Revelations During a Strike

The lights were dim, smoke billowing around the room, creating a hazy glow accentuated by candlelight, indistinct conversations filled the air. We were seated at our usual table in the corner, dressed in a black off-the-shoulder dress and simple black heels. My husband, clad in his favorite charcoal suit, was seated beside me, studying the menu. I noticed the grey beginning to appear in his hair, a stark contrast to the brown that had always been there. Wrinkles were permanently etched into his forehead from the stress of the past few days. Tonight, our anniversary dinner, had been planned for weeks. Still, his mind stayed at the job site, back on the present difficulties at hand.

“I don’t see how we can come back from this, Gin, even with the new hires,” Donald said, putting down the menu to look into my eyes. I could see fear in his own, the honey brown color dulled by the recent days. The strike had begun days ago, halting the railways over perceived lack of wages and poor working conditions. I wasn’t sure if they were right or not. All I knew was the amount of stress it put on my husband.

Instinctively, I reached across the table and gently rubbed his arm. “Try not to think about it now. Tonight is supposed to be about us.” He nodded but didn’t have time to speak before the waitress came over, a good-looking young woman, her blonde hair pinned back from her face. It made me self-conscious, my long brown hair curled, dangling to my shoulders. I knew Donald had always had a wandering eye when we dated. Still, I had assumed it would disappear without marriage. Absentmindedly I played with my wedding band, a nervous habit picked up in the year since our wedding. Don didn’t give the poor girl a chance to speak.

“I’ll have an old-fashioned and the filet mignon,” he said pointedly. Don was always direct, to the point, prompt. It had been the thing that propelled his career, though his family name helped. He was an elite, born to the wealthy, and destined to follow in their footsteps. I had a more modest upbringing, never worried about food, but living off the bare basic needs. When our relationship first started, it had brought a rift with his family and friends. None of them had understood what I could offer, but I provided love unconditionally. That was enough for him.

“White wine and the salmon special, please,” I stated, politely handing back the menus. The waitress nodded and disappeared.

“What else am I supposed to think about? The strike could ruin me?” I wasn’t surprised Donald immediately went back to the original conversation.

I bit back the snarky comment. He should be thinking about us. I had made sure the house was spotless, and I had put on my best dress. When he had arrived at home, Don hadn’t noticed any of it. “Everyone is striking. It was on the news today. I am sure they can’t blame you for the country’s unrest after the war.”

The sigh from the Don was expected. Over the past few months, I hadn’t been able to say or do the right things to please him. His sigh was the only disproval I got. “Who else are the executives going to blame?”

None of this was going the way I wanted, and I am thankful when our drinks arrived, giving a slight distraction from the building tension. I take a sip, glance around the smoky room. Every other couple looks happy, madly in love. When I first started dating Donald, it was the type of love I had envisioned, passionate nights followed by lazy days spent together. Of course, I knew he would have to work, but I never thought his sole focus would become his career. The promises of a devoted husband still rang in my head from our wedding day, but it seemed those had been empty words required to say to your betrothed.

“I’m going to have to go in early tomorrow. I’ve got a meeting,” Don says. I know he wants me to ask what about, but I don’t have the energy tonight. I don’t want to fight in public, feel all the other customers’ eyes on us. I don’t want to fight at all. I’m supposed to be his support system, but I never say or do the right thing to ease his tension. Before I can respond, our food arrives perfectly presented. Politely I unroll my silverware and put my napkin on my lap. Don does the same and immediately cuts into his steak, the juices flowing from within. It is the first time I have seen my husband all night, and it gives me hope for the rest of the evening.

I have just picked up my fork when a commotion starts at the front of the restaurant. Every head turns to see picketers lining up outside, signs hitting the front glass windows. I recognize a few other managers turn white, each bowing their head as if to hide. Fear fills me, and I reach for Donald’s hand, but his hands are balled in fists at his side. He refuses to look away from the front door, from the scene out front. Even in the crowded room, I feel alone, fighting the tears that threaten to spill from my eyes, covered with the sting of the smoke. My worst fear happens when one of the strikers enters the restaurant and comes straight for our table. There is a determination in his eyes unlike I have ever seen. Donald has never looked like that, I think, passionate and willing to fight for his beliefs. I can’t bring myself to tear my eyes off of him, look at the reactions of the other diners, but I can feel the tension building around us.

Quietly, almost meekly, the man sets a railroad spike on the table. The heavy metal thuds when it hits the solid wood, only muffled slightly by the white linen tablecloth. I flinch, but Don doesn’t move. He stares at the man, anger glowing in his eyes.

“Tell your bosses we won’t return until we get better wages and working conditions. We’re tired of making money for you all and starving and dying ourselves.” Without any further ado, he turns and walks back out the door, returns to the strikers marching in front of the steak house. I know the elite surround us, eating their own elaborate meals. Chatter returns to the dining room, the nervous silence replaced with fantastical stories about what could have happened.

Don unclenches his fists, forcing a smile on a few of the people he knows, picks up his silverware, and returns to eating. I know I am expected to do the same, but I am still paralyzed with fear. “Quit making a scene,” he mutters, a sternness in his voice that frightens me more than anything the striker could have done. I do as I’m told, but I know for sure now; this will be the last night I spend with Donald. I, Virginia Randolph, will find my place in the world as a divorced woman. I glance back at the strikers, their passion emanating through the room, and I know that is what I want out of my life.