The Car That Went on Strike
Once upon a time there were three children — eight-year-old Rozárka, six-year-old Matěj and four-year-old Bětka — and their family had a perfectly ordinary blue car.
Well…
It looked ordinary.
It had four wheels, a steering wheel, a boot, two headlights and one rather unusual quality:
It could keep quiet for a very, very long time.
Which was a very useful quality in this family.
Because the moment the children buckled up, it began.
“I WANT TO SIT BY THE WINDOW!”
“YOU ALWAYS SIT BY THE WINDOW!”
“MUUUM, MATĚJ’S LOOKING AT ME!”
“No I’m not!”
“YES YOU ARE!”
“NO I’M NOT!”
“YES YOU AAARE!”
Meanwhile, Bětka 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, Mum 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 rubbish bin, a wardrobe and an archaeological dig.
There was a sock under the seat.
Nobody knew whose.
Beside the sock lay a biscuit wrapper, two coloured pencils, a pebble “that might come in handy”, half a pretzel, three crumpled tissues, a toy dinosaur with no tail and a squashed mandarin that had stopped looking like fruit a long time ago.
Whenever someone finished eating, they would ask:
“Where shall I put this?”
And before Mum could say “in the door pocket”, there came a sound:
WHOOSH.
Onto the floor.
Once, Matěj even tossed half a bread roll under the seat.
“Why did you put it there?” Mum asked.
Matěj 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!”
“MUUUM!”
“ROZÁRKA TOOK MY DRINK!”
“I DIDN’T! I ONLY HAD A SIP!”
“THAT’S MY DRIIINK!”
Bětka started shrieking too, simply because everybody else was shrieking.
And just as Matěj 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.
Mum looked at the dashboard.
“What’s going on?”
The engine was running.
There was plenty of petrol.
No warning lights were on.
Mum tried pressing the accelerator.
Nothing.
Then a voice came from the speakers:
“NO.”
The car fell silent.
Rozárka’s eyes widened.
“Mum… did you say something?”
“No.”
The speakers spoke again:
“I SAID NO.”
Bětka’s mouth fell open.
Matěj 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 Bohouš.”
“Bohouš?” Rozárka spluttered.
“Yes. Is there a problem?”
“No.”
“Good.”
The car cleared his throat.
“Second. I am now going on strike.”
“What’s a strike?” asked Bětka.
“It means,” said Bohouš, “that until my working conditions improve, I’m not moving.”
Mum 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 Matěj.
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.”
Mum jumped.
“WHAT?”
“Relax. It’s just an old pretzel stuck to a sock.”
Rozárka began to laugh.
“And under Matěj’s seat,” Bohouš continued, “there’s a bread roll.”
Matěj looked down.
“It’s probably not very nice any more.”
“Matěj,” said the car, “that bread roll is old enough to have its own identity card.”
Mum burst out laughing.
Even Matěj laughed.
“And one more thing,” said Bohouš.
Suddenly, all the speakers came on at full volume.
Out came:
“MUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUM!!!”
The children covered their ears.
“BOHOUŠ!” Rozárka cried.
“MATĚJ’S LOOOOKING AT MEEEE!!!”
“TURN IT OFF!” shouted Matěj.
“I WANT A DIFFERENT SOOOOONG!!!”
Bětka had both hands over her ears.
“THAT’S HORRIBLE!”
Then the speakers fell silent.
Bohouš asked:
“Is it?”
Nobody said a word.
“This,” he went on, “is what I listen to.”
For a moment, there was complete silence.
Then Rozárka looked at Matěj.
Matěj looked at Bětka.
Bětka looked at Mum.
“Are we really that loud?” she asked quietly.
“Sometimes louder,” said the car.
This time, Mum 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 biscuits into Bohouš’s shoes, rubbish into his pockets and put an old sock on his head.
Rozárka bent down.
“All right, then.”
She picked up the first wrapper.
Matěj pulled out the bread roll.
“Yuck.”
“Thank you,” said Bohouš.
Bětka found the mandarin 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 rubbish.
They found four coloured pencils.
Two socks.
Six pebbles.
Three lids.
One toy car.
A hair tie.
A spoon.
And something nobody could identify.
Matěj 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, Rozárka 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.”
Matěj rolled his eyes.
“That’s easy.”
Bohouš set off.
For ten seconds, it was quiet.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Then Bětka pointed out of the window.
“LOOOO—”
She stopped herself.
Everyone looked at her.
Bětka 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.
Bohouš’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:
“MUUUM!”
But then they usually stopped themselves.
Because all Bohouš 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 quietened 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?” Matěj would ask.
“I’m a car. I have mirrors.”
From then on, the car even had a little rubbish bag.
Not because the children had suddenly started loving tidying 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 Bohouš the car — needs things around them to feel at least a little pleasant.
And whenever the journey started turning into a shouting circus, Bohouš would give a quiet beep:
“Shall I play your recording?”
And from the back seats came an immediate:
“NOOO!”
Bohouš drove happily on.
Because he didn’t want silent children.
He just wanted passengers he could survive the journey with.