......into the filmy past
And so concludes another regular monthly meeting of Local 282 of the Amalgamated Transit Union, my bus-union at my old employer, Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, N.Y.
Attendance thereto had to wedged in among —1) getting the oil changed on our CR-V that morning, and —2) putting our beloved dog to sleep that afternoon.
My attendance at these meetings is sort of a joke, since as a retiree I am no longer an active employee at Transit, and can’t vote on union business.
But during my final years at Transit, the early ‘90s before my stroke October 26, 1993, which ended my bus-driving, I became deeply involved in my bus union, especially when I started doing my dreaded 282 newsletter.
I had to discontinue going to union meetings, when MessengerPost Newspapers, my post-stroke employer, started flying half the Post web-sites on Thursday, also the day of union meetings.
I was doing the Post web-sites, which often took all day. I’d come home utterly bushed, and had little time to eat supper before setting out to attend the union meeting — getting to the union meeting takes 45 minutes.
But last fall I decided to return to the union meetings. I had retired from the Messenger, so no longer had that excuse.
So far I have attended four or five meetings, all with little input. I can’t vote anyway.
My attendance at these meetings is little more than support for my union — and a reminder to union officials our pension hasn’t been updated (increased) for years. It could be.
What I’ve come away with is how much worse the job has become since I retired.
—A) Every meeting is a never-ending litany of assaults, threats, guns, and utter madness from the clientele; and management getting upset when the cops are called. (They wanna be called first, so the ne’er-do-wells don’t get thrown off the bus.)
Recently I’ve viewed You-Tube videos of bus-drivers being assaulted; on-board cameras recording the mayhem.
Usually when a bus-driver is assaulted, help is far away. On-road Transit managers may be glomming donuts, and are incensed their donut-break is violated by a mere bus-driver.
—B) The Scheduling Department has so reduced running-time, it is now necessary to speed. I had this problem running Main St. out to the eastside layover. I was given an hour to get out-and-back; and it was like the Scheduling Department hadn’t factored in my stopping at every stop to process passengers. I’d end up 10 minutes late: “Take it through; see what ya can do........”
Layover was a misnomer. What I was doing was blasting through, and changing the sign on-the-fly.
—C) It also appears some system has been installed, linked to the GPS transponders, to assure compliance with timepoints.
Well that’s just great.
I used to intentionally leave layovers 5-7 minutes late, so I could drive at a normal pace, yet get downtown at the sacred time.
My regular passengers adjusted their arrivals at bus-stops to agree with my scheduling.
Since I was doing this, I’d tell them if I might be away the next day, so they could adjust for an extra-man arriving at their bus-stop earlier than usual.
Plus there are often intermediate timepoints on the way out a line; like where a line crossed another, and a passenger could conceivably transfer.
I often arrived at such a timepoint earlier than scheduled, in which case I sometimes disregarded it, and blasted right through.
Usually when an intersecting bus had a transfer passenger I got notified of it.
And the passengers were hip. The most reliable transfer-point was downtown.
Now the vaunted system throws a red light at you, requiring you to stop if early at an intermediate timepoint. It goes green after the proper time passes.
Like all-of-sudden I’m supposed to stop in the traffic-lane, throw on my four-ways, and wait for the green light.
Worse yet is the system yammering at me to leave the layover at the assigned time, and impede traffic by running 10-15 mph slower.
Great; the clientele go bonkers, and assault the bus-driver. Management shows up after finishing their donuts and insists the thugs be driven home on the bus.
A driver also reported her system clock was five minutes different from that of another; which of course is her fault.
The meeting was the usual shouting-match.
A member droned on-and-on about statements on the Transit web-site about their vaunted GPS system being able to hold drivers to account for timely performance — despite earlier verbal assurances by Transit managers the GPS system wouldn’t be used to do that.
The union Business-Agent wanted to respond, and was finally allowed to do so, but as soon as he began he was interrupted by the protester.
So much for Roberts Rules of Order.
The protester then stomped out in an angry huff, cursing everyone.
I haven’t attended a union-meeting yet where this sort of thing doesn’t happen.
Is it any wonder Transit management perceives the union as divided?
It also reminds me of some of my fellow bus-drivers from the early ‘90s; how they felt the union was a complete waste, and union officials were a bunch of stupid obstructionists.
