Show of hands

“I need a show of hands,” said Linda Giordano, a sales representative for Care-Point Medical, at a recent meeting the the dreaded Alumni.
The so-called “Alumni” are the union retirees of Regional Transit Service in Rochester, NY.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS — “Transit”), a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs.
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. It’s an Amalgamated Transit Union (ATU) functionary. (ATU is nationwide.)
It isn’t just a social club.
It has bylaws, officers, and an Executive Board.
In many ways it’s just like our union-local, except it entertains issues of interest to retirees; like Medicare, healthcare, and diabetes and Alzheimer’s.
“Dreaded” because all my siblings are flagrantly anti-union, like the proper way for hourlies to parry the massive management juggernaut is one employee at a time; in which case that single employee gets trampled because he’s not presenting a united front with power equal to the management juggernaut.
“How many in this room have diabetes?” she asked.
A forest of hands shot up.
“Everyone in this room has diabetes,” said Major Anderson, a retired bus-driver.
“Not me,” I shouted.
“Nor me,” said my friend Ray Dunbar (“done-bar”), recently retired, sitting across from me.
It was Dunbar (who I called “Radical-Dude”) and I who caused great consternation among Transit management by publishing a union newsletter.
I was the volunteer editor and publisher, and Dunbar circulated it among local politicians.
We were loudly excoriated as despicable union activists by Transit management because for once our side was getting perused by those that funded Transit.
We were rocking the boat — DREAD!
Our meeting was held at the Golden Fox Restaurant, not the infamous Blue Horizon, site of previous meetings.
The Blue Horizon was being remodeled.
We also call it the Blue Cockroach, since it seems to be cockroach infested.
“I hope those remodelers have hazmat suits,” I observed.
“And ya don’t even need to go into the rest rooms,” said my friend Gary Colvin (“COAL-vin”), also a retired bus-driver.
“All ya do is open the door and aim in.
Ya don’t dare go in lest ya get peed on.”
Last meeting I went in the rest-room and Brother Tom Hyder (“high-drrrr”), another retired bus-driver, and Recording Secretary of the Alumni, was sitting on the can.
He came out, and “you dared sit on that seat?” I said.
“Ya gotta be careful,” he said. “It’s not attached.”
Which means toilet-users have to stash the seat. It won’t prop open.
People don’t.
“Cooties,” I said.
“Make sure ya shower!” I told him.
Ms. Giordano trotted out her display of various medical paraphernalia.
Including shoes.
“Everyone with diabetes is entitled the one free pair of shoes per year. Medicare pays for them. Our shoes are specially designed for diabetes patients.
Plus here we have our back-braces.
Velcro attachment with a pulley to pull it tight.”
Funny, I’ve never needed a back-brace; I use a McKenzie Lumbar Roll.
Dunbar related how the bottom five vertebra of his spine fused together after collapse and required an operation.
Driving bus would do that to you, sitting in that seat.
I got so I used the Lumbar Roll while bus-driving to put the proper lumbar curve in my back.
I told management they could save a bundle on disability for back-pain, but was laughed at.
Like, I’m just a bus-driver — what do I know?
Same with the driver-seats, which had a habit of collapsing and throwing you on the floor.
“Can’t possibly happen,” I was told.
“It just happened to me!”
The old waazoo — “You’re just a bus-driver; what could you possibly know?”
“I’ll send out a sign-up sheet,” Ms. Giordano said. “Write down your name and phone-number, and I’ll come to your house and fit you for shoes. They won’t cost you anything. Medicare and your secondary insurance.”
“But I’m out in the boondocks,” Colvin said.
(He lives about 40 miles east of Rochester, in a very rural area.
His road isn’t in Google Street-Views.)
“I see you already have the free shoes,” Ms. Giordano said to Colvin. “Dr. Comfort.”
“Also free,” Colvin said. “But not Care-Point.”

• I had a stroke October 26, 1993.
• “Google Street-Views” are a Google picture of what’s viewable from the street. Apparently a car traveled the street with a fish-eye video camera to record everything viewable from the street. This is nationwide, but not every road is in “Google Street-Views,” although most are.