“I’m against picketing, but I don’t know how to show it.”
—Mitch Hedberg
“A nickel ain’t worth a dime anymore.”
—Yogi Berra
“Mary Barra makes twenty-nine million a year,” he says.
He’s sitting in front of the class. He sits, because of his back.
He says he won’t be back for possibly infinity, that this
strike might put his family out, have to leave. “And I’m from
Waterford too,” he says, “Where she was born.” A student says,
“They put Ford into everything here—Ford River, Waterford.”
“Yeah, they put it right in the drinking water,” says another
student, “Trust me, I’m from Flint.” The first day of class
he had us go around and say our names, what we do for
a living—roofer, firefighter, truck driver. He stopped us,
said, “You guys have the hardest jobs. What, is one of you
an oil rig worker?” “I used to be,” said one of the students.
“What’re you all doing here?” “We need some comedy
in our lives.” I don’t tell the class this, but my PTSD
counselor recommended improv, said social connection
is better than counseling. So I came. One day, the teacher
asked for a suggestion, and someone shouted, “War!”
I froze up, couldn’t talk. The teacher stood up, said,
“And this here’s the old town statue, unfortunately,
we’re gonna have to tear it down. Bye, Robert E. Lee.”
And then a bunch of the class entered into the scene
as townspeople and they picked me up and hauled me
in the air across the stage. Everybody was dying
laughing. After, a student said, “You make a really
good Bobby E. Lee.” More laughter. I had started
to have a panic attack, but they brought me back, tore
it down. And now we’re worried class is going to be
canceled. An EMT in the class said COVID’s coming
back. A guy who’s unemployed told us he was jealous
of our having work—and now our teacher doesn’t, says
it might go on forever, the strike, says he has to be out
on the line at 6 a.m., “but there’s no parking,” said he’s out
there in the rain. “That sucks.” “No,” he explains, “It’s
what I’ve been doing at GM my whole life. We work
outside, every day. Winter too.” We sit there and stare,
silent, at the stage. It’s empty. Totally empty. Black-
box theater. But not even black boxes. Nothing. Just us.
