You Can't Break Us All

When one falls, another two step up.

That was the driving motto behind The Strong General Union, founded hours ago, and already flourishing even in the most horrible of conditions.

Terrence Graywater didn’t exactly find it surprising that so many had joined their cause so quickly, after all: who wanted to work in a glass factory for twelve hours a day, for minimum wage?

It happened all at once.

He’d been the first, along with five of his friends. They got signs, wrote on them, made their demands, and protested right outside the factory’s front door, just feet away from the road.

BETTER WAGES!

LONGER BREAKS!

SAFER WORKING CONDITIONS!

GEAR FOR ALL EMPLOYEES!

That was how it started. Terrence had been fed up. He wasn’t getting anywhere in this job, and there wasn’t really another one he could get in a town like this. Maybe, if he looked for a long time. Maybe.

But why did he have to suffer when the man who owned the factory was far richer than he could ever dream of being?

Why, instead, couldn’t things just be made a little bit easier on him--and everyone else, too, all of his fellow workers?

So, it started with six. Those other five were hard to convince, too.

“If we all do it, they’ll have to give in. The factory can’t not function. They need us in there,” Terrence told them. 

They’d been skeptical, at first.

“There’s over a hundred employees. If we strike, with just six of us, we’ll get fired,” Johnny Clarence said. He was a man in his late thirties with a deep, brown beard and heavily muscled arms. He towered over Terrence, but that didn’t mean anything to Graywater. 

“That’s crap. You’re a shift manager. I’m one of the people who leads the production crew,” Terrence said, pointing to himself.

Terrence turned, and gestured with his finger to Henry. 

“You’re one of the only people in the factory that has any clue of how to organize the start of the line. I’ve picked all of you wisely,” Terrence said.

He gestured towards the factory door. Workers were filling in for the start of their day. It was now or never.

“Are you really happy here?” he asked.

In the end, those words were what did it.

Signs and words and the will to try and change things. Terrence wasn’t stupid enough to think that everything would be better overnight, but just attempting it alone was enough for him. He wanted some real satisfaction in his life, something he could be proud of--something that he felt actually mattered, that he’d done.

Terrence knew the work that he did in the factory didn’t matter, not really. Someone could replace him, of course, given enough time. Someone could learn and replace the work that he did, and then he’d be out of a job.

They were taking a risk, all of them. They were all taking a risk with what they were doing.

But it was too much.

Terrence just couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t take the disrespect, and neither could anyone else. He couldn’t take the fumes in the factory, how horrible they were to breathe in. Terrence couldn’t take working and working and not feeling like he was getting anywhere.

What he was doing wasn’t working.

Something else, though, might have.

They got their signs, they got everything ready, they made their line, and marched out in front of the factory.

They hadn’t exactly been fast about it, so their boss was waiting out there, smoking a cigar. The way he stared at them like they were ants made Terrence feel a bit of fear. It made his knees weak.

He didn’t want to be homeless. He didn’t want to starve.

But he couldn’t buckle just like that, either.

“Oh, God. Jesus Christ!” the man exclaimed.

Frederick Gerry was his name. Most of the workers at the factory just called him Freddy, or, if the man didn’t like them, Mr. Gerry. He was big, and fat, and you could usually find him smoking a cigar with a white shirt and overalls on, with tight black pants squeezing his belly into place. He had to be in his forties, at least, Terrence figured--he’d never asked. The reason he figured that was due to the lines in Mr. Gerry’s forehead and the very little hair left in his scalp.

Terrence, meanwhile, was scarcely twenty, little more than a large boy in some ways, and he knew it, even if he wanted to pretend not to sometimes.

The man scared him. Mr. Gerry really did.

“Are you idiots about to try and strike in front of me? I’ll fire you. I’ll fire you all and have you all replaced this afternoon!” the man spat at them.

That didn’t mean that Terrence could back down, however.

“You can’t do that, sir. It won’t be that easy, I’m afraid,” Terrence said, stepping right up in front of him. The man was huge. He was easily a good six inches taller than Terrence, and towered over him.

