Idaho. The 43rd state is mainly known for potatoes. He can be a pessimist and a grumpy downer most states don't like, but they do appreciate his strong work ethics, especially during the late eighteenth century. After the Civil War, the States of America were rebuilding their economy in what became to be known as the Second Industrial Revolution. Cities, inventions, factories, capitalism, this era brought great change to a nation that once relied on agriculture. However, it also brought problems in the form of the strikes of the impoverished, work-torn labor of large industries.

The Coeur d'Alene, Idaho Labor Strike of 1892 was one out of numerous labor strikes in the United States during this time. Miners constantly faced dangerous work conditions, endured long 9-10 hours for seven work days, and receive as much as $3.00 a day for their efforts. In response to cut wages by the owners of the miens, miners began to organize themselves into local labor unions. Against organized labor, the Mine Owners' Association hired Pinkertons to spy on labor union meetings, intended on firing union workers and suppress any form of negotiation by the miners. The start of the labor strike can be turned to one Pinkerton agent who was a key player in the conflict.

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July 8, 1892 ~ Saturday

"There's a traitor among us. We need to find this son of a bitch soon, or else our progress will be all for nothing," said some angry, bearded guy to others like him.

Every miner had seen the recent pages of the Coeur d'Alene Barbarian. Not a single eye could avoid the articles of spilled secrets. Some members of the local labor unions have begun to protest, pointing the blame at the owners of the mines for using underhanded tactics. The owners in their defense simply told them they weren't involved in anything, or so they say. Despite finding little evidence of wrongdoing in their part, everyone knew they were behind it in one way or another. After all, this wasn't the first time Pinkertons were used against labor strikes. 

If Pinkertons really were involved, the labor union will have bigger problems coming its way. Who was the snitch that spilled the beans? How were they able to get the union's vital information? What else do they know? Such questions were on every labor official's mind. Each member was both a scout and a suspect. There was a traitor among them, and they need to be stopped.

Not my problem!

"Can't believe I'm spending my second anniversary at some dumpy bar! No cake, no friends, no gifts, shit nothing! Not even a fucking day off! I swear to the potato gods the next time I see my boss I'm going to spit in his face! This blows!" I chug down my second glass of beer.

"Uh... you alright there, bud?"

I turned my head to the person who asked the question. On my left was a man in his late thirties. The first thing I noticed was his clean mustache, typically seen in middle folk. He was looking my way in a friendly manner, however, I couldn't meet his eyes as they were hidden under his dark gray trilby. Compared to the sweaty miners in baggy cargo pants, this man had on a crisped, black suit and suede shoes, standing out like polished obsidian among coal. Didn't look like a local if I had to take a guess.

"Bad day..." I muttered, sipping on my glass of beer.

He nodded. "Same." He sipped his glass of rum.

"Doesn't look that way," I scoffed, noting his dressage.

"I cleaned up after work."

"Work? In this shit hole???"

He gave off a little chuckle. "Yeah. I work as a trammer in the Gem mine."

"For how long?"

He gave some thought in the question. "For a couple of months now."

I narrowed my eyes. "... You look familiar." I swear I recognize him somewhere.

He gave me a weird look. "Well, I come here often after work."

"So you say."

"Yeah. I see you often. Don't you recognize me?" He lifted his hat, allowing me to get a good look of his face.

I grimaced, shaking my head. "Nope! No clue."

He sighed. He snapped his fingers and the bartender proceeded to brew a glass of beer. The bartender gave me the glass while I looked dubiously at the man.

"C. Leon Allison. Call me Charles." He held out his hand.

Slowly I recalled his face multiple of times. Yeah. He was always with a group of miners, always treating them to drinks and giving them money to those who are struggling. Such a nice man. I wonder how much he had to make to get such a good reputation here without going broke. From what I recall, a trammer pays well, but I doubt it could get him that suit. Then again, I barely know him. The suit may be a hand-me down for all I know. Plus, free beer!

I shook his hand. "Thanks, Charles." I started chugging down the new glass."

"Just looking out for my fellow man." His chuckle cut short all of a sudden. "You're awfully young to be working around these parts..."

I place down my glass of beer. "I'm actually 29 years old!" I might've said it a bit too loudly to get a few heads turning my way.

He gave me a strange look, looking me up and down from the smudged, yellow helmet that cover my mucky, brown hair to the coal dusted, rubber boots I wore for work. "Don't lie to me, kid."

