Joe Carey
The other day (Monday, December 3, 2007) I had occasion to call long-time Maximum-Leader (prez) Joe Carey (“Carry”) of Local 282, the Rochester-chapter of the Amalgamated Transit Union, my old bus-union at Regional Transit Service.
Joe has been president for years, ever since David Jones died back about 1990 due to melanoma, or was allegedly killed per some union activists because he was too much a union activist.
Joe may have been prez a few years before David Jones, and is less an activist.
I was advised to call him by Union Business-Agent Frank Falzone (“fowl-ZONE”), who has come to accommodate Joe even though at first he thought Joe was too conciliatory.
Joe and Frank are the onliest full-time union employees — that is, they are in the Union-office all the time; i.e. they never drives buses, which they once did.
Only two union officials versus a Transit-management staff of “hunderds.”
It’s kind of a sorry mess; Joe and Frank riding a bucking bronco.
When I started driving bus in 1977, the Union prez was a guy named Bert. Both he and the Business-Agent were accused of collusion with Transit-management, although we had a cost-of-living escalator.
Finally “the Bert-and-Larry Show” got tossed, and Transit-management became more intransigent.
The cost-of-living escalator got thrown out — I remember all the weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. Transit management was appalled we lowly bus-drivers were costing over $33,000 per year.
Yet management salaries started at $40,000, and that was just the start. We union-activists instituted a freedom-of-information inquiry, causing weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth among Transit-management. (40,000 smackaroos just to drive a desk and guzzle free coffee.)
Frank is more an activist. He was Business-Agent with David Jones, and felt Joe Carey was just reinstitution of “the Bert-and-Larry Show.”
But Joe’s somewhat an activist too. Apparently there were torrid donnybrooks at first, but now Joe and Frank get along.
Frank seems more attuned to current operations, parrying all the madness Transit dishes out.
Joe is more attuned to retiree-rights, but only more so than Frank, since both are involved in day-to-day Transit operations.
So Frank suggested I should call Joe. Joe wasn’t at the November union-meeting, and I had brought up the fact Transit was wanting me to enroll in another retiree health-coverage, since Blue Cross was discontinuing the one I had.
“Sounds like Joe,” I said.
“Yes it is. Who’s this?” Joe asked.
“Hi Bob, how ya doin’?” (He knows me from our days when I did the “282-News.”)
Joe had only a cursory knowledge regarding my question, so was hesitant to render advice.
But it sounds like Transit isn’t screwing around. They are required by contract to supply health-insurance to Transit-retirees, so their offer is for me to enroll in an equivalent of my expiring Blue-Cross coverage.
“Lemme know what you decide to do,” he said. “We’re only talking about 10 retirees.”
“I’ve passed your house ‘hunderds’ of times, but never see ya out.”
“Wanna hear the next joke, Joe?” I asked.
“Blue-Cross has my wife as a Transit-retiree!”
“That’s not possible. She’s your wife,” he said. “How can they do that?”
“You tell me,” I crowed.
Joe wasn’t much of a bus-driver, at least as adjudged by the passengers, which was how Transit judged us.
When Joe was driving bus, sometimes as an extra-man he’d get the other all-day bus on Main St.; 801 (I had 802). On the east side of the city we only had an hour to get from downtown, out to the layover, and back downtown. 801 and 802 were an hour apart — one-hour headway out East Main.
It took about a half-hour to 40 minutes to get to the end of East Main, where ya turned left on Winton Road, and then up Merchants Road to Wyand Crescent and the layover on Dorchester.
Coming back ya usually passed the other bus at the East-Main/Winton intersection, but when Joe drove it, I might get halfway back to downtown before passing him.
Here he’d be, stopped at some bus-stop, arguing with some passenger, following all the silly rules at Transit, so that he was already 20 minutes late.
If a mirror or wiper came loose, I fixed the stuff myself. I wasn’t waitin’ for no mechanic. It comes from having been a bus-passenger myself. The silly rules could be an impediment to getting people to work or home.
So having been a bus-passenger myself, I bent the rules and disregarded those that could be disregarded.
I wasn’t about to compromise safety — I had the temerity to look for loose lug-nuts; I wasn’t about to have a wheel come off.
And when the wheelchair-lifts were started, I had the the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to check operation of wheelchair-lifts. Once I got out 40 minutes late, after refusing five buses with non-operable wheelchair-lifts. I wasn’t about to start out with a non-operable wheelchair-lift.
Transit, in its infinite wisdom, blamed me for the 40-minute late-out. They couldn’t blame the non-operable wheelchair-lifts.
But Joe enforced all the silly rules, even those that didn’t make any sense.
At a post-roadeo banquet I observed that only three things really mattered regarding bus-operation (jaws dropped as everyone stopped eating): -1) show up, -2) don’t hit anything, and -3) keep your hands outta the till. A mindless management minion sheepishly agreed. (Some of the silly rules could be disregarded.)