“You little pipsqueak. You think you can talk like that to me? I’ll say it once, and one time only--get back to work!” Mr. Gerry yelled at him.

“No can do, sir. You see, our jobs here really aren’t that great. And we’d like something a little better. We can start with better wages, longer breaks, safer working conditions, and safety gear for all employees so people stop getting hurt so much,” Terrence said.

It took almost all the strength he had in his body not to give in. 

He didn’t, though.

Terrence had never seen Mr. Gerry get so mad so quickly.

His jaw set in a thick, straight line and his skin was a splotchy crimson, nearly purple in rage. He reached up with his hand, gripped his cigar, and then took it out of his mouth. He blew smoke right in Terrence’s face.

“I really will fire you, you know that?” Mr. Gerry said, in a dangerous whisper that was so quiet it was unnerving. “In a heartbeat. I won’t even hesitate. I’ll sleep good tonight, too.” 

“You can’t and won’t fire any of us,” was Terrence’s immediate response.

Terrence knew he had him. Mr. Gerry put on a good front. On a bad day, he could be terrifying. He knew how to scream, push people around, get his way.

This time, he wasn’t going to be getting his way.

Terrence, Johnny, Henry, Mitch, all of them--they were higher-ups in the chain. They were too important to the factory line. The place couldn’t function without them.

“What the hell did you just say to me?” Mr. Gerry said, spitting the words. He got right up in Terrence’s face. Terrence could smell the tobacco on his breath, and a faint scent of alcohol. 

“We’re not working until we get what we want. We’re on strike,” Terrence said.

“I can’t believe this. I’m going inside. If you aren’t all on the line in fifteen--no, ten--minutes, you’re all fired,” Mr. Gerry said.

He stomped his way into the factory building.

Mr. Gerry didn’t come back outside for over two hours. 

Terrence, and the other five people he’d recruited, sat around for those two hours, raised their signs up and down, and repeated the same phrase.

“Better wages! Longer breaks! Safer working conditions! Gear for all employees!”

“Better wages! Longer breaks! Safer working conditions! Gear for all employees!”

“Better wages! Longer breaks! Safer working conditions! Gear for all employees!”

Mr. Gerry came back outside a little past ten AM, and he looked far more frazzled than he did the day before.

“You little punks could cost me my job. Do you even care?” he whispered, furious. Terrence saw that his face was redder than he’d ever seen the man’s face get--almost violet or puce in sheer rage the man was feeling. He saw Mr. Gerry’s fists ball up and veins were throbbing in the man’s forehead.

“You’re not getting what you want,” Terrence told him.

Mr. Gerry stormed off, and that was how the first day ended.

The second day was very similar. Mr. Gerry hardly spoke to them at all.

Terrence knew the math in his head. The factory was probably producing less than a third of what it should have been. The inefficiency was probably already unbearable. 

That day, to make matters worse for Mr. Gerry, thirteen more employees walked out around lunch time--and joined Terrence and the rest in protesting.

Now there were nineteen of them. Terrence was overjoyed.

“No matter what, don’t give up. Mitch, Johnny, Henry--get them caught up to speed,” Terrence said.

It felt strange to order around men that were twice his age, but they didn’t even hesitate. They explained everything that was need-to-know for the line workers. Terrence saw James Hayweather, Tony Thompson, Bruce Rayton, and more. They all were all acquaintances of his. He’d barely spoken to them before.

They’d be getting to know each other better, now.

The second day passed faster than Terrence thought possible, and before he knew it, the dawn of the third day happened.

When Terrence got to the factory with about ten of the people from yesterday, he was surprised to see thirty other workers already standing outside, ready to protest.

Holy crap, he thought.

People were mad, he realized. People were really mad. 

The production of the factory ground to a halt.

Corporate was called. Men in suits talked to them.

People Terrence never recognized, but knew were far more important than Mr. Gerry, who just managed only this factory.

“Protestors are starting to come out in neighboring states. Word is spreading. We need you to stop. We’ll offer you bonuses, and a permanent wage increase,” the man in the suit said.