“If you guys had any idea what it’s like to sit with these people at contract negotiations,” the Business-Agent said.
“Here we are in this hall facing a bunch of self-proclaimed elitists who think we’re a bunch of stupid dolts.”
It helps that Dominic Zarcone (“zar-CONE”), one of my old friends at Transit, has become a union official.
Zarcone was sort of a zealot, Catholic if that’s possible, but has been educated about the futility of dealing with Transit management.
“They’ve disrespected us and mistreat us!” he loudly proclaimed.
“Should we be even arbitrating this?” a member asked.
It’s the ancient waazoo I heard at early ‘90s union meetings: “Too many arbitrations.”
“Last year the arbitration assessments per member totaled $174,” the Business-Agent said. “Which is peanuts compared to our income.”
“And we won most arbitrations. One proposed arbitration led to a settlement before the arbitration began. Management stonewalls until the arbitration is about to begin, and then caves.”
“We have to force these people to get anywhere at all,” Zarcone said. “Buckle the slightest, and they jump all over us!”
Hooray; Zarcone has figured it out.
Get involved with the Union, and you see what jerks Transit management is.
Apparently Transit management, in its infinite wisdom, has seen fit to have an on-site memorial to a prior union president moved to a less honorable location.
Well okay; this isn’t even union business, but the Union is suggesting moving the memorial to the union hall.
A few years ago, a bus-driver was murdered at a bus-loop, so Transit memorialized her by naming the bus-barns after her.
“I don’t know who David Jones (the memorialized union-president) is,” the protester said; “but I know who Mary Jackson is, and rumor has it Transit wants to take her name down.”
The ancient waazoo: rumors and innuendo.
“Well, I remember David Jones,” I said.
“So do I,” said the Business-Agent.
Around-and-around we went.
“The head-honcho wants a building named after her him,” someone said.
“Yeah; I gotta building for him. We could use some new latrines,” the Business-Agent said.
“Way to go, Frank,” I said. Memories of the Hazel Merriman memorial outhouses at her beloved Unibersity of Rochester.
“Any old business?” Radical-Dude asked.
“I hereby move to adjourn the meeting,” someone shouted.
“Seconded, third, fourth.”
We all left.
“Make sure we lock the building, and set the alarm,” Frank said.
Attendance thereto had to wedged in among —1) getting the oil changed on our CR-V that morning, and —2) putting our beloved dog to sleep that afternoon.
My attendance at these meetings is sort of a joke, since as a retiree I am no longer an active employee at Transit, and can’t vote on union business.
But during my final years at Transit, the early ‘90s before my stroke October 26, 1993, which ended my bus-driving, I became deeply involved in my bus union, especially when I started doing my dreaded 282 newsletter.
I had to discontinue going to union meetings, when MessengerPost Newspapers, my post-stroke employer, started flying half the Post web-sites on Thursday, also the day of union meetings.
I was doing the Post web-sites, which often took all day. I’d come home utterly bushed, and had little time to eat supper before setting out to attend the union meeting — getting to the union meeting takes 45 minutes.
But last fall I decided to return to the union meetings. I had retired from the Messenger, so no longer had that excuse.
So far I have attended four or five meetings, all with little input. I can’t vote anyway.
My attendance at these meetings is little more than support for my union — and a reminder to union officials our pension hasn’t been updated (increased) for years. It could be.
What I’ve come away with is how much worse the job has become since I retired.
—A) Every meeting is a never-ending litany of assaults, threats, guns, and utter madness from the clientele; and management getting upset when the cops are called. (They wanna be called first, so the ne’er-do-wells don’t get thrown off the bus.)
Recently I’ve viewed You-Tube videos of bus-drivers being assaulted; on-board cameras recording the mayhem.
Usually when a bus-driver is assaulted, help is far away. On-road Transit managers may be glomming donuts, and are incensed their donut-break is violated by a mere bus-driver.
—B) The Scheduling Department has so reduced running-time, it is now necessary to speed. I had this problem running Main St. out to the eastside layover. I was given an hour to get out-and-back; and it was like the Scheduling Department hadn’t factored in my stopping at every stop to process passengers. I’d end up 10 minutes late: “Take it through; see what ya can do........”
Layover was a misnomer. What I was doing was blasting through, and changing the sign on-the-fly.
—C) It also appears some system has been installed, linked to the GPS transponders, to assure compliance with timepoints.
