Dr. Freddie Drummond walked out of the lecture hall. The students ambled past. Careful not to make eye contact with their sociology professor. Dr. Drummond was fine with that. He preferred it. He never knew quite what to say after the nominal anticipated social grading was over. And then you passed the same person the second time that day. Or the third or the fourth. The plate had not a smirk of fero brow indicating that you were deep and thought on a problem. In
his 27 years on this earth, Drummond hadn't quite worked it out yet. Which he found troubling. He was a sociology professor. He should be able to understand basic social interactions. Cold storage. How we doing? Dr. Wayne said to him with a smile. Drummond winced a bit. He hated that nickname. It was better than Icebox and College, but only marginally. I finally got around reading the unskilled laborer. I read a lot for work. It wasn't the papers though. I heard the president
of the railway systems bought a pallet of them to hand out to his employees. 50,000. You really know how to get into the heads of the working class. Hope the rest of us understand how the animals think. You celebrate yet? Take that sweet little rich girl of yours out? Freddie Drummond shrugged. He didn't like to bother Catherine with his work and alcohol made him anxious. So cool. Fun. Dr. Wayne grimaced. Another professor walked by and slapped Dr. Wayne on the
back. You rate a lose tonight? Wayne smiled and turned back to Drummond briefly before yelling to his friend to hold up. See around, Freddie. He said before chasing his buddy. Freddie. Another name he detested. Couldn't be Frederick or even Fred. It had to be Freddie. Long ago, back in college, a fellow freshman saw how it irked Drummond the first week of school. The kid laughed and it stuck ever since. Drummond watched the two professors shoulder to shoulder
talking about Poker Night. Every Thursday, all the men in the department, well, almost all of them. Freddie would like to say he had other plans. He didn't. Or that he had been included in an invitation at any point. He hadn't. He just didn't go. Freddie didn't want to go. But he also didn't want to be left out. For some reason, though, it seemed like that was who he was. He returned to his dark apartment after the gym and threw the keys on the table.
Showered while the water boiled and wolfed down his spaghetti while he skimmed a journal. Washington's plate and leaving it to dry, Freddie brushed his teeth, hung up his coat, and tossed his shirt into the hamper. He knelt down and opened the trunk at the bottom of his closet. He smelled a wrinkled jumpsuit. It was good for one more night. He put it on along with the cap and started out into the darkness. In San Francisco, there was a boundary
between the North and the South, where the cable car ran. To the North were banks, theaters, hotels, shops, Freddie's apartment, and the homes of all of his coworkers. Catherine's family had an estate up there. To the South were factories, laundry, machine shops, and the homes of the working class. The people that Freddie Drummond wrote about. In the guys of someone who belonged there, Freddie crossed what was called the slot. The metal
track where the cable car's ran. He was dressed in the garb of a laborer because he was a laborer. It was time for the night shift. From Jason and Chris O'Wyzer, creators of Myths and Legends, this is fictional. It was the end of Freddie's 12-hour shift. He had made two dollars. So, you're new here. He heard. He turned from his locker and saw four men. One was standing in the doorway. The other was talking to him. Two stood on either side. He noticed you're working pretty
hard out there. The man in front of him said. Freddie pointed out that they were paid based on performance. If they wanted to work hard, they could make two dollars a shift instead of the baseline 125. You scab, the man asked, and then he glanced down at Freddie's palms. Hmm. Softest hands he had seen south of the slot. I'm not a scab. I just want to work. Freddie said. He started bleeding about freedom of contract, independent Americanism, and the dignity of toil. They would never know it,
but most of it came from well-studied textbooks that he had helped write. The man, not carrying about the dignity of toil, cut him off. Let's see your yinging card then. If you're not a scab, the man said. Stepping forward. He demanded. Freddie show him some proof that Freddie wasn't just some scab the boss brought in, show them up. To show them that if they work themselves to death every night, they could get an extra 75 cents. I'm not a scab, Freddie asserted.
