Christ May Be King, But At Least He Spares Us Monarchistic Thinking
Teachers at ten New York City schools went on strike Friday over the high cost of health care, but their union was not sued, their president not imprisoned and their members not fined two days of pay for every day out on the picket line. What gives?
The teachers in question work at Catholic schools in the archdiocese of New York so their union is not subject to the same draconian law that would apply to the city’s public school teachers. Is their strike not a “disruption” in the lives of the parents who enroll their children there? Do Catholic school-kids not rely on the structure and safety of the classroom as much as public school kids? Of course not. The simple truth is that while Catholic school teachers might arguably have to answer to a higher law, only public school teachers have to report to a Boss that makes the law and has the power of the state to enforce it. Hell hath no fury like Mayor Bloomberg and the Taylor law. It’s one more strike against monarchistic thinking.
Take a Break, Client 9
Born under a lame duck, for most of my living memory we’ve had only two governors in New York. Twelve years of Democrat Mario Cuomo and twelve years of Republican George Pataki. Now, in the blink of an eye, we just burned through another one. I’m not shedding any tears for Client 9, but I am somewhat dumbfounded that he was felled so quickly by something so…trivial.
At Monday’s Labor Research Association awards dinner, NYS Labor Commissioner Patricia Smith stood in for the governor-in-hiding and delivered a pretty convincing defense of his administration’s record. Hundreds of times more wage and hours claims against deadbeat employers than the previous administration. Hundreds of times more health and safety cases investigated than the previous administration. And, yes, he gave over 50,000 early childhood educators the right to organize into unions. Excepting that last one, what is really exceptional about that record? Have politics degenerated in such a way that we consider merely enforcing the law to be noteworthy and commendable?
To my mind, Elliot Spitzer was never a reliable friend of labor and David Paterson will be a welcome replacement (at last, a governor who needs us!). As good as Elliot “Ness” Spitzer’s record was as Attorney-General, after three terms of Republican misrule, voters would have voted in droves for a department store mannequin. Spitzer, like Illinois’ Rod Blagojevich and Massachusetts’ Deval Patrick, translated his lucky landslide as some kind of mandate and declared war on everyone, including his own party and unions like NYSUT when it suited his purpose. Is it any wonder that his opponents in Albany pounced on him the first time he showed an exploitable weakness?
And, boy, is this a story that can be exploited! Already, the two days it took Spitzer to decide to resign gave us time to ponder lots of questions. Questions like, what’s worse: to be Client 8 or Client 10? Why did he choose to book a hotel room under a campaign donor’s name? Because George Fox sounded cool? Well, that’s the last time that guy makes a donation to your campaign fund, Nine. Note to Elliot: next time you’re looking for an alias, do what the rest of us do – read a Dashiell Hammett story and pick the coolest name (“Yes, I’d like to reserve a room. Name: Harry Brazil”). And, finally, what kind of things does Spitzer ask a girl to do that she “might not think were safe?” I’m imagining a well-lubed baseball bat up the backside.
The simplest lesson that any of us can draw from this is that it is high time that we legalize prostitution. The illegality of sex work is the thin veneer of credibility that let the Republicans threaten impeachment and push Spitzer out the door. Applying health code standards and regulation to sex work would doubtlessly improve public health, and, hell, at a thousand dollars an hour, taxing that shit would help keep the Social Security fund solvent for generations to come (or should that be “generations to cum?”). Play safe, comrades. You’re benched, client #9. Batter up, governor #5.
They Can’t Drive These Cars Themselves
Is the NYC cabdriver strike successful? It’s hard for me to say. The only time that I spend in Manhattan these days is a few minutes underground, switching from the Long Island Rail Road to New Jersey Transit on my way to Rutgers. The Taxi Workers Alliance, which called the strike over a city mandate that yellow cabs install credit card machines and GPS systems, claims that 80% of the city’s cab drivers stayed home. Mayor Bloomberg is pooh-poohing the extent of the job action. Strolling around Greenwich Village tonight, I saw exactly three cabs when I would normally see dozens more.
It’s easy to shake one’s head in confusion over the cause of the strike. What’s wrong with providing more consumer service, you may ask? Isn’t this fear of GPS a wee bit paranoid? Keep in mind the precarious position of most cabbies. They are not employees (and the Taxi Workers Alliance is not, in the strictly legal sense, a union). Through a bit of administrative sleight of hand, they are “independent contractors.” They pay the Boss (usually some company with enough capital to buy a fleet of cars and TLC medallions at tens of thousands each) for the privilege of “leasing” a cab. The cab companies are guaranteed their profits. The cabbies have to pay for gas and often repairs. When gas prices spike, cabbies take a pay cut. If a credit card reader breaks, the cost of repair will be tacked on by the Boss to the cabby’s “rent.” It’s a shitty, miserable existence that calls out for serious reform. In that light, the cabbie strike can be seen as a demonstration of frustration. If, indeed, 80% of the city’s cabs are off the streets for the next two days and work-a-day life in New York is upset enough to be remembered then, whatever the goals of the strike, the Mayor and TLC will give greater thought to the impact on cab drivers of their policies in the future.
