We hate syrup

I guess it all started in August, at the August meeting, when we were just going through the labor agreement and we realized that it didn't matter. It really didn't matter to any of us, which was wrong, we knew it. We went through every point of that labor agreement and the President opened the floor to questions and there was just utter silence. No one cared. This, even though we had gotten absolutely everything we asked for. They had always been generous, but this time they gave us everything we asked for. It's like they knew.

--

"So, we understand you're having some problems agreeing to our contract?"
"You could say that."
"What does that mean?"
"What does what mean?"
"'You could say that,' that's very vague."
"I don't know."
"The point is, we believe it is a very good contract and it's not going to get any better."
"We don't want a better contract, exactly."
"Would you like a worse contract? Because we could work that out too."
"I don't think we want any contract."
"We have to have a contract, don't we?"
"I think so, yes."
"We're businesspeople and businesspeople have contract. We've always had contracts and I don't see any persuasive reason to change that now."
"I can't disagree with that."
"Great, then sign the contract."
"I'd love to but I can't."

--

My life is syrup, if you can understand that. Every morning you show up at 9--no earlier--and go home at 5--no later--and everything in between is just syrup. Everywhere you look, everything you touch. Most of us guys work right on the assembly lines, right in there with the stuff. So, eight hours of syrup a day? 40 hours of syrup a week? It's awful. And we don't even begrudge the supervisors, because at least half the time they're down there on the floor with us, checking out the product, asking us how we're doing. And then they go lock themselves in their office, but you can't get away from it, because all the air, through the entire factory, the air is thick with it. Walking around, it feels like you're passing through a membrane, only there's never anything on the other side.

--

"Productivity is down."
"Down?"
"Way down."
"Well what's the problem. Winter malaise? We'll throw an indoor parade."
"I don't think an indoor parade is going to do it. This goes on your textbook malaise."
"Well throw out the textbook then and get to the bottom of this malaise. I've always felt it important to get to throw out textbooks."
"You've got a piece of paper sticking to your cheek."
"I know, I tried to peel it off before but it hurts."
"You've just got to pull it off like a Band-Aid."
"I never pull off Band-Aids, I let them slip off in the shower or something."
"How long has that piece of paper been there?"
"Three-four days."

--

I try to take pride in my work, but I can only do that if there's some kind of separation. But I get in the car and I drive home and I get there and I can feel it on the doorknob. And I walk in and I say hello to my wife and try to give my kids a hug and they run off. Because I'm still sticky. I'm still sticky.

--

"The survey says that most of our employees identify themselves with syrup."
"Is that good or bad?"
"Depends on your perspective."
"What is your perspective."
"Well, if my perspective is I want the employees to identify themselves with syrup, then it is a good thing. If I don't, then it's a bad thing."
"Here's my problem with this survey. Were there any leading questions asked?"
"No, sir."
"That's a problem. All questions are leading, we just need to know how they lean and then make a second question that leans the other way and hit that meaty 50% mark every time."
"Should I write that down."
"Maybe. How do or would the employees view the results of the survey."
"They don't like identifying themselves with syrup."

--

The first month of the strike, and all of it just came to a stop. No syrup being produced anywhere. All across the country, we all felt it, and right from the start, from those very first walkouts, we were united in our need to get away from it. And the thing was, there was no more syrup after a while, and nobody seemed to notice. The world went on. And I'm not sure if that made us feel better about our place in the world or worse. Because we were right, but also--I don't know. It speaks for itself, I guess.

--

"The numbers are in?"
"There's only one number and it's still zero."
"Good. That's good."
"Do you really think that?"
"Yes. Yes."

--

The bosses, they didn't know what to do. Our demand was simple, I think: we would not go back to work in those wretched syrup factories until there was no more syrup. But there was nothing they could do about it, of course, so it wasn't a matter of who would blink first, but when we would blink. But I don't think we ever really thought about that. We weren't content, on strike, but we weren't simmering balls of rage and misdirected toil, which is what we were when we were working. And meanwhile, what could they do? They could hire replacements, find people to break the picket line, and sometimes they did, but that never lasted long. Because syrup isn't a field you just jump into for a little while, to make ends meet. The people who broke that picket line, they never held up for very long, mentally, and they always ended up with us, on the outside. Crossing the picket line was just morally out of the question. You can justify it in a million different ways, but there's a residue of guilt that follows you long after that, and it isn't so easy to wash away.

