313. STRIKE!
A long time ago
you could drive
through the
back fields of
New Jersey and
still see lots of
junk. It's no
longer like that,
inasmuch as
everything
mostly has been
cleaned up. The
old, leaning and
rickety sheds are
gone, the forgotten
out-buildings
that were
remnants of farms,
all cleaned up,
plowed over,
built upon, paved
or just redone.
The jangled heaps
of twenty-five
year old cars
are mostly gone,
as are the piles
of lumber, steel,
tires and the rest
that were usually
left around.
Dog houses too.
Doghouses are
pretty much a
thing of the past.
I don't know
anyone who keeps
a dog outside now,
but there was a
time when they
all had their little
doghouse and a
fifteen-foot length
of rope or chain
or whatever by
which the dogs
were kept in
their circumference.
That's the dreamy
part of old New
Jersey that people
like to still throw
up on calendars
and such - to
fool the mind
into thinking
something other
than what is.
Like 'Oak Acres',
where there's
nary an oak
within two miles,
but plenty of
grandiose new
homes. Or
'Spreading Maple
Estates' - same
thing. Developers
are swine. That's
how things are
different now,
how things are
so changed. There
was the time when
all of that really
nasty real estate
stuff was within
the purview of
men. They were
the ones who
did all this damage,
ruining the earth
and despoiling
things. And 'selling'
the real estate. Now,
there are women
doing this at every
turn, and they're
equally bad or
worse. All frilly
and made up
big time, like they
were selling
themselves and
not the properties.
Driving their
faint-colored
Lexus cars with
dumb-ass clients
in them, open house
this and that,
showing the listings.
No soul, no spirit.
They're not even
women anymore,
at that point. Just
the same dumb-ass
vultures as the men.
There's your equality
for you. I've seen
plenty of it, and
gotten in the
middle of it too.
There's really little
worse than the
enforced babble
of conversation
which those sorts
of people have to
put forward : real
garbage talk, just
to be breaking the
ice and propping
up these false,
social moments.
It all sounds as
stupid as they look.
-
No one goes out on
strike anymore. A
peculiar kind of
comity has taken
over all the labor
fronts. There was
a time that about
ended in, say,
1975 or so, when
there really were
some ruthless
bastards who'd
run society right
to the brink.
Labor negotiations,
always down to
the wire, with
extensions. Government
intervention, Taft-Hartley
Act stuff; sabotaged talks,
and, of course, the famous
'midnight' walk-out. It
was all tactic and
strategy, and sometimes
it did really hurt.
Public-service contracts
be damned; municipal
workers, transit guys,
garbage men, I can
remember it all,
and New York City
was always quite
vulnerable to that
sort of thing. I
can remember
any number of
serious NYCity
strikes - garbage,
newspapers, and
transit, maybe
even police, though
I forget. Garbage
strikes in NYCity
are killer - within
five days there are
huge mountains
of trash everywhere,
plastic sacks piled
up, squished and
leaking, smelling,
running off into
gutters. The
back-log quickly
becomes enormous,
and it's just never
any good. These
sorts of 'services'
are taken for
granted, until
they're not around.
The newspaper strikes,
I can recall them
too - two or three
times. People
manage, but
they hate it. This
is before today's
electronic
communication
and all those
phones and laptops
and total availability
of things. But there
was a time, until
about twenty years
ago maybe, when
mass-information
and retrieval really
was dependent
on paper and
newsprint. Everyone
survived, and even
some alternative
papers cropped
up, but a news
strike was a big
deal. One year
I can well remember
a crazy Irish guy,
Micheal J. Quill -
hot tempered, in
your face, thuggish
Irish labor leader.
I guess it was
New Year's Eve
for 1966, with
John Lindsay as
Mayor. Quill was
tough; he'd rip
your head off.
(There are some
great videos of
him available to
see) - great Irish
brogue, he consciously
mispronounced
Lindsay's name
(as a tactic)...
'If Mr, Linsley....',
all the time. At
the stroke of midnight
that year, after
weeks of threat
and blustery
negotiation, he
walked out with
his men - New
York instantly
became a nightmare.
For something like
two weeks (memory)
- no trains, no buses,
a total mess. Taking
mass transit away
from NYCity is like
taking the oxygen
away from a guy
in an oxygen tent,
just pulling the
tube - he's already
gagging to death
and then that!
Quill didn't care.
It just went on; he
was intense, everyday,
more insults and
more threats. He
was already an ill
man (at age 61, I
think it was), but
they hauled him and
some others off to
jail. He fell ill, was
taken to the
hospital, and
by the end of
that month -
yes, after the
strike was over
and things were
beginning to
normalize, as
I recall, he was
dead. But what a
story that was.
In any case, the
world has now
somehow become
(supposedly) a
'gentler' place -
though sometimes
I doubt that. I
can remember
walking gritty
streets afraid of
slander and vile
sarcasm at every
turn. A real
authentic capacity
of crowd-control
by fear; like a punch
in the face. Now,
it's all engrained
and worked into
people's heads
to be safe and
nice. I kind of
miss the old.
All that labor
stuff was always
such drama. You
could watch these
guys in action
and sense the
great motives.
I never knew,
actually, whose
side I was on,
I liked them both.
The public good,
the ease of running
things, services,
management and
all. I favored that
- and then on
another day I'd
suddenly see
the point of all
those dumb-ass
working-slob
union guys, and
think with them.
It always went back
and forth (like any
good 'drama' should,
I suppose). Yet, at
the same time,
there's only so
much you can
get or do - you
can't have a twelve
dollar subway ride
just because your
guys want to
extort higher
wages, better
pensions (already
heady) and extra
days and time
off. Pat a certain
point, it's extortion.
-
My father was never
a union guy, at least
while I was young. He'd
come home, I can
still remember, on
Fridays, with his
little tan-colored,
cash, pay envelope.
He never knew too
much, just went
about his work,
always wholeheartedly.
A real slaver, he was.
Sometimes Saturdays,
full 40 hour weeks,
plus overtime
whenever. 'Busy
season,' he'd call it.
$125 bucks a week;
I guess that works
out to maybe $4
an hour; not sure.
I do know that,
(I checked) on
March 21 of 1956,
the minimum wage
went up from .75
cents to a dollar
an hour. For
reference. It always
sufficed for us -
leastways we always
had what we needed,
groceries and
whatever else.
I don't know
past that. I
always remember
hearing talk,
too, of a 'kitty'
they kept - like
spare money,
in a cash box,
for extra needs
or wants or
something.
Always 'going
to the kitty' for
this or that. I've
never heard that
since; maybe
it was current
then, maybe
not. Remember,
all this is before
credit cards,
and credit, and
all that stuff we
take for granted
now. Mostly,
people just now
get whatever they
want, and worry
about it all later.
-
Every time I look at,
and used to look
at too, one of those
old Currier and Ives
Americana-style
calendar prints, I
always chuckle.
For all that we
had and all that's
been lost. But
I only remember
the good stuff,
selectively. My
grandma used
to remind me
always how
crummy it really
was. All that stuff
is so long gone
now, so far off
and forgotten.
Even Michael J.
Quill would have
lost his bluster
now. Sure can't
ever picture him
with a snow-blower
and a laptop, worrying
about his diet and
health either. Mr.
Linsley; well,that's
another story.
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