"I'm not lying! It's the truth!" Sure, I'm a bit scrawny, but I'm getting there!

The strange look was still planted on his face. "Fine, kid."

"I'm not a kid!"

"Sorry... Anyway, what brings you down to the mines?" 

"What's with the questioning?"

He flinched. "No need to get offended. I just want to learn more about the people who work in the mines like me. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

I shrugged. "I threw a potato at a guy." He gave me a bizarre look. "I know. What was I thinking? I should've thrown my shoe instead. That poor potato didn't deserve it." I shook my head in regret.

"Uh, how is this involved-"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm getting there," I waved him off, "As I was saying, I threw my shoe at a guy. I must've been drunk because I didn't recall my boss have a swollen lump on his forehead before."

"Wow. That sucks."

"Sure is! Because of that, I'm stuck working here until I learn my lesson."

"Did you learn your lesson?" I gestured with my beer in hand. He awed.

We drank some more, talking a few times in between. I must've been on my...eighth glass because 

"Working here sucks balls!" I shouted. 

Every miner in here joined me in a simultaneous loud, "Yeah!"

"The pay is crap! 

"Yeah!"

"The hours are shit!"

"Yeah!"

"The guards are a bunch of assholes!

"Yeah!"

"The owners are a bunch of shitheads!"

"Yeah!"

"Washington is a giant dick!

"Yeah!"

"Potatoes are fucking awesome!"

"Yeah!"

"And Idaho is the best state!"

*Cricket chirps*

I gave every man in the room an offended glare. "Really? Pfft! Whatever! Idaho is fucking awesome and you know it!" I chugged down my eighth glass of beer. Or maybe was it ninth?

I noticed Charles was unusually quiet during the whole spiel. Not once did he said, "Yeah!" or cheer in my name. He just sat there like a potato on a stool, quietly watching me yell at a bunch of old, dirty miners.

"Hey, Charlie!" I shook him out of his trance.

"W-What?"

"What do you think about this whole situation?" I asked.

It took him more than the normal time to respond to the simple question. "Oh! You mean that." His shoulders began to be relaxed. "Yeah... I hate how they cut off the high-paying jobs and lowered my salary. Seems greedy and unfair to me."

"I know! If I could, I would make them pay us more or else they'll get a taste of my potato rage!"

He laughed. "I doubt threats would work on them."

"Oh, come on! Don't be a wimp! Those mine owners won't see those potatoes coming. All we need are five hundred potatoes and a giant catapult for good measure."

"I don't think that's going to work," he repeated.

I relented. "Fine. Operation Potato Strike is a no go." I sulked.

"By chance are you a member of the labor union?" Charles asked out of the blue.

I shook my head. "Not a fan of crowds. Especially with recent headlines and this "war" going on, I hate to get mixed up in this whole stupid thing."

"Funny. I thought you would support them."

I scoffed. "They'll fail."

He looked surprised. "Why you think that?"

I took a swig of my beer. "Look at the previous strikes across the country. I doubt they'll succeed. Then again, I could be wrong, so I'm hopeful for their cause."

I'll admit, a labor union was an admirable solution for the workers to not only rally the common workers, but also the specialized ones as well. Rarely do the higher-paid, skilled workers join in unions, but the ones here seem to be all for the unions. There might be hope for these unions. Then again, the labor strikes I heard across the nation turned out to be failures. Chances of the success were more on the side of the mining companies than labor. And after hearing the news of a spay among the union workers and growing violence between the two sides, I wanted out of this shitty situation.

"Are you a part of the union?" I asked.

He gave me a long contemplative look before answering, "Yeah."

"I've heard there is a spy among the ranks. Someone who is giving away secrets of the union meetings and providing the information of union members to the owners of the mining companies. Sounds awful."

"It's terrible," he mumbled, appearing distraught. "I couldn't believe it myself when I heard the news. I'll have to be careful and watch who I'm seeing. As the Recording Secretary, I hate to think agents are tailing my every move, getting a hold of information I kept on union affairs. Pretty reckless of them to think we can be underestimated."

"Yeah," I nodded, "The spy should've done more than just leak information."

He looked astonished at me. "What do you mean by that?" He sounded upset, looking offended for some reason.

