SOLIDARITY

Copyright 2024 Brent Alles / Just B Cuz Productions

It happened on a Tuesday, of course. Sure, Mondays always got the main focus of worker hatred, but one should not forget that Tuesdays were often pretty shit as well. That was the main thought in the somewhat small brain of one Reginald Thatcherstone, known as “Reggie” to his friends. Though at this point in his life, he only had two friends, and one had died, so he supposed using “friends” in the plural was somewhat erroneous.

Mr. Thatcherstone it was, then, to his faithful employees. One of the more upstart employees had indeed once pleasantly and unknowingly addressed him as “Reggie,” and Thatcherstone took great pleasure in hurling the dupe through the main door to the factory and out into the street. What Thatcherstone lacked in intellect, he certainly made up for in brute strength, and so he was quite qualified for leadership in this new gilded age.

Thatcherstone’s office stood above the main floor of the Solidarity Cement Factory. The factory was founded in 1952 by his father Harold. (Harold would have been known as “Harry” to his friends, if he had any, though he did not, so Harold it was.) Solidarity was constructed during the post-war industrial boom as part of an effort to rebuild and modernize the country’s infrastructure. Over the decades, it grew into a cornerstone of the local economy of Hardwick, Pennsylvania, despite the shifts and challenges of changing times. One of those admittedly minor challenges was now the object of Reginald’s narrowing vision: an empty beer bottle lying on the otherwise pristine floor of his family’s business.

Thatcherstone went to the microphone connected to the factory’s public address system and tapped the “on” button. He then spoke into the microphone with his usual soft and soothing manner of a charging rhinoceros. “COULD I PLEASE HAVE ALL EMPLOYEES GATHER ON THE FLOOR FOR AN EMERGENCY COMPANY MEETING? THANK YOU.”

Once all the employees had gathered on the company floor as instructed, Thatcherstone paced in front of them and waited for the murmuring of objections to being interrupted from the necessary business of creating quick dry concrete mix to subside. “My friends,” Thatcherstone boomed (a lie – none of these people were his friends), “We unfortunately face a very grave matter today, I’m afraid.”

Some more murmuring from the gathered workers. “Layoffs?” “Mandatory overtime?” “Someone fell in the quick dry mixer again?” (The latter had only happened five times during the length of the factory’s operation. Considering the average occurrence of incident versus the years of operation, this was labeled as “Not Bad” by the local Hardwick quality control auditing department. Apocryphal tales of the mix in question being better in quality after said incidents were of course dismissed as heresy.)

Thatcherstone pointed to the corner of the factory where the object of his disdain lay. “Look there,” Thatcherstone boomed. “An empty beer bottle! It is DISGRACING the sanctity of our beautiful factory.”

The employees all turned their heads in unison towards the bottle and then swiftly turned their attention back to Thatcherstone. A tense moment was in the air as all carefully considered just what to say.

Carl Jensen, the maintenance supervisor at Solidarity, finally spoke. “Well, why doesn’t somebody just pick it up?” Carl was known as a pragmatic, no-nonsense worker who believed in straightforward solutions and often acted as the voice of reason among his colleagues.

“You’re suspended without pay for two days!” screamed Thatcherstone. Carl dejectedly hung his head and quickly exited the factory floor so as not to earn any more days of suspension.

“Anybody else have any bright ideas?” Thatcherstone hissed as he glared at the rest of the employees. All were silent.

“Right. The best thing to do, of course, is to form a committee.” Thatcherstone pointed at three unlucky employees. “You, you, and you. Follow me to my office. The rest of you, wait here until we have decided what to do.”

The three chosen employees followed Thatcherstone back to his office. The rest of the employees left on the floor uneasily shifted their weight back and forth, scratched their heads, and wondered if it indeed might be time to look for other employment. Perhaps somewhere safer and more enjoyable like climbing and repairing oil rigs.

Thatcherstone hoisted his girth into his ornate office chair in his office. “Go ahead, sit on the floor,” he said to his brave committee. They did so.

“Well, then,” Thatcherstone said. “You are the best of the best that I have selected to solve this problem. Let’s hear your ideas.”

