Another gathering of eagles

Visible (left to right) are Ricardo, Murray, Douty, Palermo (standing), me, John Aguglia (“uh-GOOL-yuh), and others. (Photo by Gary Coleman.)

Yesterday (Tuesday, May 11, 2010) was a luncheon of retirees of Regional Transit Service (RTS), both management and non-management.
Regional Transit Service is the supplier of transit bus service in Rochester, NY and the surrounding area.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for RTS. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
Working for RTS was difficult, but mainly because of the clientele, which could be ornery and difficult.
It was like being a policeman; your life was always on the line.
Beyond that, RTS brooked no insanity on the part of its employees; e.g. its bus-drivers. You had to -1) show up (be regular), -2) not hit anything, and -3) keep your hands out of the farebox.
Up until the '60s, bus-service was a means of commuting downtown. Most passengers were commuters.
But things began to change.
As downtown Rochester withered, the passenger demography changed.
More-and-more we were carrying the halt, the maim, those who otherwise could not drive.
We were also carrying the ne'er-do-wells, the trouble-makers; those inclined to rebel against RTS — as symbolized by its bus-drivers.
We found ourselves following a fourth rule; one management probably was aware of, but never heard about from us.
That rule was DON'T GET SHOT!
Passengers could get away with anything; laundry receipts as transfers, pennies on the fare.
Bus-drivers and mechanics were unionized at RTS; that goes back to trolley days and a private employer.
Union-management relations at RTS were tortured.
Management was insulated from the world bus-drivers encountered every day, and was inclined to just keep things going.
Bus-drivers were charged for all-and-sundry, often unfairly.
Union members were looking for every possible opening to stick it to management.
Passengers often suffered the fruits of this continual donnybrook, and middle managers got it from both ends.
Working for Transit paid well (thanks to the union), but was a bucking bronco.
Hours were brutal (e.g. start at 5 a.m.).
Most days you had to keep junky equipment between the lines in all kinds of weather, and parry thugs.
As such we Transit retirees have all experienced it; the madness of working for Transit.
We're a special breed, a brotherhood. We all parried the madness.
The management among us were middle management, the ones that got it from both ends.
The luncheon was at Nick's Sea Breeze Inn, in northeast Rochester across from Seabreeze Amusement Park by Lake Ontario.
Seabreeze is an old amusement park that still exists.
There used to be trolley service up to it, but now it's RTS. —I drove it years ago. It was fairly pleasant.
Nick's is an Italian restaurant, across from Seabreeze, patronized in the past by Frank Sinatra and Luciano Pavarotti.
All the regulars were there including Gary Colvin (“COAL-vin”), Ron Palermo (“Pa-LAIR-moe”) and Gary Coleman (“COAL-min”).
Coleman had been a road-supervisor at RTS, previously a bus-driver.
He also had two strokes, which left him semi-paralyzed — left side.
Road-supervisors were management, alone in road-supervisor cars to supervise bus operations and settle passenger disputes.
I picked up Art Dana (“DAY-nuh”), the retired RTS bus-driver with fairly severe Parkinson's disease.
Art's wife is gone, so he lives with his sister in nearby Pittsford, NY.
Pittsford is a suburb southeast of Rochester.
Art is 69, and no longer drives.
We have similar interests, hot-rod cars and trains.
I have to come from West Bloomfield, so Art is along-the-way.
Before going in, someone complained to Colvin about the filth of his minivan.
“I bought it to drive it, not wash it,” Colvin snapped.
Thereby proving yet again the quickness of snide remarks that made you a successful bus-driver.
The luncheon was sorta depressing, but only because we're all older and decrepit.
Jim Douty (“DOW-deee”) was there, who started shortly before me.
He has apparently lost part of a leg, and uses a prothesis.
“My wife still works, 11 p.m. until 7 a.m, so I have to tiptoe around to not wake her during the day,” he said.
“I can't handle stairs,” another retired bus-driver complained.
“Knees,” he said.
Colvin said he was also having knee problems, and he always seemed pretty spry.
He also detailed a long story about being unable to get his veteran's benefits card.
Others were rendering long sorry stories about the travails of getting adequate healthcare.
I watched silently, realizing how lucky I was. Noticing difficulty getting up, I started doing leg-presses at the Canandaigua YMCA.
I also started exercises to improve my balance — which had been getting worse.
Most take many prescriptions; I only take one. Art takes over 20.
Coleman the stroke-survivor was sitting across from me. I'm also a stroke-survivor — although Coleman is in slightly worse shape than me.
Although he's still pretty ornery, and so am I.
We'd start stories, but the old speech difficulties would kick in, and our dissertations would drift into nothing.
Writing for me is easy, but speech compromised.
Finally, time to settle up.
Palermo, who was next to me, had apparently made the reservation, so the bill for our entire table was presented to him.
Each would pay $13.29.
I forked over a twenty, and Palermo went and got change. Returned, he handed me $13, which I was to give him.
So I handed him $20, but didn't get the difference between $13 and $20.
Not that I worry about it.
These things are always a hairball, plus socializing is worth $7.
Most interesting to me was Ricardo Junco (“HUNE-koh”), who I last saw in 1993.
I recognized the voice, and the older appearance, but I couldn't remember his name.
Finally, “Ricardo Junco,” someone said; a native of Cuba, I think.
Ricardo was a talker, and probably survived as a bus-driver because of it.
I also saw Dan Kiley (“KYE-lee”). “My memory of you is you standing at one urinal, and me next to you. We always pulled out at the same time.”
Most tragic was my encounter with old friend Murray Schroeder (“SHROW-drrr”), a bus-driver a few classes before me.
Murray and I became fast friends — we both liked motorcycles. —I almost bought his old Triumph in the late '70s.
“Sorry the old speech-center doesn't work too well,” I told him. “Otherwise I could socialize better.”
“Still married to the same woman?” Murray said, turning to someone else.
Luncheon over, we all paraded out, and Douty roared off in a chirp of tire-rubber.
He had applied his prothesis to the gas-pedal of his Mustang.
I took Art back home.
I explained I had forwarded Palermo's e-mail invite to Dave Brown.
“Not sure I should have,” I said. “Brownie is management.”
“Stuff like that doesn't matter any more, Hughsey,” Art said.
“Brownie was a class act, and we all survived Transit. Plus it's great to see everyone.”
I agreed.

• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA exercise-gym. (“Canandaigua” [“cannon-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city to the east nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away.)
• We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, and it slightly compromised my speech. (Difficulty putting words together.)
• “Hughsey” (“huze-EEE”) is me, Bob Hughes, BobbaLew.