Then show me your card. There was a long silence before Freddie bolted. Or tried to. One arm caught him by the neck. A foot swept his. Freddie went down hard. Freddie was a boxer in a spare time. It was one of the few hobbies he had. He was a big guy, and he could have beaten them in a fair fight. This was not a fair fight. When the men finished pounding on his ribs, they started kicking his body. They finished by stomping
on his face and fingers. When he finally managed to pull up and wipe the blood off his face, he limped home. He spent a week in bed, all that time penning his new article, the tyranny of labor based on his experience. He didn't return to that particular job, and he learned something. The tallest poppy gets cut. When it came to blending in, he needed to blend in. He might believe in freedom of contract and the dignity of back breaking labor so
another man could get rich from your effort, but these people obviously didn't. They didn't seem to take any pride in their chosen vocation. He reminded himself that he wasn't there to change conditions, but to observe and report back in the form of his books and articles. When he took his next after hours job at the canary, he could carry and stack two boxes,
but that earned him looks, and he could only guess another eventual beating. He knew it was malingering, and it went against everything he said he believed, but Freddie held back. He only carried one box. There was a chapter in his next book on the art of shirking. He also fixed another problem. Identity. Dr. Drummond saw one of his own books that the CEO had distributed to the line workers. He saw it in the trash, of course, but still, it
was a masterful show of power. It espoused all the correct beliefs that Freddie knew to be true, and it showed the workers that the bosses were wise to their acts. Still, it meant that he couldn't go by Frederick Drummond, the name on all the books. If the workers discovered Dr. Drummond in the factory, he wouldn't be walking out of there. And if the senators, millionaires, and the leaders who ate up his book found that he was a card-carrying
union member, his career would be over. No, he would have to go by an alias. William Tots. The union organizer repeated, yeah, people got me Bill. Freddie replied with a grin and a bit of an accent that surprised even himself. The organizer sitting behind the desk looked at Freddie, aka Bill Tots, and his broad-shouldered boxer physique. It can get rough out there. We'll need someone like you, Big Bill. The organizer handed him the
car that said William Bill Tots. Big Bill. Freddie, slash Bill, grinned. I like that. Everyone, this is Big Bill Tots, our newest member. Big Bill turned to see the men in the union hall and recognized a face. It was one of the men who had beaten him by the hawkers. Freddie panicked. But Bill? Bill knew. He was safe. The man wouldn't recognize him. He was Big Bill Tots. We're all going out for beers. You want a beer? The organizer
asked Big Bill, huh? Only all the time. Big Bill laughed and followed the men. That is if you're buying. Freddie drummed placed his union card in the trunk alongside his clothes. Here, he noticed that they reaked of tobacco. He thought back, his mind was still swimming. Seven beers will do that to you. His mouth had a funny taste. Did he smoke a cigar? He had talked to the men who had beaten him. They never learned that he was the rigid and
timid, Freddie drummed. The man who had stomped on his face had five kids with the sixth on the way. Far from choosing this life and sitting back in laziness under the protection of the union, he was just trying to keep food on the table for as long as he could. He understood, actually. He understood that he had made the man look bad. That this wasn't just some outing for the guys that had beat him. This was their lives and killing themselves
for weeks on end. For 75 more sense a night wasn't sustainable. It didn't excuse what they did, but Freddie understood it. He thought about putting that in his next book, but decided against it. His audience wasn't one for such sentimentalities. He looked at the clock, only enough time for a shower before his lecture at nine. You're always researching, Catherine told him later. They were sitting across from each
other at a swanky restaurant. She was having wine and him water. For some reason the beer and the liquor just didn't feel as appealing when he was up here. Freddie Drummond said that was the job. Catherine Van Vorst said, but it was Thanksgiving. Freddie shrugged. The animals at the zoo carried on like it was any other day. Why should the animal south of the slot be any different? Catherine half-smile politely and picked it or salad. Freddie had heard
someone in his department say that. It sounded clever when he heard it, but coming out of his mouth it just sounded clumsy and mean. The only thing that had changed was him. Maybe Freddie. Freddie, Catherine, waived her hand. She shook her head. She expected him to pay attention to her when she spoke to him. He could do his little research project on Thanksgiving, but mother and father were going to want him to come up by the marina