Everyone looked at each other somewhat uneasily, knowing what had happened to Carl. Bob, the seasoned foreman, with a face as craggy as the rocks he oversaw, finally spoke. “Well, uh… maybe we could just keep it there. But cover it up… maybe?”

“Mmm hmm, mmm hmm,” replied Thatcherstone, thinking of what he was going to have for dinner that evening.

“Bob,” said Larry, the young, idealistic engineer with a penchant for revolution, “why do you keep that bottle? It’s empty, just like the promises of our so-called leaders.”

“WHAT?” bellowed Thatcherstone, his thoughts of pot roast and gravy interrupted by the impudence of the engineer.

“Oh, not you, sir! Other leaders,” Larry quickly replied.

“Oh. Right then. You’re right. Other leaders are quite awful,” Thatcherstone replied.

Bob, grinning like a Cheshire cat, replied, “Ah, Larry, but the bottle is a relic. It reminds me that even the emptiest promises can hold some value.”

Larry scoffed, “Value? It’s just a symbol of our broken system!”

Thatcherstone’s thoughts were drawn away from the possible consistency of tonight’s mashed potatoes and once again hollered, “WHAT?”

Larry demurred. “Oh, not OUR system, sir. But other systems.”

“Oh, yes. Other systems are quite foul. They’re no match for Solidarity!” Thatcher suggested.

“No, no,” Bob chuckled. “The bottle is a reminder that we should always be cautious about what fills us up. You see, when it was full, this bottle promised a refreshing change. And boy, did it deliver! But now, it’s empty. It’s our job to fill it with something better.”

Susan, the accounting manager, spoke, “Perhaps we could get the bottle in here to examine it further?”

“That’s an excellent idea, Susan. Go and get it.”

Susan went back down to the floor to grab the bottle. While they waited, Bob attempted some small talk but was quickly stared back down into silence by Thatcherstone. Susan returned with the bottle in her hand.

“You see, gentlemen,” Susan said, “this bottle is like our factory. It was full of potential, but now it’s up to us to refill it with productivity, efficiency, and dedication.”

Larry couldn’t help but interject, “Or perhaps with genuine care for the workers, fair wages, and transparency?”

Thatcherstone interjected, “What’s that last word mean?”

Larry replied, “That you’re open and honest with the employees.”

“Oh,” Thatcherstone said. After a moment, he continued, “Well, we won’t be doing any of that.”

Susan continued, “We are the ones who must fill the void, much like our committee must fill the void of leadership with sound policies and strong decisions.”

“Void of leadership?” Thatcherstone said, suspiciously ready to defenestrate Susan if necessary.

Susan, “Ummm… I mean, the void of leadership from not having a committee to assist you, sir!”

“Oh,” Thatcherstone grumbled. “Quite right.”

Bob leaned back, a twinkle in his eye. “And let’s not forget,” he said, “that sometimes, the loudest clinking noise comes from the emptiest bottles.”

As the room fell silent, the irony hung in the air thicker than the cement dust.

Larry turned to Bob, a smile creeping across his face. “Maybe you’re right, Bob. Maybe it’s up to us to decide what fills us up.”

Bob nodded, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Remember, just like cement, it’s not just about the mix, but what you build with it.”

After a moment, hoping that it would indeed be green beans tonight with the pot roast and not asparagus, Thatcherstone finally registered what Bob said and grinned in return. “Quite right! I knew there was a reason I made you foreman, Bob!”

Bob replied, “Well, actually, the last one fell in the ready mix and I was the next in line, so…”

Thatcherstone waved a hand and cut him off. “All right then. Susan, return the bottle to the factory floor. We’ll meet tomorrow to decide what to fill it up with. Does everybody agree with that?”

The three members of the ad hoc committee stared at each other for a moment and then slowly nodded their heads in unison.

Thatcherstone continued, “Excellent! I’ll see you all tomorrow for our next meeting. With solidarity, I’m sure we’ll be able to solve this problem quickly!”

The three members filed out. Susan placed the beer bottle back where it was. It no longer vexed Thatcherstone when he looked at it. Wednesday. Of course they’ll come up with a better solution… on Wednesday.