"I mean, the Pinkertons are paid by the owners of the mines. The Mine Owners' Association I think it's called...those guys can easily tell those Pinkertons to make arrests. Get law enforcement involved, pay them well to believe in whatever lie they can come up about the labor union, spying seems too much of a hassle. If I were in their position, I would've hired a small army to get rid of them and convince the public the union was up to no good, threatening to kill any innocents if they didn't get what they want."

He looked appalled by my suggestion. "You're being ridiculous." He held his angered tone.

"Am I? They have money, don't they? Those fat-cats on top can easily get trained professionals and the heavy guns needed to threaten the labor unions. Heck, they could bribe their friends in politics to send the Feds or order national guard into action."

"The public will know," he countered.

"Sure, they'll know. The newspapers will tell them. I can see the headlines: Communists in Idaho's Labor Unions threaten America! Anarchy forces National Guard to stop the terror!" I gestured. "Even if they kill, say, fifty people, they can easily get away with tip-top lawyers, protecting their swollen butts from getting sued by the common folk."

Charles stared down at his glass, curling his fingers tightly around the cup. "You're wrong," he shook his head, "The owners wouldn't dare. The people have the right to protest, so such force isn't necessary until they start committing unnecessary violence."

"That wasn't the case in the Great Southwest Railroad Strike 1886," I noted.

Charles gave me a vicious glare. "That was different. They used violence and got what they deserved. If they hadn't use anarchic tactics, the situation wouldn't have end horribly for them. It was a disaster as the newspapers say."

I couldn't help but stifle out a loud laugh. "You believe all that crap?"

"It's true! The reporters have no reason to lie!" he spat.

I shrugged. "You're right. The newspapers can't hide everything from the public. It's their job to report what they see, and retell it in the public's interest. The tension happened. The violence happened. The aftershock happened. However, let's change the wording to increase sales. Add a "harmless" lie or two to bring the reader's attention to the article. Skew the perspective to make the crippled men who dare escape their suffering from worn-torn unfairness look like bad guys. All that can be done if they find it necessary, especially when money's involved which I'm sure businessmen and politicians are happy to fill in. A small price to keep their record clean if they're involved."

"But..." he gritted his teeth, turning his face away from me.

"Tell me, Charles. Do you think the union members are going to get what they want? Be honest with me and don't lie," I sternly asked him.

I wasn't sure if Charles would answer me, but I asked anyway.

Thirty seconds were given before I heard him say, "No."

I frowned. "Why you think that?"

An indignant, crooked smile grew on Charles face. His hair looked disheveled under his lop-sided trilby. His yellow tie became loose under his unbuttoned suit jacket, hanging around his neck in a large, casual loop. A growing chuckle came dragging out of his throat.

"I believe the right to protest should be done peacefully," he began. "The tactics the union uses are ridiculous. Never before in American history have protests been this uncivilized. The union leaders are nothing more than "a vicious, heartless gang of anarchists" who needed to be stopped. If it weren't for the recent waves of immigrants coming into the country, such anarchy wouldn't have spread to the workers. They were asking for war, and they don't seem to understand what's at stake- Why are you laughing?" He gave me a paranoid look.

In midst of his rant, I couldn't help but laugh at his statement. I calmed myself down, trying to get a hold of myself before Charles drew a fit.

"I swear to the potato gods this is so messed up," I shook my head. "It's funny how over a hundred years ago, when our country had yet to be independent from the King, the protesters demand fair representation in the British monarchy. Rather than listen to their demands, the King refused to compromise, threatening to arrest them and use Redcoats to hunt those who refuse to obey their laws. Not only did they use unnecessary force on the citizens, they also shut down newspapers who spoke of ill-will against the King. They also punish associated family members, even those who weren't associated in the violence. The Sons of Liberty were partially involved in the violence, however, their actions justified, representative of the people's woes against the monarchy. Despite committing treason against the King, they were supported by the people, they were seen as the Founders of America." 

"And right now, it seems like the tables have turned. Members of the labor union, representing the woes of the workers against the Mine Owners' Association are now looked down upon. As peaceful as their protests were, the owners hire whatever means to suppress the will of the labor. Replacing them, firing them, forcing them into yellow dog contracts, arrest them, literally firing them, killing them. Despite doing all that, they are seen as good, fortunate people while labor remain punished, told to proceed with their suffering in the shit-field mines, toiling long hours for a few cents a day, barely sufficing for their living expenses. All they want was a few more cents a day. Cut work to ten hours a day. Get a day off for fuck's sake. Until such wishes are granted, they'll continue to be suppressed, continue to be looked down upon, continue to live unhappy lives..."

