Banquet

Alumni Christmas banquet. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

Another Alumni Christmas banquet drifts into the filmy past.
The “Alumni” are union retirees of Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs.
Our transit union is 282, the Rochester local of the nationwide Amalgamated Transit 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 requirement was lowered even more; I joined at 10 years.
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.
My employ at RTS 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 offshoot of Local 282.
I arrived early; driving was challenging due to snow.
I also got lost, but not actually lost. Just going the wrong way due to misperception.
The banquet was to begin at 11 a.m. I arrived about 10:45. Only a few others were there by then, and driving was difficult enough to prompt thinking I might be the only one that showed.
“That means you get to eat everything,” said ***** *********, president of the Alumni.
After 11 a.m. more trickled in. In not too long the banquet-hall was filled; 60 attended.
My fellow retirees are hand shakers, not huggy-poo, thankfully. Lots of hand shaking, then a lady I didn’t know shook my hand and greeted me. I didn’t let go. “Yer hand is ice ice-cold,” I said. “Gotta transfer some heat.”
I think she was also a retired bus-driver like me, but I didn’t know her from the moon. She may have been after-my-time. My stroke ended my bus-driving 24 years ago
I’m glad she said hello. Also glad I didn’t let go.
Driving bus was a job I was tiring of after 16&1/2 years. My stroke was somewhat a blessing.
Shortly before my stroke I began a voluntary newsletter for my bus-union. It was great fun.
Following my stroke I said I’d rather do something similar than return to driving bus. I started at a newspaper in nearby Canandaigua as an unpaid intern. Stroke-survivors often return to work that way, but soon that newspaper hired me — incredible moxie on their part, but I was recovering fairly well.
Bus-driving meant parrying Transit’s management, although bus-drivers could be jerks too. Management wanted us to be “professionals,” yet refused to call us “professionals.”
In management’s favor, some bus-drivers were unprofessional, so I find it hard to think we were all “professional.” I feel I was, and I wasn’t the only one. You had to be somewhat professional to not get fired.
Management was probably afraid calling us “professionals” might prompt us to want higher pay. Certainly the nonprofessionals among us didn’t deserve it. Yet our union represented all, both professional and nonprofessional.
Table-by-table we slowly sauntered into an alcove to fill our plates. Pasta in tomato-sauce, tiny boiled potatoes, barbecued chicken, roast beef, and some sort of cooked greenery. All I had was the pasta and roast-beef — I never can eat much.
There also were salads, plus a grandiose cake for dessert. I guess there was also a bar, but hardly anyone was drinking.
Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada. Knee-replacements, pacemakers, hip-replacements, back fusings and open-heart surgery. A profusion of canes was noticed — no canes for this kid yet: I should be able to walk without a cane.
Like-it-or-not, we’re all getting old. The Alumni’s sparkplug announced he was giving up his sparkplug function.
“The moving finger having writ moves on.”
I hope the Alumni continues without him, but not by me. I have plenty of other interests.
But we all shared driving bus. It wasn’t easy, mainly our clientele, although I tilted toward suburban runs.
Also the four-wheelers: “Oh, LOOK, Dora! A bus; PULL OUT, PULL OUT!”