On strike.

We'd thrown up the picket lines at 12.01 A.M. on Wednesday, and hadn't let a single truck in or out for the first four days of the national strike by Teamster truck drivers. Now, in the small hours of Sunday morning, rumors flew that Yellow Freight would try to push trucks through sometime on Monday. I asked Otis, the steward for the other local, what his people had planned. Otis grasped my forearm in one sizable hand, stared at me closely, and asked, "Are you management?" And, after a moment, "Does J.B. [one of my stewards] know you?"

I was obliged to act a little insulted, but I wasn't really. I knew what Otis meant. When one of my stewards happened by, I steered Otis over to hear me vouched for. "Is this guy management?" Otis asked De. "He's too nice to be a road driver."

Otis is right. I'm also too middle-class, too politically progressive, too vegetarian, too blind to the charms of internal combustion, and, until this strike, too nonsmoking. At thirty-three, I'm younger than many of my co-workers' children. When I finished Yellow Freight System's driver-training school three years ago and moved to the southwest suburbs of Chicago to start as a road driver, I quickly learned that I could enjoy the company of the other drivers, but I couldn't join them.

Thirty days after I started driving I automatically became a member of the union. I found joining the Teamsters amusing, since I had assimilated, over the years, the Newsweek view of unions: outdated, obstructionist organizations that exist primarily to protect their members' excessive wages and expensive work rules, extorted from enlightened corporations which would treat their employees well anyway. In the case of the Teamsters, add a reputation for violence, corruption, and organized-crime connections.

I wish I could say that I was re-educated by dedicated fellow Teamsters struggling for justice for all working people. I'd be lying. I quickly discovered that most road drivers maintained almost unbelievable levels of apathy, suspicion, and cynicism toward the union. Many never attended meetings of the local, yet could tell you with assurance how quickly you'd be kicked to the floor if you opened your mouth at one. The only comfort was that they didn't hold these attitudes toward only the union; they felt the same toward any individual or entity perceived as having power over their lives.

I began the strike assuming that my youth, outsider status, and relative inexperience in the union would keep me from doing much beyond holding a picket sign and running errands. I waited for the union leadership to organize us. But the leadership wasn't visible, and those of my older, wiser colleagues who bothered to show up for picket duty usually declined to step into the gap.

I was embarrassed for our side, and worried about potential disaster. We had scores of heavy drinkers on the scene, and the first truck could try to crash our line any time. The check lists from demonstrations past began dancing in my head. Where were our marshals? Police and community liaisons? Food, trash, and toilet teams? Medics? Photographers? Forget it: We didn't even have a phone list of members or a schedule for picket duty. All this might have come together easily among a few dozen workers who already knew each other. But Yellow Freight's terminal in Chicago Ridge, Illinois, had at least 1,000 on strike or respecting picket lines, from two different locals and six groups of workers who'd had little contact before the strike.

I started dealing with problems as I found them. I filled the trunk of my car with food and parked it near the picket line. Strikers helped themselves, and most came up to me with a buck or two. I started picking up trash, which was good for several hours' work a night. The drinkers were amused, but some actually started using the trash bags. The owners of the two businesses whose parking lots we were occupying found me filling bags and assumed I was the one to complain to about trash, parking, scared customers, and lost business. We needed their tolerance, so I stayed in touch with them.

We had no system for passing news, and wild rumors were flying. I bought a wipe off memo board, drew a masthead on top, and The 103rd & Harlem Corner Post was born; a bad pun but a helpful tool. The local police are union and sympathetic, but no one was staying in regular touch with them. I started passing them copies of union news updates.

Sometimes, I was there thirty-six hours at a stretch. I didn't have the standing to delegate work, and my suggestions often met an utter absence of enthusiasm. Yet about a week into the strike I crossed an invisible line. I couldn't tell anyone what to do, but people were bringing me all sorts of problems, many entirely outside my power, and I started hearing half-serious references to my being "in charge."

After two weeks on strike, I'd learned these lessons: My initial assumption that as a middle-class transplant I couldn't be effective was clearly wrong. I have successfully substituted listening very carefully (which some nights has cost me hours), and the magic words, "I know I can't tell you what to do, and I'm not trying, but ......" (Union staff tell me those are magic words for them, too; they can't order anyone around either.) My influence on the picket line derives not from anyone thinking that I'm "one of the guys" (95 per cent of the strikers are men), but from my faith that individual action matters. I believe we're in charge. Most of my co-workers assume that they're not smart enough to be in charge.

A few nights ago Otis, having just gotten me to agree to paint a "Yellow" logo for his twelve-foot inflatable rat (I'm not joking), pointed to a group of his drivers and said, "Go eat with them guys, they're having hot food over there."

He paused a second and said, "But don't be a sissy."