel deposits went to his head, but one day change did come, just not in the way Arle expected it.

"Have you ever seen such smooth shovel action. Ed?" Arle's voice boomed from beneath three chins.

"No Arle." Ed, who was as scrawny as his partner was beefy, grumbled his usual answer. Arle swiped another load of thick black fluid into a container with a wide sweeping motion that spattered Ed's leather overalls.

"Smooth action there, Ed. Name one shoveler who can swing like me."

"Can't think a one."

"Exactly! A bossman will notice, yes sir, and sure as the sky is carpeted with black I'm minutes from a promotion."

Ed turned his eyes lazily across the bleak landscape in search of a bossman, the yellow light from his helmet-lamp fading into the miasma. To date he had never seen one, nothing but the sludge, scorched sky, and massive metal trucks that belched black fumes into the sky as they were loaded full of metal barrels by shovelers to be taken back to the plant for refining. As Ed turned his creased face back to work an alarm sounded in the depths of his brain. Deep in the recesses of gray matter stupified by fumes and years of repetition was the last twist of cognitive sensation, and it was this bit that noticed something was amiss. His head tilted upwards, up, up, until his helmet fell 'splat' into the muck. His lips worked to find words for the monstrosity that loomed above.

"I tell you Ed, I won't be here much longer. You should take notes so you can impress the bossmen after I'm gone. Soon we could both be sitting behind massive mahogany desks smoking fat cigars." Arle paused mid shovel swing for Ed's affirmative response. Sludge slapped from the tool as he waited, seconds ticking by through an unprecendented silence. Arle pivoted to look at his partner and noticed the direction of his attentions. Arle's eyes lifted heavenward. A second helmet hit 'splat' in the sludge.

"Ed. What is that?"

Ed's jaw continued its pantomime, up, down, left and right. None of his stock responses suited this unique situation. He grunted.

"Looks to be getting bigger. No, not bigger. Closer. Look out!"

With a quickness that would surely have impressed any watching bossmen, Arle threw his girth at Ed and the pair sprawled into the knee deep, cloying liquid. A loud splash followed, then the creaking of metal like a furnace struggling to supply heat. The shovelers lifted their heads as a hatch popped open in the side of the metal beast.

"Hullo!" A thin chested man with bushy black eyebrows and matching moustache, as if a small forest were spreading across his face, popped from the hole. Long fingers pinched at his facial hair as he surveyed the damage to the metal contraption, an eight foot long iron pod. Exhaust tubes poked from numerous spots of the shiny plating, as if it were the skin of an acne stricken teen.

"Ed, look at that suit!"

"Shiny."

Arle nodded, then shifted into his regular voice, suited for stage and used for most all occasions. "Who are you, sir?"

They bushy faced man spun on his heel to face Arle, who managed to stand by pressing Ed further into the muck. Thick fingers grasped the scrawny shoveler by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet next. Arle may look to his own advancement first, but he would never leave a friend behind.

"I am Charles Charlesby. inventor extraordinaire. Surely you've heard of me?"

"Of course Charles Charlesby, I'm sure you've heard of me as well, Arle the Smooth Shoveler?"

The two men exchanged vacuous smiles. Of course neither had ever heard of the other. Ed kept his opinion to himself. He had at least heard of Arle before.

"Yes, yes, Arle, I am sorry for the bad landing. I'm afraid this Mark II model consumes fuel faster than I anticipated. Unexpected, very unexpected."

"Mark II?" Arle's verbosity was stymied by his confusion.

"Yes, the Mark II Charlesby Flyabout, this contraption here." Charles returned his gaze to the vessel as Arle and Ed exchanged nervous looks.

"He must be a bossman," Arle muttered, "look at that suit!"

"Shiny."

"That means this is out big chance!"

"Uh huh."

"Well Charles, what can we do for you? I imagine that whatever help we give would look well on us at bossman headquarters."

"Yes, yes, bossman headquarters." Charles' nervous expression went unnoticed, as he still faced the ship. "The shuttle appears sound. I need more fuel. A few barrels of this sludge should do."

Arle bowled his partner over in his haste to scoop up his shovel and display his technique. Ed had the sense to stand well clear as the shovel went into a blur of motion, sending sludge up, down, left, right, and occasionally into one of the empty barrels. Charles didn't protest the new paint job on his ship; the metal dripped a glistening black.

"There you are, three barrels. Let me ask you Charles," Arle manhandled the first barrel inside the hatch, "have you ever seen a smoother shovel?"

"No, I don't believe so."

"Ed?"

Ed nodded emphatically as he struggled to move the second barrel.

Arle rolled the third container into the ship as a distant rumbling reached their ears. Charles plucked at his moustache and jumped into the ship. "Thank you gentlemen, for you help. I bid you farewell! Soon the fame of Charles Charlesby will resound through the land!"

"And don't forget Arle the Smooth Shoveler!"

"Eh? Of course!" Charles swung the hatch shut just as Arle remembered to toss in Ed's name as well. In moments the exhaust tubes belched smoke and the shuttle rose into the air. Arle waved a thick hand in farewell and watched as the blackened ship vanished into the smoky sky. He was imagining himself in his new shiny suit when Ed's tugging on his arm brought him back to the present. A black, ironclad car had spun to a halt in the sludge mere feet from the shovelers. Generally combustible vehicles weren't allowed in the muck; could the promotion have come so quickly?

A tall, shiny suited man jumped from the passenger side, feet splashing forward. "Where's the shuttle?"

"Sent it on its way, sir! We did a good job of it, too."

"You helped him?"

Arle frowned at the man's tone. "Yes, sir. Any chance to help a bossman, I take."

"Bossman! That was no bossman! You idiots!" Not so shiny shoes kicked up muck in frustration. Arle glanced at Ed, whose eyes were rooted to the ground.

"So does this effect our chances for a promotion?"

"Promotion?" The suit spat the word.

"Of course. Surely you've noticed my work, Assistant Shoveler Arle and his partner Ed?" Ed managed a thin smile.

"Promotion?" More spittle. "You're fired! Get off company land, and return those shovels!" Ed winced and nearly toppled over. Arle was motionless, jaw slack, shovel in hand.

"Did you morons hear me?"

WHAM! Splash!

The bossman's shiny suit was engulfed in muck, a giant welt growing on his forehead. Another suit hopped from the driver's side, looked at Arle's expression, and jumped back into the car.

"You ever see such smooth shovel action, Ed?"

"No, Arle. Can't say that I have."

The pair tossed away their shovels and headed for the nearest truck for a lift home. This change was a long time coming and not what Arle was expecting, but already his mind was figuring out the next rung of the ladder for him and Ed. It was there, he just had to reach for it.