Back then, I didn't understand this whole problem with labor protests. It wasn't until my time in the mines did I get a sense of desolation among the workers. If I have to make a comparison, work in the mines looked like slavery. They were all enslaved to work in horrid conditions day; some barely gaining any additional money after paying for living expenses. Those who refused to work get punished, getting replaced or arrested if caught in unionist activity. Such violent protests could've been solved if the owners added a few more cents to their ages or simply allowing them a Sunday off. Instead, they refused to heed into their demands, preferring to spend more money on replacement workers and Pinkertons than quell the protests.

Was there anything I could do? Not really. Exposing the whole situation to the Press wasn't going to happen seeing as how corporations basically have a hand in their operations. Convincing my boss to create laws that protected the workers was also unlikely. I'm sure the owners of the mines are paying him well for his support. In the end, I could only hope this situation doesn't explode like the ones in the East...

Charles didn't seem convinced with my argument. His eyes were full of bitterness, reluctant to meet my eyes. "You're aware of the corrupt labor officials aren't you?"

I sighed, "Sure, whatever you say." I finished my tenth glass of beer, done for the night.

I got up from my stool and fetched out a few scraps of change to pay for my drinks.

"Hey!" Charles shouted. "Where are you going?"

"Relax, Charlie," I brushed him off, "I'm only going home." I gave him a wink.

"Charles" was taken aback by my wink. He looked like he was about to lunge of his seat, ready to tackle me to the ground. "When?" he cautiously asked.

I shrugged. "You're too generous. Spend wisely next time," I suggested. I began to walk away, careful to keep myself from stumbling on my face in my drunken state.

He narrowed his eyes. "What I'm doing is justified," he shouted.

I waved him off. "Just because you're hired by the good guys doesn't mean you're doing good," I got the last word before leaving the bar, rambling around the streets before passing out in front of the inn.

~

By the time I woke up Saturday morning, I received a letter from a messenger, requesting I see my boss. Just in time, I managed to escape violence at the Frisco and Gem mines on Sunday and Monday. Thank goodness I didn't have to see that.

As for "Charles", the Friday night at the bar was the last time I saw him. After being found out, he escaped through the wooden floor of his room, saving his hide from the mob. His actions as an undercover agent were able to undermine the labor strike, almost getting away unscathed by the whole affair.

Well...almost....

☆☆☆☆☆

Idaho

Nickname: The Gem State

Human Name: Jasper Starr

Gender: Male

Age: 17

Foundation Date: Established as Idaho Territory in 1863.

Union Date: July 3, 1890 (43rd)

Hair Color: Hazelnut Brown

Eye Color: Burnt Brown

Notable Traits: Dark circles under his eyes, often making him appear moody which he usually does. Has a natural frown on his face. Has an ahoge standing straight up on the right side of his hair representing the Idaho Panhandle. Usually wears plain clothing with brown being the main color. However, he does wear his long, red scarf most of the time.

Favorite Foods/Drinks: Idaho Potato Ice Cream (don't ask him how he came up with the idea), Potato Chips, French Fries with Fry Sauce, Croquetas, Sturgeon Caviar, Ice Wine (drinks it sparingly in secret), Huckleberry Ice Cream, Habanero Pizza, Butter Cake, Owyhee Chocolates

Favorites: Appaloosa, Gems, Hiking, Nature Parks, Syringa Flowers

Personality: Boorish and Pessimistic. Despite loathing himself for being known for potatoes, he prides his love for the vegetable. Quite straitlaced with policies, anxious to change and anything foreign to him. His sarcasm can range from getting a chuckle to bitter, depressing awkwardness. Quite superstitious of the worse possibilities, so he's always ready for anything bad about to happen (often being wrong 95% of the time).

~

Idaho is, I'm not kidding, about potatoes. It took me a while, but I basically made Idaho to be Germany and Romano's love child. Or, Romano with a potato obsession... The state's history isn't that interesting, so feel free to leave suggestions I can work with. His personality in my opinion helps make the state stand out, so hopefully anyone from Idaho doesn't mind my own interpretation of the state.

Feel free to vote or leave a comment on your thoughts of Idaho or place suggestions for future chapters on Idaho (history, facts, etc.)