The Horizontal Bop. By Nick Gerrard

I stood at the back behind the crowds sat cross legged.

I watched the short red Bob stand and address the floor, turning around as she spoke, making sure everyone looked into her eyes.

-What we need to do is just stay here, just stay here and create something, create lots of things. We need to use the space. That’s all. We build an alternative by using the space. Only then will they change their policies.

The sat ones waved their hands above their head.

I raised my arm.

-Just speak!

-Ok, sorry. I understand what you are saying and I agree with doing all those things, but let’s be honest they are a bit useless.

A waving down of hands.

-All the occupying of space, all the creating of happenings or whatever is great but where’s the strategy? Where’s our demands? We have no end goal…

The Bob bobbed in…

-That’s just it, if we get all bogged down with electing this and that committee voting for meaningless motions, wasting time in ironing out tactics and ideologies, empty calls on bureaucrats to do something. What’s the point? It always ends nowhere, gets us nowhere. Our fight just fades away like so many old lefty campaigns in the past.

Frantic waving of hands. I shot my arm up.

-Just speak!

I waved my hand down.

I needed a beer.

The cops on the door behind the barricades let me through, I went to Harry’s bar round the corner from the council building.

There were a few other Chefs there from nearby restaurants and work canteens.

-Alright Chef.

-Chef.

-What’s your poison?

-Draft Ipa, cheers.

I took a long pull.

-So, what do you make of it all?

-Seems disorganized, but hey they have a new way of doing things, interesting times.

-Load of bloody students.

-They are suspicious of us.

-Not us as such I think they are weary of the trade union officials. But basically they are there to support unionists.

-They have a good reason to not trust our fucking full timers though.

-You got that right.

-They have sold us down the fucking pan enough times.

So, maybe these kids have a point, I just can’t see how we are gonna win.

-Yeah man we have gotta be more organized.

-I think so too, but let’s see how things go; we can’t knock their spirit and organization so far.

The red bob came in with some other occupiers, they obviously needed a break too, though they all had phones glued to their ears.

They sat at a table and some had coffee, most cokes, and chips.

Big Barney, the grill man at Chicago diners got upset.

-F- fucks sake, harry give us two pitchers of IPA and a load of glasses would ya.

He shuffled his fat arse between the chairs and plonked the pitchers on the table.

-Guys, if you come into Harry’s bar and wanna stand side by side with union guys you drink. And we pay!

Cheers!

We all moved over and mingled Talking about the occupation, the lack of leaders, the demands, the whole horizontal thing. We argued but in a good hearted way. We expressed our old time labour views, and shared stories of solid pickets, organizing workers and sell outs.

Feeds sent news jumping around the room, news was relayed fast and furiously.

We were amazed. We peered at screens, gave our opinions, got quoted. We were let into a whole new world. We watched the struggle and the fight and the slander before our eyes. These kids took it all in, dealt with it swiftly and effortlessly.

Bam, blog updated.

Flash. A new tweet explosion.

Bullshit. Another politico interviewed.

Thumbs moved fast where in the past drinks had been downed.

The kids got more done, more solidarity in that bar than we could in a thousand boring meetings.

The trot chefs stood behind the kids, and I looked down the line of faces, and I swear there was a smile and a beam of proudness on every weary cook. And they got us involved, they asked our advice, they told us what the hell was going on, we came alive to it all.

Bob. What about the cops tomorrow?

Me. Don’t worry about them, well handle them, we’ve got short order guys on the front and sous chefs at the back.

Bob. You’re kidding right?

Me. Not really, but it’s not all chefs, there’s some construction workers and fire guys there too, to lend some muscle.

Bob. But no violence right, we want to be peaceful.

Me. Look I can only promise we will not start shit, but if shit goes down we are ready, no offence but we ain’t going be sitting down getting our faces gased.

Bob. You’re prepared for violence?

Me. Let’s just say we have some experience with this sort of thing. We have been on enough picket lines, we know how to deal with shit.

Bob. But no violence right?

Me. Sure, hopefully not.

We had a few more drinks together and I asked about herself.

We stayed in the state building for over a week, surrounded by a ring of cops, but no one moved. The cops hadn’t been paid either so were quite sympathetic and the horizontalists fed them and watered them and chatted with them.

But all good things come to an end. The Governor stopped apologizing on the TV and said that the rule of law and the workings of the state must go ahead however much people didn’t like it; these outside agitators as he worded it were here to disrupt the democratic process. The new measures had been voted in democratically, people had voiced their opposition now it was time to get back to running the state.

The cops came at 9pm, when people had had some food and were chilling. The bust the doors down and started dragging people out. We put up a fight but this was no picket, not a fair fight. Just an invasion and an evacuation. Heads were split, limbs broken.  But they cleared the place.

We met again in Harry’s bar.

-You see where no violence gets you?

-We had little choice in the matter but the world saw the violence of the cops, and we came out of it in a good light.

-We fucking lost! We got our arses kicked and we lost the occupation.

-We didn’t lose. We have an organization now, we have contacts, the fight doesn’t end here. We have other tactics lined up, other occupations, other protests. And we have you!

-Us?

-We have the union guys now, who can protect us and yes, when needed give us a bit of muscle!

She grinned.

-We might need some action too, some strike action to up the stakes.

-You see, that is what I am saying we didn’t lose we won!

Originally from Birmingham but now living in Olomouc where he writes, proof-reads and edits, and in between looking after his son Joe, edits and designs Jotters United Lit-zine.

Nick has been at one time or another a Chef, activist, union organiser, 

punk rocker, teacher, traveller and Eco-lodge owner in Malawi and Czech.

Short stories, flash and poetry have appeared in various magazines in print and online including Etherbooks, Roadside fiction, The Siren, Minor Literature and Bluehour magazine

Nick has three books published available on Amazon

twitter@nickcgerrard