Business-as-usual

Breakfast for the dreaded Alumni. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

The other day (Wednesday, May 16, 2012) was the first meeting of the dreaded Alumni I attended since my wife died.
I could have skipped this meeting, but I attended to fight depression. I find if I keep active I don’t have time to get depressed.
And I can get extraordinarily depressed with time on my hands.
Fortunately the sun was out the following day, so I could mow.
I was outta town for a wedding the following weekend, so the lawn could have jumped ahead.
Then too mowing our huge is cathartic. It kills time.
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.
While a bus-driver there I belonged to the Rochester Division of the Amalgamated Transit Union (ATU), Local 282. (ATU is nationwide.)
The Alumni was a reaction to the fact Transit upper-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 (disability retirement); and the “Alumni” didn’t exist then.
The Alumni is a special club — you have to join.
It’s an Amalgamated Transit Union functionary. 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 management.
The proletariate’s attempt to exact a living wage from bloated management fat-cats is what’s wrong with this country.
Thankfully this meeting wasn’t a love-fest.
I was afraid it might be. Old coworkers trying to comfort me in my loss.
A few condolences were offered with handshakes and sorry looks.
But people weren’t making a big deal of it.
I also was afraid of people buying me breakfast.
Thankfully that didn’t happen.
I ordered my own short stack of two pancakes, and paid for them myself.
My short stack was probably the smallest order.
Others were glomming huge omelets, or toast and eggs-sunnyside-up with bacon and home-fries.
Way too much for this kid.
Many of these people are diabetic.
I had brought along a small bottle of pure maple-syrup my wife purchased last February.
I passed it around, but some had to refuse it to use “sugar-free.”
Business-as-usual. 50-50 drawing; people hawking raffle-tickets.
Breakfast consumed, the meeting moved on to a representative of a healthcare business.
She detailed how diabetics are entitled to free shoes under Medicare.
Something about good shoes negating amputations.
This doesn’t apply to me, since I’m not diabetic.
“Anyone wanna sign up?” she asked. “I can service you right here.”
“Just don’t say that in front of my wife,” an old coworker snapped.
Retired bus-drivers. Filthy-minded.

• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered.