We're On Strike! You Can't Fire Us!

WE’RE ON STRIKE! YOU CAN'T FIRE US!

“AND CUT!” yelled the director, John Houston (“No, not that John Houston” he’d been saying for years). “Thank you, people, another one in the can. We’ll see you all back here tomorrow—”

“Nope! You won’t.”

Houston whipped his head toward where the voice came from.

“Who said that?” he demanded.

“Me!”

A young woman wearing the futuristic bodysuit from TriStar Deliverance, the movie they were currently filming, stepped forward, waving her arm so that Houston could see her.

“Me, Jane West. I play Second Lieutenant Mimi Carver.”

“What is the meaning of this disruption Ms. Carver.

“It’s West, Mr. Houston, Jane West. Mimi Carver is my character in the movie.

“Whatever is it that you want Ms. uh West? What do you mean I will not see everyone tomorrow? I don’t see how you can dictate what happens on my film set.”

“Well, right now I can. I’m the shop steward for SAG-AFTRA, the Screen Actors’ Guild—”

“I know what SAG-AFTRA stands for. But what I don’t know is why you are disrupting my set.”

“Well, as I was saying” she raised an eyebrow a Houston, “before I was interrupted, is that SAG-AFTRA is now on strike. No actors or extras will be showing up for work tomorrow. Instead we’ll probably be picketing the set.”

“Preposterous!” bellowed Houston. “You are all contracted to me to complete this film. Except you, Ms. West. You are fired.” He turned away from Jane, and addressed the larger group. “I expect each and every one of you to be on set by nine a.m. tomorrow, without exception. Your jobs depend on it.”

Jane took another step forward. “No, Mr. Houston, we are all on strike, and will not be returning to work until after the strike is settled.”

“Preposterous!” Houston turned to look behind him. “Sheffield, what is this nonsense?”

Brin Sheffield was John Houston’s long-suffering assistant. She was the brunt of all the pomposity and ego that was John Houston.

Handing her phone to the director, she said, “It’s true, Mr. Houston. Actors and extras are on strike, as of this afternoon.”

He grabbed her phone and started to read the notice.

“Preposterous!” he thundered, and threw the phone across the room, where it smashed against a camera on a tripod, sending shards of glass outward.

Not another phone! thought Brin inwardly. Outwardly, she calmly walked over and picked up the remains of her assassinated phone. Brin had a cupboard of new phones stashed in her office. They were work phones, bought and paid for by John Houston, under office supplies in the budget. She never let him anywhere near her personal device.

Brin spoke up. “It’s true, Mr. Houston.” She pulled out the extra phone she always had on her person. “Actors and extras are now on strike, for higher wages, job security, and more parity between television and movies. It affects all the major studios and streaming companies.”

“Preposterous!”

In the back, just loud enough to be heard, one of the extras spoke up.

“To paraphrase Indigo Montoya from The Princess Bride, I don’t think it means what he thinks it means.”

There were snickers in back.

Houston whipped his head towards the snickering group, waving his hand to encompass the entire group of actors.

“You! All of you! You are fired! You will never work on another one of my projects! Be gone with you all!”

The group stood there, not moving. Just looking from Houston to Jane, their shop steward.

“Out! Out! Get out! All of you! Get out! All of you! You are fired! Without exception!” bellowed Houston.

Jane West took another step forward.

“Uh, Mr. Houston. We’re on strike. You can’t fire us.”

“Preposterous! It is my set, and I determine who works and who does not..”

Jane straightened up, raising her chin.

“No sir, you do not. Not right now. We are on strike. And, like I keep saying, you can't fire us.”

“Benjamin!” shouted Houston. “Benjamin!”

There was no answer. Houston turned to Brin.

“Sheffield, where is he? And Ms. Costa? Where are they? I need them on set, right now!”

Brin glanced at her phone. “They are in their trailers, waiting for dailies.”

“Get them!”

As Brin scampered off to the trailers of the two main stars, Houston looked at the crowd around him.

“Security! Security! Remove these people! Now!”

“No worries, Mr. Houston, we were leaving anyways,” said Jane. “And just to let you know, we will be picketing this set starting this evening. And I’m not sure that the other unions will be willing to cross our picket lines.”

“Preposterous! These people,” he waved vaguely behind his chair, “will show up to work if they know what is good for them.” He turned and addressed the director of photography, Leah Parsons. “Isn’t that right, Leah?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know, John. I’m going to have to check with the union, and see what their policy is for crossing picket lines. But I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“Treason!” he thundered.

And, just like that, the two stars of TriStar Deliverance arrived on set, walking towards Houston.

“Hey, John, you wanted to see us? It’s gotta be fast, ‘cuz we’re on strike, and well, you know, no fraternizing with the enemy!” Luke Benjamin chuckled at his own joke.

“Enemy? Enemy! ENEMY!!!” Houston was enraged. “How dare you call me the enemy! I cast you when the only parts you could get were on late night infomercials. Without me, you would be a nobody. A nobody! An now you call me your enemy! You are fired! You will never work on another one of my projects!"

Jane chirped up.  “You can’t fire him, Mr. Houston. He’s on strike.”

“SHUT UP ABOUT BEING ON STRIKE!”

Jane just shrugged.

“Settle down, John,” said Luke. “I’m talking about opposing sides in an ongoing labour dispute.” He smiled the smile that made him a star. “You’ve always been good to me. It’s only business. We’re good, right?”

