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Local 250-A meetings, which Robinson began attending with the Murrays, became a nexus for enraged drivers who felt they were getting a bad shake. Many feared they were in danger of losing perks and benefits. Some, including Robinson, believed Muni was being unfairly targeted because of its high percentage of black operators. (The Muni work force is 83 percent minority, and about half of the minorities are African-Americans.)
In November 1999, the drivers' fears became a reality. Voters passed Proposition E -- the Muni Reform Charter Amendment -- which banned miss-outs and set tough, on-time performance standards enforced through a system of merit pay. It also reduced the influence of the mayor (who had a close relationship with the transit union) and other city officials by creating a new agency to run Muni.
Needless to say, Proposition E didn't please most drivers, including Robinson.
"The drivers don't run Muni, City Hall does!" he fumed. "Politicians who are lobbied by big business run Muni, and they run the City and County of San Francisco. A driver is simply employed by the city, and the drivers are really just wage slaves."
Not long after Robinson lost his first bid for Woods chairman, Muni chief Michael Burns began pushing hard on Local 250-A's leaders to implement Proposition E. The union and the city later arrived at a proposed contract that dramatically changed operators' lives. It ended miss-outs, offered performance-based bonuses, reduced sick leave and holiday pay, and abolished overtime for operators who hadn't already put in 40 hours. Additionally, it tightened disciplinary procedures.
Despite the urging of union leaders, Local 250-A members overwhelmingly rejected the pact. Then, in an unprecedented move, they rejected a sweetened version of the contract. Mayor Brown stepped in to resolve the crisis, and the contract was finally approved that fall.
But resentment ran deep among operators, who felt their union had rolled over.
"Every time they were at the negotiating table, they came back with less," said Leon Burleson. "They went into a room with Brown and Michael Burns, and they flip-flopped."
Things got no better with time. New, more bureaucratic disciplinary procedures and greater pressure to stay on schedule made many operators' jobs more stressful.
"The place has turned from a family atmosphere to a corporate structure," said Ron Austin, union chairman of Muni's cable car division. "That might seem like a good thing, because the public sees a vast improvement. We see it from the inside." Added Robinson: "Morale is probably as low as I've ever seen it. [Prop. E] might've worked for the people of the city, but for drivers, it's a nightmare."
In their 2002 elections, the Local 250-A rank and filers made it clear that they wanted new blood. Every incumbent on the local's executive council was defeated except the president, who retired. Half of the incumbents in lesser positions were also unseated by newcomers. James Robinson -- a radical with a renegade background, friend of the anti-establishment Murrays -- was part of this new guard.
Today, Robinson looks forward to the time when Local 250-A's current president, Bill Sisk, decides to step down.
"When his regime is over," Robinson said, "it's Starr time."
James and Rosalind Robinson and their four children live in Antioch, a bedroom community in eastern Contra Costa County. Their two-story mint-green tract home is guarded by a pair of plaster lions, and a wind chime painted with bumblebees tinkles out in front.
When they moved to Antioch from Richmond two years ago, they threw a housewarming party. For kicks, Roz hired a male stripper named Chocolate Thunder, who laid plastic wrap on the ladies' privates, sprayed whipped cream on them, and licked it off.
On a Saturday afternoon in March, Robinson answered the door in a baby-blue velour Sean John track suit. His sleepy eyelids looked even droopier than normal. Besides the pressure and long hours of his new union gig (he doesn't get home until 9 at night), things were reaching a critical stage with his various pimp media projects.
The documentary was in post-production. "We're just editing in some stock footage of hookers," he said. And that day, the family was recording profanity-free versions of the soundtrack for radio play. Robinson's memoir, The Gospel of the Game, was being edited by a mom-and-pop publishing outfit in San Jose.
Robinson padded in his socks through the formal living room, past the gilt-and-polyester-brocade furniture he insisted is from "the 1870s." He plopped down on a royal-blue couch in the family room, next to a reproduction Tiffany lamp. On the walls were signed prints by his favorite artist, Salvador Dali.
"Gospel of the Game is going to be a best seller," he said. "It's going to be bigger than the Bible."
Robinson began writing his book while on disability after being shot at in 1995. His physician thought he should see a psychologist to get the experience off his chest and referred him to Dr. Nathan Hare, a former '60s Black Power advocate and sociology professor. Besides his private psychotherapy practice, Hare and his wife run the Black Think Tank, which promotes black self-help and education. (They do public speaking gigs and publish short books such as Bringing the Black Boy to Manhood: The Passage.)
Hare, who is the spitting image of the famed abolitionist Frederick Douglass, with a goatee and distinguished shock of salt-and-pepper hair, has many Muni drivers as clients. And, as luck would have it, he has published articles about pimp psychology in Ebony and the now-defunct Black World magazine.
Hare believes underprivileged black men become pimps to make up for a lack of "social potency," turning the tables on women who would otherwise reject them for their poor earning power. And Hare sees Muni as the perfect job for an ex-pimp to "work off some of the guilt."
