I know haven't really being doing the short short stories as I should, so tonight I'm getting back there a little with this brand new doozy.  Enjoy!


The least successful strike.

  “We’re supposed to only have a handful of pickets out there legally ...Tomorrow, we’re playing things by our rules!” said Mike, a burly man who looked about as close to a stereotypical militant as you could get.  The strike at the NHS direct contact centre was in direct response to just one event  ...The reduction of the overtime rate to just time, with the quarter going for evenings and Saturdays and the half going for Sunday and bank holidays.  This meant many people were going to be out of pocket.  The union had attempted to talk with their employers but they were not for talking, leaving staff but one option ...Strike, and the next day they were determined to make it the most successful strike they’d ever had.

  “Tomorrow I want you to talk to every person that who attempts to get into the building and dissuade them from going in,” Mike continued to the assembled picketers.  They had all gathered in one of the function rooms at the Pig and Cement mixer public house (every-one wondered how the pub got its name but nobody dare ask the landlord, ex-SAS soldier, one-eyed Jim!  ...Or where he got his nickname from considering he had two eyes!)  “There are meant to be three hundred people in that building, the last strike we had there twenty people went in, time before that fifteen ...Let’s make it zero tomorrow!”

  They all cheered, raised their glasses and celebrated their own success, before it had even happened.

The Strike

  The snow started at two a.m that morning like there was a giant dumper truck slowly ebbing out its enormous load over the north-east of England.  The picketers drove in with caution and fear, worrying that some arsehole coming the other way or even behind them could wind-up killing or maiming them.  Somehow everyone made it to the car park below the building and trudged through the first couple of inches to take station outside the building to deter the few scabs that were likely to ignore the proposed strike action.  After ten minutes they got their first customer of the day.

  “BROTHER!” said Mike.  “YOU DON’T WANT TO DO THIS TODAY!” 

  “You can’t stop me, I’m going into work!” said the man wearing a ridiculously thin coat and a flat-cap which offered little protection against the furious snowstorm.

  “PLEASE!” Mike pressed further.  “STAND WITH US BROTHER!”

  “Fuck off!” said the man angrily attempting to barge past him.  He was just about to head inside the building when a mousy woman with a brown scarf so far up her head she resembled a mole peering out from the ground piped up.

  “Think about it, work’s the last place you want to get stuck at today!”

  The man stopped in his tracks on the steps and looked at the full clouds overhead that showed no signs of being empty any time soon.

  “Yeah.  Yeah you’re right there,” said the man.  “See you tomorrow.”

  And off he went.  Mike’s smile seemed like it stretch his face out to Cheshire cat proportions as he hugged Joyce.

  “Well done, Joyce,” he beamed enthusiastically.  “Well done!”

  “Erm, inappropriate behaviour pamphlet?” said Joyce coyly.

  “Oh, er ...Yes, of course,” said Mike, embarrassed.  “Well done, sister!”

  As the snow fell the battle for hearts and minds became easier to win with only seven people being able to get through the super thick deluge that clouded the view from only thirty metres.  The stolid picketers held their ground with their placards and thick boots, and today, extremely winning argument.  The wind and snow that slashed at their faces trying to break the blood vessels beneath the skin did little to shake the strikers resolve.  By the time ten a.m had come and gone and the snow had grown to past seven inches they were confident that the strike had triumphed, with zero people in the office the twenty five picketers had achieved their greatest ever success.

  “I’D JUST LIKE TO SAY THAT THE SUCCESS WE HAVE ACHIEVED WITH A ZERO NUMBER TURN-OUT IN THE OFFICE IS A SUCCESS THAT IS DUE TO YOUR HARD-WORK AND DILIGENCE ...WELL DONE!” said Mike through a mega-phone to the twenty-five picketers who had dared to make the trip out.  “NOW LET’S GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!”

  The strikers pulled their feet out of the drifts, helping each other through the snow as if they were navigating a muddy field, such had become its thickness, turning the five minute walk down to the car park into a ten minute battle, not without a few slips and chuckles on the way.  By the time they made it into their cars they were all grateful for the warmth and the feeling of Safety.  Mike had arrived first and had stationed himself nearest the exit, militant he might have been, staying longer then was absolutely necessary he was not.  He turned his Saab up the ramp and made it only a few metres before the wheels began to get stuck against the couple of feet of the cold stuff that had stationed itself on the garage ramp.

  “Come on, come one!” said Mike to the car, like that would help.  For a moment the car lurched forward another metre as if responding to Mike’s coaxing before sliding back down into the garage.  Mike got out and looked at the drift wondering whether he should let some other vehicle go first or they should immediately try and dig their way out.

  “Do you want me to go first?” said Graham, a man in his early forties in a Nissan Qashqai.

