Author: FarJourney Caribbean

      This second time around Bilicki's campaign approach was more subtle, less charged with extraneous incident and cries of "corruption". He left leaflets in teachers' mailboxes asking voters to consider the "new direction" he would take the Union – out into the community. He would heal the breach between the out-of-borough teaching staff and the community they served. He included words like "integrity" and "accountability" and he made character a small but important issue. Stouthearted, he made no secret of his determination to win.
   For his part Steve Kite gave his challenger the polite brush-off. As he quipped to colleagues, sounding like a Senator from Arizona, "My record will speak for itself."
   Apparently it did. Teachers felt comfortable with Steve. They had dealt with him all these years. He was there when they needed the Union, and there when they didn't need the Union.
   Mr. Ghansam, for instance, was unequivocal in his praise for Steve Kite. It was Steve who stood by him, who fought for him when he received the first "Unsatisfactory" rating from his supervisor. Steve explained the grievance procedure and after he'd raised the matter with the assistant principal, Ghansam's rating – he suspected it had something to do with his accent and his resident alien status – improved to "Marginally Satisfactory". "Now I have no problem. Now all my ratings…Satisfactory…Satisfactory…Satisfactory."
   In dealing with the supervisors Steve Kite came across as a scrappy fighter. He was a short man with a preference for suspenders and bowties, who combed his hair with a part to the right; his mottled face looked as if his wife had scratched and punched him too often (this was the joke exchanged with the secretaries who gave him fond, puzzled smiles). His piercing voice, his deliberate clear phrasing, rang out at meetings in the auditorium like steel striking stone, serving notice to the administration that he was monitoring their every move.
   Bilicki on the other hand was considered an idealist, a man stuck in 1960s rebelliousness. A good listener, mind you, and a fairly decent fellow at heart, but you couldn't hear him sharpening knives to do battle for teachers.
   What really endeared Steve Kite to his supporters was the tone of offensiveness in his  conversation. He said things that, from the mouth of anyone else, might have sounded obnoxious. He had nicknames for some supervisors – " that old fossil", "fucking Nazi",  "horse-faced bitch" – and he offered crude opinions about their personal lives that left everyone mildly horrified, yet relieved someone had the nerve to speak that way about the bosses.
          (from "Ah Mikhail. O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

     When word swept around the building that Brendan Bilicki was thinking of making a second run for the Chapter Chair position the overwhelming response was, first, to gasp or snigger; then to wonder, what was wrong with him? Hadn't he learnt anything from the first attempt?
  After all when you stopped to think about it, working at John Wayne Cotter H.S. was everyone's mortgage-paying job. For some, the younger ones just starting out, teaching still had something to do with always wanting to be a teacher. A few had drifted into the profession like vessels with broken rudders; but as the years went by many invariably found other compensatory activities, second jobs – as adjunct college faculty, or running a little business. A little moonlighting after school hours, everyone understood, helped pay the bills, with enough left for a car upgrade or a European summer vacation.
  So what was it with Bilicki? He'd achieved the dubious honor of veteran teacher. He should be looking forward to getting out of the system, to happy retirement.
  Mrs. Haliburton had her own theory. As she explained to Noreen, once you've put in as many years as Bilicki had, retirement begins to look like a form of death. It came to you bearing an envelope with details of your pension rights; it offered quick dispatch to nonentity land.
  New York teachers were only human. They, too, wanted to be remembered, to leave a mark somewhere, the way the kids carved their names on the old school desk. "This company doesn't send you off with a gold watch," Mrs. Haliburton observed, and she and Noreen had a good laugh over that.
  Still, after losing the first time he ran for office Bilicki was expected to fade back into the woodwork; continue his shenanigans if he had to, but leave the Union business in the capable hands of the incumbent, Steve Kite, who had held the post for many years.
         (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

         "You would not believe what happened to me today," Lightbody announced to the carpool. "I got a visit from the new morals police chief, you know her?…Burton?"
     "Haliburton."
     "There you go. Well, she knocks on my door, this is five minutes before the bell, the lesson's over, I'm bubbling in my attendance sheets and the kids are doing what they usually do, throwing paper balls, goofing off…anyway…she knocks on my door and walks in, and she's looking none too pleased with what she sees…and I say to her, Yes, can I help you? …and she asks me if I know a Mrs. Drummond, who is a crossing guard, she's at the corner of Myrtle and 105th…"
     "I thought you parked at the gas station," Meier said.
     "Well, I used to but it's beginning to add up, how much I'm paying this guy. I figured if they're going to get to my car, they can hit it there just as easily, then with the snow and everything…anyway she asks me if I knew this Mrs. Drummond, and I said, I know who she is, I've never spoken to her, and she says one of the kids complained to her I had made offensive remarks about this lady."
     Everyone threw quick glances at Lightbody, listening for the slightest ripple of guilt and trouble in his voice.
     "I said, Madam, I've hardly exchanged two words with this lady. Truth be told, I did once, when she flagged me down. She came up to my car, knocked on the window with her knuckles, and told me she's going to report me the next time I ignore her and cross the zebra lines. And I said, Madam, what are you talking about? Apparently, the day before, I'd passed in front instead of waiting for the kids to cross the zebra…I mean, I didn't even see the woman signaling, and in any case I was running late that morning… anyway this Haliburton lady says she'd received a complaint that I'd referred to the Drummond lady as a dog." 
     "You did what? Called the crossing guard a dog?" Brebnor said.
     "I did no such thing. Actually, that's what the kids call her, the bulldog. I'd asked the class if anyone knew who the crossing guard was, and someone, I think it might have been Ramos, said, You mean the bulldog? and I said, That's the one. Any of you come across this woman?"
     No one had. Everyone seemed amused.
     "I had no idea at the time the woman's name was Drummond, the crossing guard I mean, so when this Haliburton lady tells me I'd insulted this Mrs. Drummond I tried to lighten up the situation by asking her…I mean, the thought just popped into my head… I asked her if she'd ever heard of Bulldog Drummond, you know, the detective in those novels? I said, Did you ever read those Bulldog Drummond books when you were a kid?"
    The carpool thought they knew where Lightbody was going with the story and erupted in laughter.
     "She didn't know who I was talking about. She said she'd read many authors but she hadn't heard of any Bulldog Drummond, and in any case she didn't think it appropriate for me to characterize – now listen to this – it was inappropriate for someone like me to characterize anyone, and certainly not this Mrs. Drummond, who lived in the community, whose job was just as important as any teacher's job… to characterize her as some sort of animal. So I started to explain, Madam, I did no such thing, and she just walked off."
     For awhile they drove in silence. Then Brebnor, returning to Lightbody's attempt to lighten up the situation, muttered the words 'Bulldog Drumond'; unleasing a fresh outburst of laughter.
               (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)