Terrence didn’t know his name. Terrence didn’t know anything about him.

Just by that, though, Terrence didn’t like the man.

He was like a snake with a tie on.

“No. We’re getting everything we want, or no dice,” Terrence said.

That was how the third day ended.

By day four, they had close to seventy protestors, almost all of them from the factory. A few concerned citizens--most of them mothers, from sons who were working in the plant--had decided to help and pitch in. It was becoming a movement.

They did not bow or break.

Most of the regular line-workers on the factory got fired by Mr. Gerry. They still kept showing up every day to protest. They didn’t leave. They wouldn’t leave.

They listened to Terrence.

By day five, the factory had completely ground to a halt. They’d lost every single important member who was part of the integral production process. None of the truck-drivers were coming in during the morning to deliver the raw materials.

The factory was shut down. It was not producing anything.

The remaining workers struck with the rest of them.

Day five, and the next two after that, were very similar. Mr. Gerry or some of the men in suits would come to them and ask them questions. They’d try to give them half-terms, or make them give in with petty little threats.

Terrence was going to get his way.

On day nine, the police attacked them. On day ten, and eleven, it happened again.

People didn’t quit. He didn’t let them. Everyone car-pooled and drove nearby to work. Neighbors checked on each other. People held hands and not a single person broke the ranks.

Terrence ate dinner with Bruce and went dancing with Tony’s sister. They held a potluck for employees at Henry’s house and organized. 

Everything went smooth as butter.

On day fifteen, it finally happened.

The factory had been ground to a halt for ten days.

Everyone was loyal. The newest worker fought just as hard as the oldest veterans who’d been working at the factory for over two decades.

The company tried everything. They tried to get specific members with sweet deals. More than once, they tried, again and again, to lure Terrence with higher pay, promotions, sweeter gigs, and even transfers to other factors where he himself could be a manager.

He didn’t believe any of it. They just wanted it to stop.

They called the police on them. The police tear-gassed them, hit them with hoses, fired rubber bullets at them. Many were hurt. One person even almost got killed, and sent to the hospital.

Terrence knew that, by now, it was never going to stop until their demands were met.

Mr. Gerry walked up to them around 11:30 AM on the ninth day of the strike. He looked angry--but at the same time he was resigned, defeated, and unsure of himself. His normal raging glare was replaced by something less furious and more sad. His eyebrows were mopey, and his mouth was twisted up into a disgusting grimace, like he’d been forced to swallow something sour.

“This factory employs over a hundred people. It’s one of the biggest in the state. We output thousands of tons of goods everyday. The company can’t stand to have us not functioning any longer,” Mr. Gerry said.

Terrence gestured with his hand. Mr. Gerry let out a growl, but continued.

“The company is giving into your request. Congratulations, you little idiot. You won,” Mr. Gerry said.

Terrence smiled.

“A raise of three dollars an hour for everyone, for starters. One-hour lunch breaks, and thirty minutes every day besides that. Mandatory, high-quality safety gear--purchased by the company. And we really need to clean up the floor: it’s unsanitary and incredibly unsafe to work in,” Terrence said.

Terrence knew it wouldn’t end here, of course. They’d try, one day--probably soon--to undo everything he’d done. They’d try to change it back. They’d try to make things just as horrible as they had been, all for the sake of their worthless profit.

He knew he would be there to make sure that didn’t happen. 

The entire crowd behind him cheered. 

Black, white, brown. Old, young. Men, women. Straight or not.

There were over a hundred and fifty of them, now, standing outside the factory.

Corporate couldn’t stop it. The CEO couldn’t stop it. The police couldn’t stop it.

 Mr. Gerry couldn’t stop it.

Mr. Gerry stood there, and kicked at the dirt for a second, staring up in the sky. He gave a big, over-dramatic sigh, something that made Terrence roll his eyes in disbelief.

When Mr. Gerry bowed his head, and muttered something under his breath with a glare on his face, that was how Terrence knew he had really won.