at Christmas. They still hadn't met him. Freddie nodded, of course, of course. He missed Christmas too. He missed it because Freddie wasn't Freddie. He was big-bill tots. Big-bill had not only been working, but he'd stay south of the slot for hours after his shift ended. Freddie had always been eager to get home, but Bill stood and smoked with his fellow workers as they decided what they were going to do that night. Big-bill
tots came home reaking of liquor and smoke at three or four in the morning. That is when he came home at all. Freddie hated smoking, drinking, sausages. Bill loved all of them. Freddie was unsure about everything. Wary, reticent to say anything, lest he should say the wrong thing. Bill said anything and everything the moment it came into his mind. Freddie didn't have friends. If he was honest with himself. He had Catherine and he knew people
at work, but he hadn't had a real friend since childhood. Bill would die for any one of his friends, of which there were many. Then Bill met her. She was amazing. He had been helping a friend move boxes, and Mary had gotten up in his face, demanding to see his yinging card. He joked around with her for a bit, thinking that she maybe wouldn't kick his face in, but when she got really worked up, Bill showed her the card. Bill smiled at
her. He would see her around. She watched the ease with which he carried the trunk. Bill tots. Bill thought about Mary almost as much as Mary thought about Bill, and by the time of the laundry strike, which Freddie joined for research, and Bill, because he knew Mary was organizing it, Mary and Bill finally met again. Big Bill tots had stood among the women, who, in the midst of walking out, had found the door blocked by the superintendent. Mary smiled at Bill, remembering his name from the
yinging card, and that was all Big Bill tots needed. The crowd of laundry workers parted as Bill bounded up to the shrinking superintendent, put one hand on his collar and the other on his belt, and tossed him bodily into the lockers. The strike resumed, the women rushed out, and Mary courting kissed him on the cheek as she walked by. They ended up winning the strike in a matter of hours. In the months that followed, their relationship progressed
quite a bit. Bill started taking her out after work. They had all the same friends it turned out, and it was kind of amazing they hadn't run into each other sooner than one night. They kissed under the gaslight lamp. The following morning, Freddie Drummond was back in the cold light of his apartment. He folded Bill's clothes. But the moway in the trunk. He took a shower. After he did so, he sat on the edge of his bed for a long while. Bill tots had to die. Bill tots couldn't
get married, and squash Freddie Drummond's prospects. If Bill tots got married, Freddie Drummond would be a polygamist when he inevitably got married to Catherine Van Worst. He said inevitably because, though he had taken his time, he met her parents, and her father was a fan. They liked their third daughter's wild, artistic spirit, taking up with a university professor instead of one of her father's friends' sons. They voiced their approval for
the couple to wed as soon as possible. So that's why, weeks after he had given up Bill tots, Freddie sat at a quiet club in the northern part of the city. When his colleagues had learned that he was getting married, they asked about his bachelor party. They were bewildered that he wasn't having one, or at least no one had planned one. So what could conceivably be called a bachelor party lurched forward with a sense
of otherworldly inertia? No one really wanted it to happen, but it was going to happen anyway. Freddie sat nursing his seltzer water, while his colleagues talked around him. Someone, sometime, would say something like, Catherine Van Worst. Wow. Freddie would force a smile and say he really respected and admired her. She had so many fine qualities. The person would nod, and then remember something that they forgot to
mention to someone else on the far side of the table. Excuse me while I never come back. Freddie wasn't even sure they noticed that he left. But before he even realized what he was doing, he was crossing the slot, loosening his tie. Big Bill! The barge sheared as Bill Tots, arms wide and grinning, made his triumphant return south of the slot. People asked what happened to him. Bill shrugged. He was visiting his brother in Chicago, helping out with the effort there and all that. How they been
holding up without him. It's because things have been going so well for the unions that the tension south of the slot was worse than ever. The unions were gaining power, so the companies were bringing in their own private security. It was getting ugly. But nothing we can't handle, especially with you around. Big Bill's buddies slapped him on the back. Oh, that's right. There was someone else that had been asking about