Well that’s just great.
I used to intentionally leave layovers 5-7 minutes late, so I could drive at a normal pace, yet get downtown at the sacred time.
My regular passengers adjusted their arrivals at bus-stops to agree with my scheduling.
Since I was doing this, I’d tell them if I might be away the next day, so they could adjust for an extra-man arriving at their bus-stop earlier than usual.
Plus there are often intermediate timepoints on the way out a line; like where a line crossed another, and a passenger could conceivably transfer.
I often arrived at such a timepoint earlier than scheduled, in which case I sometimes disregarded it, and blasted right through.
Usually when an intersecting bus had a transfer passenger I got notified of it.
And the passengers were hip. The most reliable transfer-point was downtown.
Now the vaunted system throws a red light at you, requiring you to stop if early at an intermediate timepoint. It goes green after the proper time passes.
Like all-of-sudden I’m supposed to stop in the traffic-lane, throw on my four-ways, and wait for the green light.
Worse yet is the system yammering at me to leave the layover at the assigned time, and impede traffic by running 10-15 mph slower.
Great; the clientele go bonkers, and assault the bus-driver. Management shows up after finishing their donuts and insists the thugs be driven home on the bus.
A driver also reported her system clock was five minutes different from that of another; which of course is her fault.
The meeting was the usual shouting-match.
A member droned on-and-on about statements on the Transit web-site about their vaunted GPS system being able to hold drivers to account for timely performance — despite earlier verbal assurances by Transit managers the GPS system wouldn’t be used to do that.
The union Business-Agent wanted to respond, and was finally allowed to do so, but as soon as he began he was interrupted by the protester.
So much for Roberts Rules of Order.
The protester then stomped out in an angry huff, cursing everyone.
I haven’t attended a union-meeting yet where this sort of thing doesn’t happen.
Is it any wonder Transit management perceives the union as divided?
It also reminds me of some of my fellow bus-drivers from the early ‘90s; how they felt the union was a complete waste, and union officials were a bunch of stupid obstructionists.
“If you guys had any idea what it’s like to sit with these people at contract negotiations,” the Business-Agent said.
“Here we are in this hall facing a bunch of self-proclaimed elitists who think we’re a bunch of stupid dolts.”
It helps that Dominic Zarcone (“zar-CONE”), one of my old friends at Transit, has become a union official.
Zarcone was sort of a zealot, Catholic if that’s possible, but has been educated about the futility of dealing with Transit management.
“They’ve disrespected us and mistreat us!” he loudly proclaimed.
“Should we be even arbitrating this?” a member asked.
It’s the ancient waazoo I heard at early ‘90s union meetings: “Too many arbitrations.”
“Last year the arbitration assessments per member totaled $174,” the Business-Agent said. “Which is peanuts compared to our income.”
“And we won most arbitrations. One proposed arbitration led to a settlement before the arbitration began. Management stonewalls until the arbitration is about to begin, and then caves.”
“We have to force these people to get anywhere at all,” Zarcone said. “Buckle the slightest, and they jump all over us!”
Hooray; Zarcone has figured it out.
Get involved with the Union, and you see what jerks Transit management is.
Apparently Transit management, in its infinite wisdom, has seen fit to have an on-site memorial to a prior union president moved to a less honorable location.
Well okay; this isn’t even union business, but the Union is suggesting moving the memorial to the union hall.
A few years ago, a bus-driver was murdered at a bus-loop, so Transit memorialized her by naming the bus-barns after her.
“I don’t know who David Jones (the memorialized union-president) is,” the protester said; “but I know who Mary Jackson is, and rumor has it Transit wants to take her name down.”
The ancient waazoo: rumors and innuendo.
“Well, I remember David Jones,” I said.
“So do I,” said the Business-Agent.
Around-and-around we went.
“The head-honcho wants a building named after her him,” someone said.
“Yeah; I gotta building for him. We could use some new latrines,” the Business-Agent said.
“Way to go, Frank,” I said. Memories of the Hazel Merriman memorial outhouses at her beloved Unibersity of Rochester.
“Any old business?” Radical-Dude asked.
“I hereby move to adjourn the meeting,” someone shouted.
“Seconded, third, fourth.”
We all left.
“Make sure we lock the building, and set the alarm,” Frank said.
posted by BobbaLew at 11:14 AM
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