CHUNGA'S REVENGE!!

Chunga’s Revenge!!!

The revenge of the spirit world is a terrible thing. Evidently the spirits of past transit workers, offended by unkind things I have written about Local 100 and its president, Roger Toussaint, decided to inflict upon this writer a violent and painful punishment.


On April 24, I boarded a bus to go to work. Before I was even able to walk to a seat in the back, the driver of the bus gunned the engine and then immediately slammed on the brakes, the inertia of which forced me to fly forward and bang my forearm on the metal armrest that divides the seats which fold up to permit wheelchairs.


What I am saying is, last week I broke my arm on a city bus and I am now walking around with it in a heavy plaster cast. I have to go into the hospital next week for an operation to join the broken bone, the ulna, by screwing the pieces together by means of a titanium plate and some screws. Then the bone has to grow back and fuse where it is being joined.


I didn’t follow legal procedure when the accident happened. I should have immediately insisted that the driver pull the bus over and call the police and ambulance. A number of things kept me from doing this. First, even though I thought I heard something snap when my arm hit the seat divider, and the arm hurt like a bitch, I was not incapacitated. I got up and sat down in the seat, figuring the pain might recede momentarily. A couple of minutes passed and it still hurt. I took out a pen and paper and walked up to the driver, telling him, “I fell when you jammed on the brakes back there, and I think I might have a problem. You think I can have your driver number.” I didn’t want to make a big scene because, what if I was wrong and it was nothing?


The driver showed no interest whatsoever. He just pointed to the four-digit bus number above the windshield, telling me, “Take That.”


Fortunately, there was a lady sitting there who saw the whole thing. She was gracious enough to give me her telephone number, so I at least have proof that the whole thing happened when those pricks from the bus company start insisting that I made it up.


I have fallen and injured myself plenty of times playing sports, so I have a little bit of pain tolerance. I wanted to go to work that day because I had just started a new job in Rockefeller Center doing something I am really good at, and I didn’t want to mess that up.


So I worked almost a full day with a broken arm until I finally conceded that the pain was not going to go away. I left work at 4:00 PM and went to Lennox Hill Hospital where they took an x-ray and told me, “You’ve broken your arm.” “I didn’t break it, the bus broke it.”


“Well, get a good lawyer and sue the bus company,” they told me. “We wish you luck.”


The specialist I went to scheduled me for an operation to screw the bone together. In the meantime, I am going to work in the coding center of a massive Manhattan law firm. If I prop my left arm on some rubber typing cushions I can type, and so far I have been accomplishing a pretty substantial workload. The bosses seem satisfied.


Now, the average reader might be tempted to say to him/herself, “This writer has got a pretty good lawsuit against the MTA.”


Well, Think Again! The courts are ruled by a doctrine called “Public Policy,” which is a general consensus arrived at by legal deep thinkers about what kind of judicial judgments are deemed to be in the public interest. And Public Policy is against people who sue public transit, on the grounds that the public interest at large is imperiled by lawsuits brought by injured parties.


Public Policy is a doctrine that rolls uphill, protecting large interests against small challenges due, in large part, the fact the authority figures who formulate it have a material interest in the large entities they protect. That is to say, the judges own stock in these companies and dine with the big shots they protect from legal challenges. When Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia laughs off suggestions of impropriety and conflict of interest for accepting vacations paid for by corporations that have business before his court, that is a good indication of the nature of Public Policy. When Bush goes on the warpath for tort reform or asbestos reform, he is trying to make it harder, not easier, for injured or contaminated victims to sue. That’s Public Policy. See, these Public Policy wonks are not inclined to side with a harmonica-playing flunky who sues the bus company for a broken arm he received as a result of some sloppy driving.


The first attorney I consulted about suing the NYCTA glared at me and told me he would not take the case because it would be impossible to prove negligence against the bus company because, “Maybe the bus driver was forced to brake abruptly by someone walking in front of the bus.” H was not swayed by my argument that maybe the driver was operating the bus in an unsafe manner in the first place.”


The second law firm refused to take the case because I did not immediately insist on calling an ambulance and getting a police report immediately after I fell, though at that time I was not immediately aware of the extent of my injury.


The third attorney did not even bother to show up for our scheduled meeting at all. So as of this moment, I cannot even find legal representation, which is hysterical because I’m surrounded by lawyers all day at work.


Fortunately, I was able to obtain some claim forms from the bus company, and I have filled them out and am filing them myself. I don’t need an attorney for that.


I have always had the luck to have marvelous strength in my life, running and swimming for miles at a time, boxing and training at tae kwon do, moving furniture up and down flights of stairs, carrying home Christmas trees and air conditioners to save on delivery charges. So it is a real eye-opener now to not be able to floss my teeth or tuck my shirt into my own pants. You really find out who your real friends are when you can’t even jerk yourself off.


I am not a small person and, paradoxically, the cast on my arm makes me look larger. When I was in my doctor’s office, his medical assistant, a sexy redhead named Yvette, told me, “That cast on your arm makes you look tough.”


I immediately responded, “Don’t talk that way! I’ve never been less tough. Right now a woman could knock me over.”


For a split second, I could feel a flash of animal desire from this woman – the desire to jump over and kick my ass. The primordial desire that lies dormant in every New Yorker and beast of the jungle, to inflict suffering on the weak.


Now that I have had a taste of the swinish behavior of the MTA and the transit workers, it gives me an even deeper insight into what animals they are. The driver who drove that bus is a disgrace to humanity, as are his managers, for breaking my arm and ruining my health. Worse still, when I try to collect damages I am going to have to confront some sleazy, low-class attorneys who are going to try to blame me for the accident. That’s how those scumbags work.


These drivers can’t drive for shit! It’s like going on bumper cars. Jam, Break! Jam, Break! As long as we have to live like we’re in a damn jungle with cave men for bus drivers, we might as well go for Wild Kingdom. Maybe we should rid of the drivers completely and replace them with real animals who, at any rate, would be cheaper to feed.


My plan consists of breeding orangutans and then inject human stem-cells into their brains while they are still in their mothers’ wombs to make them super-intelligent. Then we teach them to drive buses and subways.


That way, no more pension fund, no more idiotic union. We just pay them a bunch of bananas.

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Posted on 5/8/2006 ( Permanent Link )
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