ya gotta make an appointment
Yesterday (Wednesday, April 21, 2010) was a regular quarterly meeting of the dreaded 282 Alumni.
“Dreaded” because my siblings are all flagrantly anti-union.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY. While there I belonged to the local division (“Local 282”) of the nationwide Amalgamated Transit Union (“What’s ‘ah-two'”). Our local holds a regular business meeting the third Thursday of each month.
The so-called “Alumni” are the union retirees of Regional Transit Service in Rochester, NY. The Alumni was a reaction to the fact Transit management retirees ran roughshod over union retirees — a continuation of the bad vibes at Transit: management versus union. Transit had a club for long-time employees, and I was in it. It was called the “15/25-year Club;” I guess at first the “25-year Club.” But they lowered the employment requirement, and renamed it “15/25-year Club.” The employment requirement was lowered even more; I joined at 10 years. My employ there ended in 1993 with my stroke; and the “Alumni” didn’t exist then. The Alumni is a special club — you have to join.
The intended speaker didn't show up, so it was more a social get-together.
The meetings are held at the Blue Horizon Restaurant, a grungy dive worthy of consideration for an Extreme Makeover — a la Pennington and his blue-helmeted minions.
It's hard by the Rochester International Airport, in fact right under the northern approach to Runway 22/4, the only active runway for commercial jets.
—That is, it's long enough for commercial jets.
If the wind is from the south or west, planes land on 22, north-to-south.
If the wind is from the north or east, planes land on 4, the same runway, but south-to-north.
Perhaps the Blue Angels could strafe the place; or bomb it with napalm.
If that happened the rest-rooms would be declared a toxic zone.
Cordoned off with yellow “Caution” ribbon.
I had to use the Mens Room after I got there — perish-the-thought.
I went into the toilet stall — the toilet seat was still disconnected and flopping around like it was years ago.
It would never pass muster with my wife.
The seat was covered with filth — cooties.
Gas-station rest rooms are better, except the bowl seemed to be cleaned.
Usually at gas-stations they aren't.
The stall door-lock was dysfunctional; you had to depend on it being jammed shut.
The rest-room light was a bare 25-watt bulb.
Into the dark-and-dirty dungeon.
Since there were about 30 of us, we had the separate conference-room.
Um, it's not the Hotel Roanoke.
Probably the only users of that conference-room are us Alumni — and perhaps the Teamsters.
The place is a restaurant, so the attendees all eat there.
But I never do.
I can imagine some corpulent hairball in a sweaty tee-shirt slaving over a hot grill slathered with grease.
“What'll ya have, Hon?” the flopsy overweight waitress asked.
“Two eggs-over-easy, two sausage patties, rye toast, bacon and coffee,” a patron responded.
“And what'll you have?” the waitress asked me.
“Just this coffee,” I said. The Alumni pays for the coffee.
Passenger jets were flying right over the Blue Horizon approaching Runway 22.
The wind was from the south.
They were muffled, but you could hear them. And they cast a moving shadow as they passed over.
After the meeting I stepped outside, and a commercial jet was on final approach aimed at Runway 22.
It was aimed about 10 degrees to the right of the runway.
“I hope that sucker has it right,” I thought. “I bet it ain't Sullenberger.” (Sully retired on March 3 of this year.)
I parked myself across from my old friend Gary Colvin (“coal-VIN”), who like me also drove bus.
Stories got swapped. Best was Gary's bus crippling right in the middle of an expressway interchange, and the brakes on my 306-bus taking well over a second to keep out of a black Dodge Omni.
I also said something about driving my 300-type bus straight through a 12-foot snow-berm.
300s were articulated (bendable), so backing was impossible.
Colvin is a model railroader.
I had roped him into helping Art Dana (“DAY-nuh”), the retired bus driver with fairly severe Parkinson's Disease.
Art had built an HO model-railroad running track in his basement, and it was giving him problems.
I probably could have helped him myself, but I ain't Colvin.
Colvin had visited Art a few times, and got his layout running sweetly.
“So Art, why doncha call Hughsey, and you can run trains?”
“Nice idea,” Art said; “but with Hughes ya gotta make an appointment.”
“Ain't that the truth!” I crowed to Colvin.
“Just to do this meeting I had to scotch the YMCA, and delay the lawn-mowing.
Plus make sure nothing else conflicted. If I'd had a medical appointment, and I have many, I wouldn't be here.
How many times have I rescheduled appointments to avoid conflicts?”
• “What’s ‘ah-two?’” is something my mother asked seeing my ATU (Amalgamated Transit Union) button.
• My wife of 42+ years is “Linda.”
• “Hotel Roanoke” is in Roanoke, VA; a large hotel once affiliated with the Norfolk & Western Railroad, which goes by right out front. It still exists, but is now also an executive conference center.