More power to the cabbies, who have a pretty impressive organization, run by word of mouth and impromptu meetings at the taxi stands at the airports and train stations, and all places where cabbies gather, rest and refuel.
The strike reminds me of a story I’ve wanted to tell. Almost exactly three years ago, my dear friends and trusted co-workers at the union where we all worked formed a staff union, which was promptly busted. The whys and wherefores are not worth getting into now. These things happen. Shortly before the whole affair came to its inexorable conclusion, a few of us met (in Greenwich Village, actually) to try to figure out if there was any way we could salvage the situation. I was middle-management and excluded from the whole thing, so this had been the first time I had really spoken to two of my very good friends, Alan and Jacob, who were leaders of the staff union campaign, since the deal went down. We were joined by our beloved revolutionary sweetheart, Liz, who had actually quit the job and moved down to Washington, D.C. some months before and was in town for some reason or another.
Over sushi and Sapporo, we rehashed the series of decisions and events that brought us to the precipice of a complete staff meltdown (we still do this from time to time), and slowly a sense of fatalism fell over the whole depressing evening. Liz and I shared a cab back to Penn Station and the Long Island Rail Road. In the back seat, we commiserated over our disillusionment over how this organization, this labor union, that we loved and believed in could conduct a nasty union-busting campaign against its own employees that was so against our principles. As we talked, our cabbie held a conversation on the two-way radio. He had a thick Haitian accent and his voice was low, hushed and mellifluous – clearly intended to fade into the background and be unnoticed by his passengers. But here and there, Liz and I picked up on scattered words in between our own. “Power,” “money,” “the boss,” “the workers.” When he said, “They have all these cars but they can’t drive these cars themselves,” Liz and I looked at each other with a mix of terror and delight. We were overhearing an organizing conversation. The driver on the other end of the two-way radio conversation was getting cold feet about whatever job action they were planning, and our driver – the organizer! – was reassuring him and getting him back on the program.
“Of all the cabs we could have gotten into,” Liz grumbled. I took more pleasure in the experience and said something like, “The movement keeps rolling.” We sat in silence for the final five or six blocks and listened to our cabbie do his thing. At the MSG station entrance, we pooled our cash for the fare and a more-generous-than-usual tip. Liz handed the man his money and leaned over to say in an even, firm and warm tone, “You’re a very good organizer. Good luck.”
We got out of the cab and I said, “I’m going to write about this one day.” A sardonic smile crossed her face. “At least we got that out of it.”
Back In the Line
At first blush, Thursday’s story in the Times Metro section that disgraced former Central Labor Labor Council President Brian McLaughlin has returned to work as a rank and file electrician has a certain poetry to it. McLaughlin is charged with stealing from the New York State legislature where he served as an Assemblyman, from his own re-election campaign, from his home local in the Electrician’s union, from the Central Labor Council and, most ignominiously, from a union sponsored little league – over two million dollars in total. The evidence is damnable.
That the dapper chief could brush off years of high living and the shame of his fall from grace, and return to work alongside the union brothers he has let down, at a job that is very physically demanding when most men his age are considering retirement is almost, well, admirable.
Damn his eyes. I can’t help but feel used all over again. Surely he returned to the trades and had the story leaked to Steven Greenhouse of the Times in an attempt to co-author the last chapter of his story before he goes down the river. I’d like to believe that McLaughlin waited his turn in the union’s hiring hall roll call like any other brother, but I ain’t making the mistake of taking his honesty for granted ever again.
Most troubling is McLaughlin’s claim that he is working because he needs the money. Even before the graft, McLaughlin collected sizable multiple incomes from the Assembly, Local 3, the CLC and other assorted bodies. The tendency of labor leaders to collect multiple salaries from their various affiliates is a well-known tactic to obscure exactly how large their salaries can get, and McLaughlin was already a bit of a joke in the movement for how baldly he sought out additional salaries. In fact, his ability to clear over a quarter million dollars a year, “ethically” (if not particularly nobly or selflessly) is partly what led me to conclude that the man was probably honest. After all, who would need more money than what he was pulling down “on the books?” And where did it all go?
I worry that Brian McLaughlin has, as they say, debts no honest man can pay and that his scandal is only just beginning.