him too. The friend threw a thumb over a shoulder, pointing at the back of the bar. Big Bill turned to see Mary Corden there, under a light. Talking to a friend, she made eye contact with Bill. Then looked away like she didn't know him. Bill downed his beer, and by the time Big Bill made it over there, Mary was alone. Bill took a long drag from his cigarette, and before he could open his mouth to apologize, Mary slapped it. His
cigarette went flying, and the bar started laughing. Rubbing his face, and before Bill could ask what she did that for, she was in his arms kissing him. They left within five minutes. Freddy Drummond didn't return to his apartment that night. He used to go down there for work, didn't he? Freddy looked up. They were just pulling up to the slot, on their way to the club. Freddy nodded to his fiance. Long time ago, how did she know that? Catherine never took an interest in his work. It had
been three months. Three months since that night. The night with Mary that he never thought about all the time. He returned from that night, and he knew he had to choose. He burned Bill Tots' clothes, and you can get in the car. Through himself into the life that he wanted. A beautiful fiance, respect and admiration of the Titans of industry, tacit approval
of his co-workers. He and Catherine Van Vorced were two weeks out from the wedding. He was pretty sure Catherine knew that he went to work, but she never seemed to care what he did there. To be fair, he didn't really know where her family got their money, so maybe it had to be a polite rich person thing. There were a lot more of those now. Rich person things. Catherine's parents had bought them what they considered to be a small first
house, but they would move into together after they were married. The small place, but Freddy's closet was the size of his first apartment. Freddy traded his suit for a tuxedo. Trade to get together for suaray's. It was a good sort of life. He got to research and teach whatever he wanted. Father, well father-in-law, was a very prominent donor to the university. Freddy was fast-tracked for 10 year after the honeymoon. There was an understanding that
he would be department head by the time he was 30. Dean and even president of the university weren't out of the question. By day, he was giving business leaders the inside track on how to break the labor movement before it could get its footing. By night, he was like an educated parrot, squawking off the bits that made the monocold and top-headed sorts about, here here! Freddy was happy. And he knew he was happy because he would tell himself that a few
times a day. This was the life he had worked for. This was what he had wanted. This was what any of them would want. Catherine too was great. Just wonderful. She looked like a model from an advertisement, and she had so many admirable qualities that weren't just related to looks, money, and connections. So many of that, they would be too much to list. Freddy imagined, so yeah, who wouldn't want to be married to her? Oh, she was talking. Freddy nodded. He didn't catch anything other than that
Catherine set her father used to talk about Freddy's books at dinner. Simply rave. Freddy nodded again. He and Catherine had this fun thing where they pretended to listen to each other while thinking about other stuff. It was cute. It showed how similar they were. While I think this place is dreadful. Her face had soured. She rolled her eyes. Now please, couldn't these people protest somewhere where it wouldn't get in their way? They were going to the club. Freddy looked past the
chauffeur. Meat wagons. Six meat wagons. Driven by non-union workers trying to break the strike. Police and private security sat next to the drivers. Clubs in hand. And about a hundred other police and private security, security that's similar to, but legally distinct from the notoriously lit just Pinkerton detective agency marched alongside. Clubs in hand. Freddy knew about the streetcar strike. It was his job to know. This out here, this plan with the overwhelming police presence
was right out of one of his lectures. The strike would be broken today. A hundred police and private security would see to it. Once it was broken, the bosses would find more non-union workers willing to step in. The Union's bargaining power will be weakened if not destroyed. But the strike would not go quietly. Behind the drivers and the police and the private security, people he knew marched. He recognized the faces, the chance. Their chauffeur slowed and then started to back up to
allow the drivers through. But a horse winning. Their auto lurched as a wagon wheel wedged in with it. Pat Morrissey, an old Irishman. Hard as a nail and twice as obstinate. If he saw Freddy in the car, he didn't give any indication. He looked forward toward the army of clubs and shields moving his way. But the clubs slowed. More wagons rolled in to block the road. Freddy swallowed. Wow. We're in for it now. He was right. The situation had turned in an instant.
