Farm Strike

A few moments later, Ranell’s wife called him back. “Honey, I’m just getting to the off ramp!” he protested. She’d insisted that he stay on the freeway and head straight home. “What’s going on? Are you ok?”

She relayed the story that was all over the news. “Farm strike?” He asked. “Is that why all these tractors were on the freeway? What are they protesting?”

His wife was exasperated, but Ranell was short on sympathy. I’m the one stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic.

“How should I know why?” Ranell snapped into the phone. She calls me with news and then expects me to know what’s going on, he fumed. But even though he was irritated, he was a professional logistician and couldn't help adding a little of his own analysis, “I guess they're mad at the government for forcing them to use the new digital currency. The farmers don't want it, and the government's threatened to cut off their crop insurance or something…”

He listened absently to her reply as he tried, unsuccessfully, to merge into a faster lane. “Yep. Bastards must be intentionally disrupting the supply chain.” Ranell pursed his lips together thoughtfully. Finally, he said, “When did this start?”

His wife explained that the strike panicked the city, and people descended on the grocery stores like locusts. The news was filled with images of bare shelves.

He listened to her for a few long moments. “No, it's ok. It's ok… Yeah, we'll just have leftovers tonight… No, it's no problem, honey, really. I just want to get home to you. That's all it’ll take to make tonight special. It seems like forever since I've been home.”