Wednesday, February 8, 2012

Getting There

I went to court to define what kind of response I do. There are codes for how emergency personnel respond. In the end the head of my department stopped debating me and walked out of an arbitration hearing.

It was the hottest day in downtown one could be in as I carried my coat and made my way uphill to testify on behalf of my union and coworkers. I don't like going to court, I do what I can to frustrate the living daylights out of all who would bother my normal routine. In this session the question of forced overtime was supposed to be discussed. It went from pundit bantering to questioning me personally about my extensive knowledge regarding emergency response. I don't have such knowledge. Five deferrals to the judge later the other side got up and left. They quit. I guess turning to the judge and saying, “You honor, what does that mean?” had a deleterious effect on their case.

Emergency response codes come in many colors. Depending on where you are, they enact special teams to do specific things. I was supposed to respond to the very color that meant lights and sirens. That takes special training and sign off by the city that I am not responsible for munching pedestrians with my car or skid marks where ever. Ah, no kay? I get there, in one piece, and to the harm of no one.

I don't like being trapped between doing the right thing and an overbearing bureaucracy bent on making sure that I understand above all else that they are in charge of my every fiber and sinew. I eat high fiber to pass such build ups and send them to Hyperion, the billion gallon a day waste treatment facility owned by the bureaucracy I tactfully ignore just so I can help someone.

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