Gummint Work

A lot of people diss New Jersey, but I lived there for 9 months back in the '70s and found the place not only pretty in places but endlessly fascinating. This may have more to do with my age at the time. I was 21, a graduate of Foxcroft Academy in Dover-Foxcroft, Maine, and a graduate of the University of Maine at Orono. I'd led a rather sheltered existence, although if you'd asked me at the time I would have disagreed.

New Jersey is where I was assigned my first full-time job, an ostensibly temporary position taking claims at the Social Security Administration. When the government called me in Dover-Foxcroft and asked me if I would be willing to go, I said yes, hung up, and hugged myself nervously, repeating to myself, "New Jersey! New Jersey!" in a mixture of disbelief and horror.

Not only was I headed for New Jersey, a land of crime and scary people with unexplained scars and rude drivers and bad air, but for Newark, N.J., which I was sure was the very worst New Jersey had to offer. In retrospect, I am amazed that my father let me go.

So it was that in late August, 1974, I packed my VW squareback with everything I thought I'd need (naively omitting the pepper spray) and tooled south. Uncle Sam put me up in the Mayflower Hotel in Jersey City for my two weeks of training. I can still remember the smell of carpet cleaner that permeated everything, including the elevator, in that hotel. A fellow trainee, a red-haired New York Irishman named John Regan, was quartered a couple floors up, and I recall visiting him in his room and being astonished when he broke out in song. I'd been raised to shut up. These non-Mainers were an odd bunch!

I was prepared to find myself among seedy, down-at-the-heels characters who were desperate for a job. Not that I thought of myself that way. I thought I was slumming, being from the clean, righteous state of Maine. My classmates included a firecracker named Liz; John the singing Irishman; Tim Hecht the funny Manhattanite who yearned for St. Petersburg; Rick Mills who at 35 seemed impossibly old; and a lady whose last name was Maldonado. I forget her first name. Our instructors were the impeccably dressed, worldy Ellen and some guy whose name I also forget.

Training was unbelievably boring. Filling out paperwork has never been my strong suit, and here I was embarking on a career of filling it out for other people. I was planning my escape almost as soon as I arrived. I rented a room in the upstairs of a private home in Belleville, N.J., but never had a phone installed because I wasn't expecting to stay. I ended up staying for five long, lonely months. A phone might have helped.

I worked in the Newark office for a few months, then somebody decided I was a great prospect for a permanent job. Since training would get me out of actual work, I jumped at the opportunity. Soon I was commuting to Jersey City, learning that unlike in Maine, in New Jersey, it doesn't take a big accident to back traffic up for miles. All it takes is a traffic light.

My next posting was Bridgeton, N.J. It was so much nicer than Newark. Spring was springing, I found an apartment to share, my workmates were fun and southern Jersey was bursting with tomatoes and confusingly numbered county roads. I went bicycling with some friends and out on a nearly deserted road a fat guy riding a bike in the opposite direction crashed into me head-on. He had the entire world to ride in, but chose to collide with me. Damn, that hurt. New Jersey! There are crazies everywhere you look!

One of my biking companions that day was a co-worker named Alan Cannizzaro.

Alan was my junior by a few months. He liked to say he was the baby of the office. A few adjectives I would apply to Alan: direct, smart, funny and loyal (to his girlfriend, darn it). He didn't seem to mind being employed by the Social Security Administration.

In fact, apparently he embraced it. Where I lasted three short months in Bridgeton before quitting in May of 1975, Alan Cannizzaro soldiered on. I did a search of his name online and found a court ruling involving Alan in his role as a union representative.

His shop, Local 2369 of the American Federation of Government Employees, filed suit against the Department of Human Services and the SSA, charging that "on or about May 1, 1983, respondent's Area V Director, Arne Tornquist, made a derogatory anti-union remark in a telephone conversation to a union representative (Alan) who was preparing to represent a grievant in a hearing before said Area Director."

Here's the story, according to the court documents:

On May 1, 1985, Alan H. Cannizzaro was employed as a claims representative at the Bridgeton, N.J., branch, of the SSA. He was the on-site representative for Bridgeton branch as well as second vice-president of the Union herein. His duties included handling grievances on behalf of employees, attendance at arbitration hearings, and filing unfair labor practice charges.

On May 1, 1985, Cannizzaro went to the Toms River, N.J., branch to investigate a charge brought against an employee there.

When he arrived at the Toms River office he was met by the operations supervisor, a man named Lynch, who asked why Cannizzaro was there. The latter explained his mission, and said that he was on official time signed by his supervisor. Lynch telephoned Tornquist, the area director, to see if he had OK'd Cannizzaro's trip. Tornquist told Lynch that he did not sanction official time for Cannizzaro's visit,
and then told Lynch to put Cannizzaro on the phone.

Alan told the director he had an approved SSA-75 form which was signed by his supervisor. Tornquist said the trip should have been sanctioned by the hearing official before the supervisor could approve it. Cannizzaro, who was upset at the confrontation, said he didn't give a sh--, he would do as he pleased. Tornquist asked Cannizzaro if he considered himself real big in the union now, then told Cannizzaro that he was just a little "union sh--."

Cannizzaro replied he didn't appreciate being called such a name, and he then called the area director a "fat f---."

Tornquist asked Cannizzaro if he intended to file an unfair labor practice against the director. Cannizzaro said he probably would, to which Tornquist replied that he should go ahead and do so, noting that Cannizzaro had not made one stick yet. Cannizzaro stated he could leave Toms River and return at a later date but it would just be a waste of time and money. Tornquist called Cannizzaro a waste to the agency and said he interfered with its mission. But he told Cannizzaro he should stay there and "do what you have to do -- meet with the employee and leave nice and early."

I don't know about you, but I wonder if I could ever call one of my supervisors (back when I had a job) a "fat f---" to his or her face? I think we'd all enjoy doing something like that.

There's gotta be more to this story, though. So Alan, if you googled yourself and are just finishing reading this, fill us in! Did you and Tornquist duke it out? Did you have his head on a platter? And what about Naomi?