“Hon,” Arnold complained, “this doesn’t taste like my usual morning coffee…”
Joan approached the kitchen table, where her husband was waiting for his breakfast. “I’m sorry, dear,” she sweetly apologized, “but the coffee bean exporters’ shipping clerks are on strike for higher wages. The coffee isn’t really that bad, now, is it?”
“No, it isn’t,” Arnold admitted, taking another sip. “In fact, I kind of prefer it.”
“Good,” Joan said, putting her arms around him and kissing the top of his head. As she returned to the frying bacon, she asked him: “Arn, aren’t you reading the morning paper?”
“I wish I could,” Arnold replied, “but, the typographer’s union is out on strike. I think they’re protesting against greater mechanization in their jobs, but they’ve shut down production on the city’s dailies, so I can’t read about what’s going on…”
“Oh,” Joan said, filling a plate with food. “Well, did anything interesting come in the mail?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid,” Arnold answered, taking the plate from her.
“Oh, I’m sure there must have been something,” Joan insisted, sitting down to a bowl of cold cereal.
“There was nothing,” Arnold told her through mouthfuls of pork. “The mail carriers are on strike. They want a better benefits package. I understand that the union and management are close to a settlement…”
“Well, that’s something, anyway.”
“But,” Arnold continued, “I also hear that the inside postal workers are voting on a possible strike action today. It seems that Canada Post isn’t willing to give them shorter hours. So, in any case, it may be a long time before we see any mail…”
“Oh!” Joan exclaimed in dismay.
“Now, now,” Arnold consoled her. “It’s only a few letters – probably just a bunch of bills and junk mail. Nothing to get upset over.”
“It’s not that,” Joan gravely replied, “It’s this coffee!”
“Oh.”
As Arnold was about to leave the house, after he and Joan embraced for what some might consider to be an indecent length of time, he remembered that he didn’t have any change. “Joan,” he asked, “do you have any TTC tokens? I seem to have run out…”
“Weren’t you supposed to get your back today?” Joan responded, fishing around in her purse for anything resembling loose change.
“I was,” Arnold told her, “but Chuck phoned last night to say that it wouldn’t be ready. The part hasn’t arrived from Detroit because the American manufacturers are being struck for wage parity with New Zealand auto parts manufacturers, or some such thing.”
Joan handed him a token. “Will you walk the children to school for me?” Arnold asked after having taken one final opportunity to exchange affection with his wife.
“No need to,” Joan told him.
Arnold suspected he knew why, but asked anyway. “Janitorial staff are out,” Joan explained. “They want equal pay for work of equal value. Do you realize that female janitors are only paid 70 per cent of what male janitors are paid? In any case, the Board of Education had to close down all the schools yesterday because they were becoming a health hazard…”
Arnold sighed and walked up the street to the bus stop.
Forty minutes later, having seen no sign of a passing public transit vehicle and fearing being late for work, Arnold flagged down a taxi. He opened the back door and shouted into it: “You…you’re not on strike, are you?”
“Are you kidding?” the cabbie asked in return. “I make more money when the TTC walks than any other time. Hop in.”
When Arnold had made himself comfortable and the journey downtown had begun, he asked, “What’s the deal with the TTC?”
“Strike,” the cabbie responded. “Electricians. They want longer coffee breaks, or something. I ain’t exactly sure. But, the drivers, bless ’em, aren’t going to cross the picket lines. Wild, eh?”
“I guess so,” Arnold irritably answered.
“You know,” the cabbie continued, catching his breath to begin a lengthy discourse, “time was when strikes were considered a last resort by the unions. They would only be called if negotiations had broken down and all other options had failed. But, now, they’re used as a bargaining tool, and the unions back themselves into a corner where they have to go out or lose their bargaining power. Don’t get me wrong: I’m all for unions. They’re the only way workers can get a fair shake – you can’t expect management to just hand them better benefits. Still, all these strikes can’t be good…”
“Look,” Arnold testily interrupted, “if you know so much about it, why don’t you run for Parliament?”
“I did,” the cabbie told him. They traveled in silence for a long time.
Eventually, the cab approached a long line of cars, and movement ground to a halt. “That’s funny,” the cabbie said to himself, “Things aren’t usually this bad at this time of day…”
Arnold noticed that little forward progress was being made. “What’s going on out there?” he asked the cabbie.
“You got me…”
Arnold rolled down the window, and, ignoring all the honking and shouting from up ahead, got the attention of a policeman walking down the street. “Hey!” he yelled. “What’s going on up there?”
“It’s the unions,” the officer shouted back. “Civil servants, secreterial and truckers. They’re on strike and they’ve put up pickets on all major routes downtown. They’re only letting people who work on essential services through. What do you do?”
“I’m in advertising…”
“Don’t waste your time,” the officer advised, moving on.
“Well, what’s it gonna be?” the cabbie asked.
Arnold went back home and he and Joan fucked like rabbits for the rest of the day. Who says strikes don’t have a positive side?