Thank ya, 282

Last night (Thursday, February 21, 2008) I attended the regular monthly meeting of Local 282 of the Amalgamated Transit Union, my old bus-union at Regional Transit Service.
It was 11:20 p.m. when I got home, which means the meeting adjourned at 10:38 p.m., 38 minutes beyond the allowed time; which means they had to move to extend the meeting.
“Holy mackerel,” I said when I arrived at 8:05 p.m., five minutes after the meeting started.
About 50 people were in the Hall; way more than I’ve ever seen.
Old Gwindell (“Gwin-DELL”) Bradley was the Sergeant-at-Arms, which means he was the keeper of the sign-in book, as well as he was supposed to maintain order, an immense challenge.
Gwindell was Union vice-president when I had my stroke, and would often chair meetings. He also required a disclaimer on my newsletter so the mindless management minions at Transit couldn’t sue the Union.
The badge-numbers of most signed in were 2200 or above; mine was only 1763.
Terry Stitt, the top of the seniority-list, has a three-number badge. I’m sure Bradley did too, but he’s retired.
So most didn’t know who I was, although most on the dais did; people like Dominick Zarcone and Craig Fien, both Union-reps, Radical-Dude (Ray Dunbar), and of course Frank Falzone (Business-Agent) and John Blocchi (long-time Recording Secretary).
Union prez Joe Carey was out with pneumonia.
Most ironic was some gray-haired 2200-badge rookie trying to say hello to me; which means he had no idea who I was, but I hadn’t been thrown out.
Every once in a while a cellphone would dingle loudly. (“Anyone with a cellphone please put it on vibrate,” Radical-Dude said.) And people had BlueTooth earpieces in their ear, blinking constantly.
The Union-meeting was the usual surfeit of yelling and screaming.
“What we need is a memo from you guys to all union employees detailing what transpired here.”
“We had a newsletter once.”
“Why are the runs getting tighter and tighter?”
“Because you guys keep making the time.”
“How are we supposed to adequately judge on this issue if we have to be brought up-to-date on everything?”
“So where were ya at the last meeting? How come this is the first one ya’ve attended in years?”
I was especially frustrated by this last issue.
Back-and-forth it went. “Shaddup!” “No you shaddup.” “All I did was ask a simple question!” Bam-bam-bam (Bradley in the back). “Point of order!”
Poor Radical-Dude (the current Union vice-president) was chairing the meeting. “Siddown,” he bellowed. “You’re flying all over the place; you’re not discussing the issue at hand.”
There was so much racket I covered my ears; but was tempted to ask where all the blowhards were last meeting, which had to be canceled for lack of a quorum (only 15).
“These meetings are getting to be fun,” a guy in front of me said.
“We gotta stop all this yelling and screaming, Frank.”
“Every member is entitled to make a statement,” Frank said. “It’s called ‘democracy.’”

For 16&1/2 years I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, N.Y. It was a fun job that payed fairly well, but management were jerks.

RE: “When I had my stroke.....” —I had a stroke October 26, 1993, which ended my bus-driving.

RE: “My newsletter.......” —During my final year at Transit I did an unpaid voluntary union newsletter with Word called the “282 News.”

“Frank” is of course “Frank Falzone” (Union Business-Agent).