The overwhelming anti-union force was now stopped in the street with a barricade in front of them and the protesters behind. There was a shout from the street behind the non-union drivers and the protesters swarmed. While they fought security, and Freddy once again heard the sounds of clubs hitting skulls, windows opened on either side of the street. Apparently class-conscious clerks in
the office buildings saw the security cracking into the protesters. Trying to literally break the strike, waste baskets, ink bottles, paper weights, even typewriters, anything that could be lifted and thrown, creamed down toward the meat wagons. Savages, Catherine sat back, crossing her arms with the stain. Freddy looked forward. Police and security beat people senseless and dragged them
into the street to arrest them. A man atop a coal wagon, one of the vehicles that formed a barricade, lifted one of the attackers through him bodily onto security and then began chucking 30-pound lumps of coal at anyone who approached. But even though protesters had won this skirmish, Freddy knew that they would lose the war. It was part of the playbook. Part of the playbook Freddy had developed. They had numbers, the unions. They had people, but beat enough of them?
Break enough of them. Shatter their barricades? They knew how this would end. The security would get control of the wagons and it would all be over. They knew. They both knew. Both Freddy and big build tots. Dr. Frederick Drummond. Freddy, cold storage. He was happy. He was happy with his life. His cold life where he had everything. Everything he was supposed to want. He didn't need it. He didn't want it. He didn't care how he felt standing up for those in need. He didn't care how good it
felt to be free, to be, to be with Mary. He had everything now. A happy, cold life. A good job, influence. All the money he could ever need, telling people how to exploit other people. Catherine. Catherine who watched with relish at the blood pouring down the coal next to them. Who could want anything more? Big Bill. That's who. All Freddy had to do was yield. That would be easy. Freddy Drummond had been yielding his whole life. All he had to do was let go.
Freddy Drummond closed his eyes and big build tots opened them. Catherine Vanvore Shrieet as the man next to her bellowed tore his bow tie away from his neck and rose. The car rocked as big build tots stepped past her, flung open the door and bounded onto the coal wagon. It's big bill. A shot one up from the streets. Ice stung with blood turned to the barricade to big build tots fighting to take it back to keep the protest alive.
His name traveled across the crowd like a wave and with it a renewed vigor. Big Bill tots fought. His shirt was torn. His scalp flopped a bit from a place a club had opened it but Bill was unrelenting and it wasn't minutes before he stood. Victorious atop the barricade. He stood alone flinging coal after the attackers. They didn't just flee Bill though. They fled everyone. The horses were cut from the wagons and put to flight. A cheer went up. Catherine Vanvore
washed. As Freddy, she barely recognized him. Freddy, she called out from the cart. What was he doing? Get back in here this instant. Bill, she heard from the street. Big build tots leapt down from the coal wagon. His white shirt half red and ran. He took Mary into his arms and kissed her. Catherine watched as a dozen people came over and slapped the man on the back. He laughed with such abandon. Such raw, pure energy and happiness. He was unlike anything she had
ever seen. She sat in the car, watching as he walked with a growing group of people to go celebrate. Dr. Frederick Drummond didn't return to work on Monday morning or any morning after that. His apartment sat empty until it was ruled abandoned. His wedding was called off. And though she tried to search for him, demanding an explanation, no one heard from Dr. Frederick Drummond ever again. No one heard from Freddy Drummond, but across the west coast? Everyone knew about a man named
Big Build Tots. He made business owners and titans of industry shake and fear. When he showed up at a strike or a demonstration, everyone found themselves reinvigorated, renewed. He and Mary married, organized countless successful movements where both elected presidents of their labor unions, and most importantly to either of them were happy together. So this was an interesting story. The original was very focused on class and politics at the time.
And while we included that, I liked the more psychological side of the story. It's almost bizarre how truly different Big Build is from Freddy. And like a few different analyses of the story I've mentioned, I agree that Freddy gets a happy ending and should be Big Build. It's strange though to think that there could be another you inside you. But there could be someone so different that there are anathema to everything you've built yourself up to be,
but that they are the real you. I think that there are better ways to meet that person than going to a completely different part of the city and living a double life or getting in fights atop coal wagons. Just get out there. Trying new things you never know what you might find or who you might meet. You might even meet yourself. Okay that was extremely cheesy. I'm sorry, but I think the point still stands so I'm gonna leave it in. Today's story was based on South of the
Slot, short story by Jack London. Fictionals and next pod production by Jason and Chris O'Wiser. Our theme song is by Break Master Syllinder. In two weeks we will be having our season finale. Then we'll be back in 2023. So no worries, fictional isn't going anywhere. Thank you so much for listening and we'll see you next time.