Houston was not mollified.

“It is not just business! This is a personal betrayal!” He looked at both Luke and Liv. “You two are each making tens of millions of dollars from this project! And you want a pay raise? Preposterous!”

“Whoa there, John,” said Luke holding out his arm and patting down the air in front of his hands in a gesture meant to settle Houston down — much the same way you would try to calm a wild horse. “You’re not actually exactly working for free, here. In fact, I know you’re making more money on this than both Liv and I. So, consider their position here, John." He nodded to the cast.  "The union just wants to share the wealth.”

Houston’s face turned red in rage.

Liv spoke up before Houston either exploded or had a stroke. “John, the pay issue doesn’t pertain to the higher paid stars and co-stars on the film. It’s for the non-speaking actors, and the background actors who don’t make a living wage. You’ve got to admit, John, the disparities in compensation are vast.”

“I do not have to admit anything. You’re fired!” He waved his hand again. “You are all fired!”

“On strike,” yelled Jane.

“Get off of my set, now!”

Jane looked at everyone. “You heard the man. Out we go. You can pick up your picket signs outside the gate.”

With that, all the actors left the set. The others on the set started to move towards the exit.

“Just a damn minute! You people,” he pointed towards the gaffers, grips, sound engineers, lighting techs, makeup artists, craft services, and cleaning staff, “are NOT on strike. Get back to work!”

Brin leaned in and said quietly. “You already told them they were done for the day.”

“I don’t care!” he bellowed. “If one of you leaves the set, you will not be welcomed back. Ever!”

Almost as a group, they shrugged and headed for the exit.

“You’re all fired! Every single damned one of you! Finished! Washed up! You will never work in this town again! Never, I say, NEVER!”

After the set had cleared out, Houston sat there, looking at the completely empty set. He had never seen it without people bustling around, making sure that everything was ready for the next shot.  

He turned and realized that Brin was still standing behind his chair, looking at him.

“What are you doing here? Why didn’t you bail with the rest of the traitors?”

Brin was a bit surprised. “Well, for one thing, I’m not a member of any union. And, secondly, you’re my employer — my day finishes when you say it finishes. So here I stand.”

Houston looked at her, anger still diffusing his face. “How could you let this happen? Why didn’t you tell me, Sheffield?”

Brin looked at him, shocked, eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar. “Not tell you? Not tell you? Are. You. Kidding. Me?” 

She leaned over and grabbed his agenda from the table beside his chair, and flipped back to June 7, 2023.  

“There!” She pointed at the entry. “That was when I first put in the notation that the actors were starting negotiations.” She riffled the pages. “And I included updates every day since.”

Dropping the agenda on the table, she grabbed his phone, and opened up his email app. “And, I sent you over fifty emails about the impending strike.” She turned the phone towards him, showing him the email from yesterday. “See here — what do you want to do about the impending strike? Strike vote imminent! Not looking good! Ninety-eight percent of members voting in favour of a strike.”

She took the phone back, and opened the text app, and showed him the thread between the two of them.

“This has been going on for over a month! You either don’t reply to me, or sent me the stop emoji.” She took a breath. “Plus, at every morning meeting, I asked you what your contingency plan was for the actors’ strike. And every morning, what did you say to me?”

Brin waited, looking at Houston who was not looking at her, his gaze was fixed on the far wall of the studio, mouth set in a grim line.

“You said, and I quote, ‘Not going to happen, Sheffield. They wouldn’t dare.’” Brin crossed her arms. “Plus all the coverage in the media, and all of the updates that the studio has sent you. How can you not know about the strike? People in the most remote parts of the world know about this strike. You chose not know about this!”

Houston still refused to look at her.

“The updates from the studio that I put on your desk every morning? They're trashed by noon. Did you ever read them? Or did you just toss them because it wasn’t about you?”

“You should have told me how imminent this strike was.”

“I DID!” yelled Brin, exploding in frustration. “And you didn’t pay attention to a word I said. You were always too busy with TriStar Deliverance, too busy with your social life, too busy being seen. Too busy to give a shit about the ‘little people’ — your words, not mine. You believed that there was no way the actors would go on strike. That the studios were too powerful. Well, surprise. They did strike. And they took all the stars with them. There are no premiers, no junkets, no Hollywood right now. We’re closed for business."

“Preposterous!” He was apoplectic, shaking with rage.

Brin rolled her eyes. “Will you please stop saying that? It is not preposterous. It’s reality.”

Houston just sat taller in his director’s chair, pounding the arms.

“I demand to speak to the head of SAG-AFTRA. They can’t do this to me!”

Brin sighed loudly. “Mr. Houston, they didn’t do it to you, they did it for themselves. Don’t take it personally.”

Houston harrumphed. “Don’t take it personally? They walked out on me! They put my work in jeopardy. I can’t stand by and let this happen!”

Houston’s phone rang. He just looked at it. Brin took the phone, and answered.

“Mr. Houston’s phone.”

“Brin? This is Bob Gentry from the studio. Is the old man there?”

“Just a moment.” She handed the phone to Houston.

“John? It’s Bob. Just listen. You’re closed down. I don’t know when you’ll start up again. No way to tell. But right now, there is no more TriStar Deliverance. You gotta leave the set. Now. Don’t call us, we’ll call you. And John?”

“Yes,” said Houston.

“Stop trying to fire people on strike.”