• “Hughsey” is me, Bob Hughes, BobbaLew.
“Dreaded” because my siblings are all flagrantly anti-union.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY. While there I belonged to the local division (“Local 282”) of the nationwide Amalgamated Transit Union (“What’s ‘ah-two'”). Our local holds a regular business meeting the third Thursday of each month.
The so-called “Alumni” are the union retirees of Regional Transit Service in Rochester, NY. The Alumni was a reaction to the fact Transit management retirees ran roughshod over union retirees — a continuation of the bad vibes at Transit: management versus union. Transit had a club for long-time employees, and I was in it. It was called the “15/25-year Club;” I guess at first the “25-year Club.” But they lowered the employment requirement, and renamed it “15/25-year Club.” The employment requirement was lowered even more; I joined at 10 years. My employ there ended in 1993 with my stroke; and the “Alumni” didn’t exist then. The Alumni is a special club — you have to join.
The intended speaker didn't show up, so it was more a social get-together.
The meetings are held at the Blue Horizon Restaurant, a grungy dive worthy of consideration for an Extreme Makeover — a la Pennington and his blue-helmeted minions.
It's hard by the Rochester International Airport, in fact right under the northern approach to Runway 22/4, the only active runway for commercial jets.
—That is, it's long enough for commercial jets.
If the wind is from the south or west, planes land on 22, north-to-south.
If the wind is from the north or east, planes land on 4, the same runway, but south-to-north.
Perhaps the Blue Angels could strafe the place; or bomb it with napalm.
If that happened the rest-rooms would be declared a toxic zone.
Cordoned off with yellow “Caution” ribbon.
I had to use the Mens Room after I got there — perish-the-thought.
I went into the toilet stall — the toilet seat was still disconnected and flopping around like it was years ago.
It would never pass muster with my wife.
The seat was covered with filth — cooties.
Gas-station rest rooms are better, except the bowl seemed to be cleaned.
Usually at gas-stations they aren't.
The stall door-lock was dysfunctional; you had to depend on it being jammed shut.
The rest-room light was a bare 25-watt bulb.
Into the dark-and-dirty dungeon.
Since there were about 30 of us, we had the separate conference-room.
Um, it's not the Hotel Roanoke.
Probably the only users of that conference-room are us Alumni — and perhaps the Teamsters.
The place is a restaurant, so the attendees all eat there.
But I never do.
I can imagine some corpulent hairball in a sweaty tee-shirt slaving over a hot grill slathered with grease.
“What'll ya have, Hon?” the flopsy overweight waitress asked.
“Two eggs-over-easy, two sausage patties, rye toast, bacon and coffee,” a patron responded.
“And what'll you have?” the waitress asked me.
“Just this coffee,” I said. The Alumni pays for the coffee.
Passenger jets were flying right over the Blue Horizon approaching Runway 22.
The wind was from the south.
They were muffled, but you could hear them. And they cast a moving shadow as they passed over.
After the meeting I stepped outside, and a commercial jet was on final approach aimed at Runway 22.
It was aimed about 10 degrees to the right of the runway.
“I hope that sucker has it right,” I thought. “I bet it ain't Sullenberger.” (Sully retired on March 3 of this year.)
I parked myself across from my old friend Gary Colvin (“coal-VIN”), who like me also drove bus.
Stories got swapped. Best was Gary's bus crippling right in the middle of an expressway interchange, and the brakes on my 306-bus taking well over a second to keep out of a black Dodge Omni.
I also said something about driving my 300-type bus straight through a 12-foot snow-berm.
300s were articulated (bendable), so backing was impossible.
Colvin is a model railroader.
I had roped him into helping Art Dana (“DAY-nuh”), the retired bus driver with fairly severe Parkinson's Disease.
Art had built an HO model-railroad running track in his basement, and it was giving him problems.
I probably could have helped him myself, but I ain't Colvin.
Colvin had visited Art a few times, and got his layout running sweetly.
“So Art, why doncha call Hughsey, and you can run trains?”
“Nice idea,” Art said; “but with Hughes ya gotta make an appointment.”
“Ain't that the truth!” I crowed to Colvin.
“Just to do this meeting I had to scotch the YMCA, and delay the lawn-mowing.
Plus make sure nothing else conflicted. If I'd had a medical appointment, and I have many, I wouldn't be here.
How many times have I rescheduled appointments to avoid conflicts?”
• “What’s ‘ah-two?’” is something my mother asked seeing my ATU (Amalgamated Transit Union) button.
• My wife of 42+ years is “Linda.”
• “Hotel Roanoke” is in Roanoke, VA; a large hotel once affiliated with the Norfolk & Western Railroad, which goes by right out front. It still exists, but is now also an executive conference center.
• “Hughsey” is me, Bob Hughes, BobbaLew.
posted by BobbaLew at 8:58 AM
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