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5 Mile

I drive five miles to get to my work office. Not very far.

In the past several months I’ve passed four sets of workers picketing. Strikers. Twice for Comcast—I don’t know why they’re striking other than their signs always say something about “Comca$t”—with the dollar sign. I always read their signs as, “We’re on $trike”—also with the dollar sign. Maybe I’m missing something, but I’m management.

A diner I pass on the way to work is starting a major renovation. The day after they broke ground, the workers went on strike. I was confused that someone took a job and then immediately went on strike. The timing seemed weird.

Finally today I passed another gaggle of strikers in front of a strip mall going up. They looked ready to work—they wore boots and Carhardt coats; but they carried signs. I didn’t read the signs; I was more intrigued by them scurrying like ants to line up next to a roach coach (you know, one of those food trucks that show up at construction sites all over the place).

Five miles. Four strikes. I don’t get it.

But, like I said, I’m management.


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