Honk before you flatten me!
Posted by Carol Starr Schneider on Dec 6th, 2007
As a strike captain, I play den mother to a small group of panicky writers. I do my best to calm them down and lift their spirits, via emails, phone calls, personal appearances on the picket line, and the occasional hug. They look to me for guidance and I pretend to know what I'm talking about. It's a quiet role. "Quiet" is the operative word here.
The other day, my duties expanded beyond my personal comfort zone. I know my own limitations. I am good at some things. I make a delicious kugel. I am not so good at other things. Hand me an assignment that requires a booming voice and commanding leadership, and I will fail to impress.
"I need you to play traffic cop tomorrow," the head Gate Captain informed me. "Steve can't do it."
My bottom lip started to tremble. I pictured my body flattened beneath a non-union, toilet paper delivery truck as it crossed the picket line.
I looked at the Gate Captain in horror. "Have you met me?" I wanted to ask her. "Can't you tell I'm not the right candidate for this job?" I shouted in silence. "Get someone else! Someone 6' 10" with a deep, thunderous voice."
Instead of expressing my mounting reservations, I mumbled, "Sure — okay — sounds great! See ya at nine!"
Then I walked over to Steve and shot him the meanest glare from my arsenal of dirty looks. Somehow, he missed it. Maybe the sun was in his eyes. He reached out and embraced me like a long lost cousin.
"Thanks for filling in, beautiful!" he shouted in my ear.
"No problema," I lied.
Oh, but it was a problema. I don't talk, act or think like a traffic cop. I wasn't put on this earth to holler "STOP!" at on-coming cars. I couldn't even get the picketers to listen to me.
"CAR!" I screamed, my voice barely audible above the din of honking horns and construction work.
"Hey, guys! Pay attention! Look out!" I screeched, as forty or more strikers ignored the Escalade zooming toward them.
"I just saved your life," I informed a dazed comedy scribe. "Put me in your will."
He promised he would. I spelled my name for him as I blocked a Mercedes with my rear. "That's two Rs in Starr."
The next few hours were a terrifying blur of tires, Nikes and mangled vocal cords. Along the way, I received helpful notes on my performance.
"Project!" an actress named Nicole instructed. "Breathe from your diaphragm!"
So I breathed from my diaphragm and bellowed "CAR!" to the best of my ability. Nicole graded me on a scale of 1 to 10. She was merciless.
"Three," she said, shaking her head in disgust.
Out of nowhere, a BMW came barreling directly in her path. I shoved her out of the way, rather heroically, I thought, mere moments before her head practically met metal.
"CAR!" I howled with conviction.
For the first time that day, ALL the picketers stopped on command. I glanced over at Nicole, whose life had just flashed before her eyes.
"Better," she reluctantly conceded. "I give it a six."
Right about then, a young woman in a gray van drove by, opened her door and leaned out. She had a message to impart to the writers on strike:
"Get back to work! You greedy S.O.B.s!"
My stint as traffic cop nearly over, I had no trouble projecting a loud and colorful grouping of expletives in response. My throat was raw, but my pride restored. I hadn't done such a bad job, after all. No one died on my watch, although it was touch and go a few times. Take that woman in the gray van. If only she'd leaned out just a little more, her face would have done time with the sharp end of my picket sign.
Not to worry. I took down her license plate. Next drive-by, I'll be ready.
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