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.”
Portrait of a Charming Man
It’s hardly unusual to find a glowing hagiography of a corporate CEO in the pages of a major newspaper. I’m not, per se, opposed to feting J.W. Marriott. If you can get past the creepy fact that he’s a high elder of the Mormon church, he’s just a charming old man who values family, tells hokey jokes and makes a point of being personally courteous to his workers. However, when the Washington Post goes so far as to twist the words of a leader of the hotel employees union to make the CEO of one of the most viciously anti-union companies in the country sound like a good boss, well, that’s when I get mad.
The Marriott corporation runs an anti-union operation as pervasive and sophisticated as Wal-Mart’s. First-line managers are trained to call the corporation’s central union-busting office at the slightest sign of discontent. Corporate’s union busters fly in and do the usual mix of firings, captive audience and one-on-one meetings, and maybe even a slight raise in wages – all in order to keep the status quo of “on-call” employment with no job protection.
The author of the piece, Michael Rosenwald, interviewed the hotel division president of UNITE HERE, John Wilhelm, for the piece. Wilhelm presumably used the opportunity to speak at length about Marriott’s anti-union track record – such as the fact that only ten percent of its operations are unionized compared to better than 30% of Hilton and Starwoods, or the briefly-alluded-to 20 year fight to unionize San Francisco’s flagship Marriott hotel – but the author shallowly focused on the few positive things that Wilhelm could say about J.W. Marriott.
Like, for instance, his common man touch when dealing with employees on a personal basis. Okay, so the man introduces himself and engages in chit chat with the bellmen and doormen when staying at one of his hotels. Well, that’s nice…I guess. But is this only notable because most corporate suits act like total dickheads around the “hired help?” How about the doozy that in the three cities where UNITE HERE has managed to make dealing with the union a cost of doing business that Marriott “live[s] up to the terms of the contracts?” When does living up to the legally enforceable contracts you have made become laudable, or even notable? Only in the context of a company that breaks the law with impunity when resisting its workers’ rights to organize and improve the job.
The Washington Post owes readers a complete picture of Marriott’s union-busting human resources policies, or else it owes us their traditional silence on wrong-doing when praising a charming elder statesman.
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.
Look for My Union Label
I’ve finally rejoined the National Writers Union (UAW Local 1181), the freelancers union. I had been a member when I was the editor of the Five Borough Institute’s newsletter, mainly because we wanted to have a bug on the masthead. I let my membership lapse during my long stint of unemployment, even though I had begun to write regularly for this blarg.
I realize I should be paying lip service to this supposed new media revolution, but truthfully, it’s hard to think of myself as a “Writer” because of a silly blog. I want to be in print. I’ve made sporadic attempts at submitting op-eds to local newspapers. Unfortunately, most of the community weeklies don’t publish opinion pieces. Even the one paper where I was briefly hired and quickly “dooced” doesn’t want actual opinions in their op-eds. I’m hoping that my renewed NWU membership will spur me on to try more seriously to get in print, even if that pesky “full-time union organizer / part-time graduate student” thing gets in the way.