--

"Why are there men at the machines downstairs?"
"We found some scabs to break the picket lines."
"'Scabs.' Isn't that a derogatory word?"
"Yes, but--I mean, fuck 'em."
"I guess. How are the scabs finding the work?"
"It's only been an hour, I guess, but they are all ashamed I think, and most of them want to die."
"Why did we hire scabs anyway?"
"Because if we didn't, then they'd know we have no intention of negotiating or ending the strike."
"We can do that? We can just negotiate and end the strike?"
"I very sincerely doubt we'll have to."
"What do you mean by that?"
"The ones who have left--"
"All of them?"
"Yes, all of them. The ones who have left are still miserable and still hate themselves."
"And we can use this to our advantage?"
"Perhaps the only thing better than employees who hate themselves are employees who hate us."
"They're supposed to hate us? I always thought that was an unfortunate byproduct of something else."
"Oh no, when they hate us, they invent reasons to hate us, and that way they don't hate us for the right reasons, and there's nothing they can do about anything."

--

There was the feeling that none of it would end until all of us were dead.

--

After a while, you got tired of demonstrating. Because we weren't demonstrating for anything. That was almost the opposite of what it was all about. So a lot of us just stopped showing up outside the factory, and the factories and the surrounding areas just sat empty, for months. And if we succeeded in nothing else, we turned those square feet--those industrial squares on the city maps--into blankness.

--

"Why are we here today?"
"I don't know."
"The employees are gone, the scabs are gone. There's no one to boss around any more. And the picketers are gone, so there isn't even anyone to look at."
"We can look at each other."
"But that doesn't really accomplish anything, now does it?"
"I suppose not."
"So let's just go home, what do you say?"
"Bad idea."
"Why is that?"
"Because then we become just like then."
"Hmm."
"Yes."
"Does that mean something, or are you just speaking in abstractions again?"
"The second one, I think, though if we write it down and really puzzle on it for a while, we might be able to tease some kind of meaning out of it."
"OK, what was it you said exactly?"
"I don't remember."
"Oh well. Not important."

--

We all went back to work one day. What was it, two years? And then we all went back to work one day, on the same day, as if we had planned it that way. And maybe we had--we must have, but I don't remember much about it anymore. We just went back like nothing happened and they took us back, because for all their posturing, they knew we had to be a part of it for everything to work on their end. If we weren't willing partners in the whole thing, then it all meant nothing to them, and we were more than willing, even if we had pretended otherwise.

I think we all felt complicit in it, that's why it never could have worked. You can say that you've had enough, and you can say that syrup is fucking disgusting, and you can say that man isn't meant to be like that, but ultimately all the moral arguments fall apart in the face of your own participation. My own participation, anyway, I shouldn't presume to speak for anyone else.

It just comes down to, I think--well I don't know, I guess. I hate syrup, and I hate that my little place in the world is creating it. But it's not enough to withdraw, which is all we were trying to do. Because you can withdraw and withdraw and withdraw but unless you're willing to cross that line and actually do something to erase yourself from their books, then there's no shaking it. It stays with you, until you can muster the strength to be violent to yourself.

--

"Did we expect this to happen?"
"It was one of many possible outcomes we planned for, yes."
"That doesn't really mean anything, though, does it."
"We expected very much expected this, though."
"And we won, right?"
"It was never in question."

--

One of my buddies from high school, Mike, he's got the worst of it. His job is to test the consistency of the syrup, and he does this by scooping out a big ladle and putting his finger in the stuff and putting it to his tongue. Hundreds of times a day he repeats the motion, and he inevitably gets syrup all over his shirt, and he doesn't even notice anymore. He goes home with strands of dried, sticky goop all over his face. He used to be a cut-up, a real gregarious guy, and now he's just quiet. Doesn't really talk. Not married or anything.

One day, he fell right into the vat of syrup, and we had to pull him out. Weird, because right before he fell, he was real still. It's not like he slipped, or lost his balance. He was real still.