Power, Part I

What, exactly, are we building?

No one wanted to raise their hand, they all knew optimism was a signal — it meant you could believe in someone other than the leader. A giant mistake.

And in this case, it meant believing in themselves, in their own ability to create success — which was unacceptable when the leader said “no, it can’t happen.”

In 2006 the union introduced a state bill to prevent anyone who bought a building from hiring their own team to clean or secure it.

The pitch to the public was to safeguard our members’ jobs. But, really, we all discussed internally the actual purpose of the measure: force the union onto the new building owners even if they wanted to eventually employ different staff.

The senate killed it without ceremony, a total dud. The Senate President became enemy number one, at least temporarily — and that’s when they handed it to me. While the retribution we planned is a story for another day, I had an idea.

I rewrote it as a county ordinance. Same teeth, smaller pond. Twenty-eight thousand of our members cleaned and guarded buildings in that one jurisdiction; if we could lock it down locally, the state loss wouldn’t matter. I found a sponsor in Commissioner L—sharp, honorable, the kind of ally you earn, not buy.

I had already been acquainted with Commissioner L because the political firm at which I got my start ran his campaign — but it was this legislative push that solidified our working relationship into a friendship.

The opposition arrived in waves. Twenty-eight business groups registered against us—chamber of commerce, real-estate boards, property managers, the whole parade.

It was a torrent of business interests opposed to our lone union local fighting to pass this new law named for the displaced workers it purported to protect.

I diligently made the rounds. I met with Democrats and Republicans alike, and our list of supporters was building. On my way into the hall where most of the commissioners’ offices were located, a staffer handed me a yellow note.

Chairman of Finance wants to see you.

This was a surprise, and I had no idea what to expect next. I’d never met the man. Son of the late mayor, brother of the current one—political royalty in a city that still genuflected to the name.

Of course, the Chairman’s office was located on a different floor. It was actually somewhat tucked away—as I recall, near the records room.

After presenting the little yellow note to his secretary, she allowed me to pass through to the Chairman’s office. I poked my head in and quickly apologized for not having a tie around my neck.

He waved me to a chair.

The meeting was brief, but it went alarmingly well. I ran the pitch fast: the ordinance, the displaced workers, the list of friendly commissioners. Before I could finish, he looked up from his folder and said, “You won’t have any problem with the ordinance.”

The room tilted. That wasn’t encouragement; that was a verdict. In the County, when the Chairman of Finance says the path is clear, the path is clear. I thanked him, stood, and—because you never overstay a gift—headed for the door.

“Thank you, Chairman. And, by the way, sir, it’s an honor to meet you,” I offered. He smiled. I was a young operative in my late twenties and it felt a bit like I’d just graduated.

Then, just before I reached the door he called me back to say, “And don’t worry about the tie.”

***

And then back for the report.