The Math of Modern Life
On the night of December 2, 1984, toxic gases erupted from a Union Carbide pesticide plant in Bhopal, India. The gasses, 2.5 times heavier than air, hugged the ground and spread over dozens of square miles, killing families as they slept in their homes. The disaster affected more than 500,000 people, including immediate and long-term deaths, severe health issues, and soil and water contamination that remains a problem to this day.
The cause of the catastrophe was attributed to Union Carbide’s negligence and poor maintenance, such as safety systems that were either non-functional or turned off to save money. Public records suggest that in operating the plant, the company made the cold business calculation to accept the cost of potential liability in exchange for even greater profits.
Also notorious for these kinds of financial decisions are pharmaceutical companies. For example, Merck & Co., maker of the painkiller and arthritis drug Vioxx, knew after a couple years of availability that the drug significantly increased the risk of heart attacks and strokes. Nevertheless, for another three years, Merck continued to market Vioxx until voluntarily withdrawing it, generating $8.2 billion in revenue from the drug during those three years. The company eventually paid a total of $6.6 billion to resolve criminal and civil claims.
New to this scene, at least in my personal experience, are commercial airlines. On my recent business trip from Miami to Dallas, the pilots pushed away from the gate and sat the plane on the tarmac, all while refusing to activate the air conditioner or even the overhead ventilation. Although I suffered from only matted hair and a soaked shirt, the pilots suddenly returned the plane to the gate. Paramedics rushed on to attend to passengers experiencing heat-related medical emergencies.
Colleagues and acquaintances of mine all over the country have told me about similar travel experiences. While not yet a major news story, I am certain that airlines are intentionally shutting off the Auxiliary Power Unit to save fuel.
While cutting the APU saves surprisingly little on a single flight (about $60 per hour), the savings do add up rapidly for planes making several trips per day. For a mid-sized U.S. airline with 100+ aircraft, turning off APUs can save $100,000 per aircraft per year. Annually, an airline can save millions across its fleet, not only in fuel but also in reduced APU maintenance costs.
I asked ChatGPT to make some calculations about APU savings versus potential harms — the exact same query that airline finance departments are no doubt typing into their AI interface. For our hypothetical airline, the decision to shut off the APU yields annually $18 million in savings versus $7.5 million in heat incident costs (flight delays, fines, lawsuits, reputational damage), for a net gain of $10.5 million.
With the math being what it is — across industries — the essential point is that you’re on your own. You need to anticipate the problems created by cost cutting, both large and small. These issues are such a part of daily life that even the gym experience requires taking matters into your own hands. For example, I now haul my own weights to the gym so I have what I need when I need it. The spa where I do my cold plunge won’t chill the water properly, so I’ve started bringing a cooler filled with ice that I dump in the tub prior to my plunge.
Similarly, on airplanes, you now must pack your own ventilation system. I noticed on a recent visit to an Orlando theme park that portable neck fans are the new popular wearable. I admire the folks who believe that these small devices make a difference in 90-degree weather with 90% humidity. When it comes to flying during the summer, passengers need to create this same fantasy on airplanes, too.