The Car That Went on Strike

Once upon a time there were three children — eight-year-old Rosie, six-year-old Max and four-year-old Betsy — and their family had a perfectly ordinary blue car.

Well…

It looked ordinary.

It had four wheels, a steering wheel, a trunk, two headlights and one pretty unusual quality:

It could keep quiet for a very, very long time.

And in this family, that came in very handy.

Because the moment the children buckled up, it began.

“I WANT TO SIT BY THE WINDOW!”

“YOU ALWAYS SIT BY THE WINDOW!”

“MOOOM, MAX’S LOOKING AT ME!”

“No I’m not!”

“YES YOU ARE!”

“NO I’M NOT!”

“YES YOU AAARE!”

Meanwhile, Betsy was testing how loudly she could sing one single line:

“WE’RE RIIIDING IN THE CAAAR! WE’RE RIIIDING IN THE CAAAR! WE’RE RIIIDING IN THE CAAAR!”

By the seventeenth time, Mom was gripping the steering wheel so tightly she could have used it to open a stubborn jam jar.

But the shouting wasn’t the only problem.

The children also thought the car floor was somewhere between a trash can, a closet and an archaeological dig.

There was a sock under the seat.

Nobody knew whose.

Beside the sock lay a cookie wrapper, two colored pencils, a pebble “that might come in handy,” half a pretzel, three crumpled tissues, a toy dinosaur with no tail and a squashed tangerine that had stopped looking like fruit a long time ago.

Whenever someone finished eating, they would ask:

“Where should I put this?”

And before Mom could say “in the door pocket,” there came a sound:

WHOOSH.

Onto the floor.

Once, Max even tossed half a bread roll under the seat.

“Why did you put it there?” Mom asked.

Max shrugged.

“I didn’t know where else to put it.”

The car gave a quiet creak.

Nobody noticed.

The next day, they went on an outing.

It started normally.

“I WANT THAT SONG!”

“NO! I WANT A DIFFERENT ONE!”

“MOOOM!”

“ROSIE TOOK MY DRINK!”

“I DIDN’T! I ONLY HAD A SIP!”

“THAT’S MY DRIIINK!”

Betsy started shrieking too, simply because everybody else was shrieking.

And just as Max dropped a snack-bar wrapper on the floor…

…the car braked.

Not suddenly.

Just a little:

“Tap.”

And it stopped at the side of the road.

Mom looked at the dashboard.

“What’s going on?”

The engine was running.

There was plenty of gas.

No warning lights were on.

Mom tried pressing the gas pedal.

Nothing.

Then a voice came from the speakers:

“NO.”

Silence fell inside the car.

Rosie’s eyes widened.

“Mom… did you say something?”

“No.”

The speakers spoke again:

“I SAID NO.”

Betsy’s mouth fell open.

Max whispered:

“The car’s talking.”

“Yes,” said the car. “And it’s about time I got a word in.”

The children didn’t make a sound.

“First of all,” the car went on, “my name is Bertie.”

“Bertie?” Rosie sputtered.

“Yes. Is there a problem?”

“No.”

“Good.”

The car cleared his throat.

“Second. I am now going on strike.”

“What’s a strike?” asked Betsy.

“It means,” said Bertie, “that until my working conditions improve, I’m not moving.”

Mom covered her mouth with her hand.

It looked as though she was coughing.

Actually, she was trying very hard not to laugh.

“What working conditions?” asked Max.

The car gave a loud sigh.

“Well, for example. There are so many crumbs inside me, I could open a bakery.”

The children looked at the floor.

“Something is moving under the driver’s seat right now.”

Mom jumped.

“WHAT?”

“Relax. It’s just an old pretzel stuck to a sock.”

Rosie began to laugh.

“And under Max’s seat,” Bertie continued, “there’s a bread roll.”

Max looked down.

“It’s probably not very nice anymore.”

“Max,” said the car, “that bread roll is old enough to have its own ID card.”

Mom burst out laughing.

Even Max laughed.

“And one more thing,” said Bertie.

Suddenly, all the speakers came on at full volume.

Out came:

“MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!”

The children covered their ears.

“BERTIE!” Rosie cried.

“MAX’S LOOOOKING AT MEEEE!!!”

“TURN IT OFF!” shouted Max.

“I WANT A DIFFERENT SOOOOONG!!!”

Betsy had both hands over her ears.

“THAT’S HORRIBLE!”

Then the speakers fell silent.

Bertie asked:

“Is it?”

Nobody said a word.

“This,” he went on, “is what I listen to.”

For a moment, there was complete silence.

Then Rosie looked at Max.

Max looked at Betsy.

Betsy looked at Mom.

“Are we really that loud?” she asked quietly.

“Sometimes louder,” said the car.

This time, Mom said nothing.

The children slowly looked around.

Suddenly, the mess looked different somehow.

Not like “a few things on the floor.”

More as though someone had stuffed cookies into Bertie’s shoes, trash into his pockets and put an old sock on his head.

Rosie bent down.

“All right, then.”

She picked up the first wrapper.

Max pulled out the bread roll.

“Yuck.”

“Thank you,” said Bertie.

Betsy found the tangerine under the seat.

She studied it for a moment.

“What’s this?”

The car answered:

“My longest-standing tenant.”

Soon, the children had filled a whole bag with trash.

They found four colored pencils.

Two socks.

Six pebbles.

Three lids.

One toy car.

A hair tie.

A spoon.

And something nobody could identify.

Max poked it with a stick.

“I think it used to be food.”

“Don’t touch it,” said the car. “It might be intelligent.”

When they were finished, Rosie leaned back in her seat.

“Will you go now?”

“One more thing.”

The children froze.

“What now?”

“I need a trial minute.”

“A what?”

“One minute of driving without yelling.”

Max rolled his eyes.

“That’s easy.”

Bertie set off.

For ten seconds, it was quiet.

Twenty.

Thirty.

Then Betsy pointed out the window.

“LOOOO—”

She stopped herself.

Everyone looked at her.

Betsy finished in a whisper:

“…a cow.”

And everyone laughed.

But this time it wasn’t the kind of yelling that hurt someone’s ears.

It was ordinary laughter.

Bertie’s engine gave a contented rumble.

Of course, from that day on, the car wasn’t perfectly quiet.

That would have been boring.

The children sang.

They laughed.

They argued.

Sometimes someone forgot and shouted:

“MOOOM!”

But then they usually stopped themselves.

Because all Bertie had to do was quietly turn up the radio…

…and play a recording:

“I WANT TO SIT BY THE WINDOOOOOW!”

“No!” the children cried at once.

And they quieted down.

And whenever someone was about to drop a wrapper on the floor, the car would sometimes say mysteriously:

“I can see you.”

“How can you see me?” Max would ask.

“I’m a car. I have mirrors.”

From then on, the car even had a little trash bag.

Not because the children had suddenly started loving cleaning up.

But because they had understood one curious thing:

When you’re all shut inside a small space together, every sound is louder, every bit of mess gets in the way more, and every person — even Bertie the car — needs things to be at least a little pleasant.

And whenever the journey started turning into a shouting circus, Bertie would give a quiet beep:

“Should I play your recording?”

And from the back seats came an immediate:

“NOOO!”

Bertie drove happily on.

Because he didn’t want silent children.

He just wanted passengers he could survive the journey with.

The End.