Joe, on-the-other-hand, enforced all the silly rules, including stopping if it got icy. If the passengers didn’t like it, he was only doing his job.
Joe has been president for years, ever since David Jones died back about 1990 due to melanoma, or was allegedly killed per some union activists because he was too much a union activist.
Joe may have been prez a few years before David Jones, and is less an activist.
I was advised to call him by Union Business-Agent Frank Falzone (“fowl-ZONE”), who has come to accommodate Joe even though at first he thought Joe was too conciliatory.
Joe and Frank are the onliest full-time union employees — that is, they are in the Union-office all the time; i.e. they never drives buses, which they once did.
Only two union officials versus a Transit-management staff of “hunderds.”
It’s kind of a sorry mess; Joe and Frank riding a bucking bronco.
When I started driving bus in 1977, the Union prez was a guy named Bert. Both he and the Business-Agent were accused of collusion with Transit-management, although we had a cost-of-living escalator.
Finally “the Bert-and-Larry Show” got tossed, and Transit-management became more intransigent.
The cost-of-living escalator got thrown out — I remember all the weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. Transit management was appalled we lowly bus-drivers were costing over $33,000 per year.
Yet management salaries started at $40,000, and that was just the start. We union-activists instituted a freedom-of-information inquiry, causing weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth among Transit-management. (40,000 smackaroos just to drive a desk and guzzle free coffee.)
Frank is more an activist. He was Business-Agent with David Jones, and felt Joe Carey was just reinstitution of “the Bert-and-Larry Show.”
But Joe’s somewhat an activist too. Apparently there were torrid donnybrooks at first, but now Joe and Frank get along.
Frank seems more attuned to current operations, parrying all the madness Transit dishes out.
Joe is more attuned to retiree-rights, but only more so than Frank, since both are involved in day-to-day Transit operations.
So Frank suggested I should call Joe. Joe wasn’t at the November union-meeting, and I had brought up the fact Transit was wanting me to enroll in another retiree health-coverage, since Blue Cross was discontinuing the one I had.
“Sounds like Joe,” I said.
“Yes it is. Who’s this?” Joe asked.
“Hi Bob, how ya doin’?” (He knows me from our days when I did the “282-News.”)
Joe had only a cursory knowledge regarding my question, so was hesitant to render advice.
But it sounds like Transit isn’t screwing around. They are required by contract to supply health-insurance to Transit-retirees, so their offer is for me to enroll in an equivalent of my expiring Blue-Cross coverage.
“Lemme know what you decide to do,” he said. “We’re only talking about 10 retirees.”
“I’ve passed your house ‘hunderds’ of times, but never see ya out.”
“Wanna hear the next joke, Joe?” I asked.
“Blue-Cross has my wife as a Transit-retiree!”
“That’s not possible. She’s your wife,” he said. “How can they do that?”
“You tell me,” I crowed.
Joe wasn’t much of a bus-driver, at least as adjudged by the passengers, which was how Transit judged us.
When Joe was driving bus, sometimes as an extra-man he’d get the other all-day bus on Main St.; 801 (I had 802). On the east side of the city we only had an hour to get from downtown, out to the layover, and back downtown. 801 and 802 were an hour apart — one-hour headway out East Main.
It took about a half-hour to 40 minutes to get to the end of East Main, where ya turned left on Winton Road, and then up Merchants Road to Wyand Crescent and the layover on Dorchester.
Coming back ya usually passed the other bus at the East-Main/Winton intersection, but when Joe drove it, I might get halfway back to downtown before passing him.
Here he’d be, stopped at some bus-stop, arguing with some passenger, following all the silly rules at Transit, so that he was already 20 minutes late.
If a mirror or wiper came loose, I fixed the stuff myself. I wasn’t waitin’ for no mechanic. It comes from having been a bus-passenger myself. The silly rules could be an impediment to getting people to work or home.
So having been a bus-passenger myself, I bent the rules and disregarded those that could be disregarded.
I wasn’t about to compromise safety — I had the temerity to look for loose lug-nuts; I wasn’t about to have a wheel come off.
And when the wheelchair-lifts were started, I had the the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to check operation of wheelchair-lifts. Once I got out 40 minutes late, after refusing five buses with non-operable wheelchair-lifts. I wasn’t about to start out with a non-operable wheelchair-lift.
Transit, in its infinite wisdom, blamed me for the 40-minute late-out. They couldn’t blame the non-operable wheelchair-lifts.
But Joe enforced all the silly rules, even those that didn’t make any sense.
At a post-roadeo banquet I observed that only three things really mattered regarding bus-operation (jaws dropped as everyone stopped eating): -1) show up, -2) don’t hit anything, and -3) keep your hands outta the till. A mindless management minion sheepishly agreed. (Some of the silly rules could be disregarded.)
Joe, on-the-other-hand, enforced all the silly rules, including stopping if it got icy. If the passengers didn’t like it, he was only doing his job.
posted by BobbaLew at 12:02 PM
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