  “Aye, better had,” said Mike.  Figuring the Qashqai should be able to crush that snow and  carve a path through the snow for everyone else to emerge through.  The Qashqai made it further than Mike, getting a good four and a half metres up the ramp before the effect on the compacted snow finally made an impact and cause it to skid back into the garage.

  As the Qashqai finally came to a stop the assorted picketers realised the enormity of the situation.  

  “What are we gonna do, Mike?” one of his colleagues asked.  

  “I don’t know,” he said.  They could not just drive away from their work and as the drifts showed no signs of abating it made their options extremely limited.

  “We need to get warm,” said Joyce.  “I say we get a cup of tea inside.”

  “NO!” said Mike, firmly.  “We are not going to go inside!”

  “We need to get warm, Mike,” Joyce replied.  Mike was about to respond when he looked around at his colleagues all of which where shivering and stomping their feet.  Mike wanted to argue the case but Joyce was right.  They were freezing down here and the Buckstars brew machine that they had installed would shake that chill off in no time.

  “Upstairs it is then.  We’ll get a brew, wait out the snowstorm then go,” Mike responded, his voice containing just the right amount of authority.

  They headed upstairs and gathered round the Buckstars coffee machine and started to fill up on the premium coffee at quality prices.  Although they started off small and grew large it didn’t take long for Buckstars to realise they could make even more money putting a machine in offices all around the country.  They slurped down the mocha’s, hot chocolate’s, cappuccino’s, freyalcimo’s, compelissimo’s and tea’s with hungry relish, the throats savouring the heat, the fingers warming on the cups.  As they leant against their desks the twenty-five picketers could see the message boards flash up the waiting numbers ...210, 211, 213, 225 ...All the time increasing, but they didn’t have to worry about that they were on strike.  So what if the phones were making that electronic bird sound, it wasn’t a concern to them, employers should have listened.

  “Lot of people with problems today,” said Tim, a former bond trader who wound-up taking a forty per cent pay cut in this job when the world turned bad.

  “It’s not our issue today,” replied Mike.  “We have to stand together we have to help each other.”

  “Mmmm,” Tim replied, his eyes never straying from the numbers board.

  “Snow’s probably not helping either,” said Stan, a former scaffolder with a voice that sounded like he should be narrating Big Brother.  Working at the NHS direct helpline was one of those jobs that gave you that rarest of pleasures, the pleasure of saving a life.  If you worked on this helpline then you KNEW how that felt, there were no exceptions, everyone there had experienced that joy.  Today they knew that the numbers would probably be even higher than usual.  

  “Brothers and sisters, I know what you’re thinking but remember why we are on strike today,” Mike pleaded.  “We’re doing this to help each other.”

  “Helping each other is what we do,” Stan replied ...Before putting his headset on and switching his phone to on.  “NHS direct, Stan speaking how can I help?”

  “STAN, NO!” said Mike, attempting to run over to him, but due to his size and girth it was more comical than threatening.  He had barely got near Stan when he heard ...

  “NHS Direct, Joyce speaking, how can I help?”

  “NO, JOYCE, PLEASE!” said Mike, but the next voice piped up even before Mike had finished speaking.

  “NHS Direct, Tim speaking, how can I help?”

  By now they were all flicking on headsets and speaking to the needy who did not know or understand what was happening to them?  Mike could hear the calls as the numbers waiting tipped beneath the two hundred mark.

  “How long have you been struggling to breathe?”

  “What colour is the rash?”

  “How long have you had the bruise for?”

  “What colour is the phlegm?”

  “Can you bend it?”

  “Is there a burning sensation?” 

  Mike could hear the words and phrases he had become so familiar with and he knew how every one of them needed their help, needed potentially life-saving help and even at the least just needed re-assurance.  He scrunched up his face, bit his lip ...And sat down and placed his headset on.

  “NHS Direct, you’re speaking to Mike, how can I help?”

  The next day Mike was stood at the brew machine waiting for his Buckstars Prelimucco to fill to completion (the weather had lessened off over night!) when his thoughts were interrupted by Jonathan, a skinny beanpole of a man who was as friendly as he was lazy, the kind of colleague that everyone get’s on with yet resents at the same time.

  “Hey, Mikey!” said Jonathan with that annoying smile of his.  “How went the strike?”

  “Fine,” said Mike, not acknowledging the deliberately awkward wording of his question?

  “How many people came in then?” Jonathan pressed. 

  “I’m not sure,” Mike lied.  “About ...twenty ...ish, or something.”

  “Twenty?  Wow!  That’s quite a lot!” continued Jonathan.

  “I SAID ISH!” shouted Mike.  “...OR SOMETHING!  LEAVE ME ALONE!”

  Mike wandered off with his Prelimucco, leaving a bad taste in his mouth and quizzical expression on Jonathan’s face.

Fin.

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