Conversations With Glenn: The Bestest Engineer Sunday December 1, 2013 8:20 PM I hang up my fancy phone, supremely happy. He had time for me. I got to talk to the bestest engineer, ever.” “do you have time for me?” I have questions. If not, ok you have a good night #1 engineer. I disconnect the call after leaving a very composed message on my engineer’s voicemail. My phone has had trouble disconnecting from glenn's number lately and, I promise, it's not me. However, in the last few weeks it has settled down, maybe Apple finally got it right? In any case, I disconnect and put my fancy phone on the kitchen cart. Returning to the living room I put engineer thoughts aside and work on my computer. lately, since my second Lancaster trip, occurring on November 27, 2013, something has happened to make me less nervous. Maybe I'm just comfortable? Maybe we're just friends now? I don't know. I don't fear losing this connection. Maybe, what has happened is I have given him some of my journal entries to look at where I've admitted my fascination with both him and his trade. Perhaps admitting it to him has helped me not be so keyed up. Maybe this is a temporary lull and I'm in for a relapse of double intenseness. An intense Glenn can't be so bad. "It's Glenn!" I jump up, at the sound of the sweetly ringing chime, my breath coming more rapidly, responding to the over stimulation that always occurs when this man calls me back. Didn’t I just say I wasn’t as nervous as I was before? "Glenn." The name is a combination of familiarity and formality, but at least tonight it’s not spoken with dread or grief or through peanut butter. It's kind of quiet though I do know he is driving. lately there doesn't seem to be the hiss of Bluetooth wireless technology when he calls me from his truck or car. "I'm writing this down" I enthuse, . "Glenn called me back. "Are you ready?" "We'll give it a shot." His voice is scratchy, raspy, maybe influenced by cigarettes or the start, or end, I think later, of a winter cold. Is my engineer sick? Just a lingering question. Whatever the case, I recognize this phrase from his radio communications. I've heard it when he can't get a car placed on the ramp because someone hasn't spotted their train properly. One of my favorite Glenn radio moments occurs a couple of weeks back when he says "This guy don't know how to spot this train." Oh, my Glenn, just "being himself" says Susie. Glenn just being a man who'd probably just like to go home or at least be done for the night. "We'll give it a shot," he says now, explaining that he might lose me in the mountains. I smile. This is definitely glenn. No more confusion. No more trying to convince my brain that the man I am talking to whether in person or on the phone is the engineer of my dreams. There's only a train ravaged girl and an older railroad engineer driving through the mountains, and the boring desert, steady handed, eyes on road, talking to me. Sometimes, even now, I still don't believe my beginner's luck. I didn't expect when I sat the night of September 12 2008 on that couch and watched all those people lined up at Chatsworth High School after the accident that I'd be trying to talk to railroad engineers. Certainly, though he reminds me in some ways of people I’ve met along my varied journey in life, I could have never imagined this one. "Ok," I say, ready to ply my friend with my most pressing question. I’m not nervous. I am a little breathless. Restless. I ply the carpet with my footsteps, happy to be at his feet. Ok, so signal calling etiquette. Let's stick to what I know. When I can get you guys in range, because of the setup I have, I usually hear you guys starting at 57, 63, no, 65, ok, 63, 65, 67, 69, 71, 73. These are the numbers. And, then there is Quartz. Crest. Harold, Sierra Bonita. Those are control points. Are the numbers intermediates or mileposts? Whatever I am, now, I'm annoyed as the alarm on my second phone goes off, trying to dance a merry tune as I'm explaining this. Suddenly, I'm confronted with trying to compete with myself and the phone alarm. I make a beeline for the bedroom, escaping the clatter of the merry alarm. I want to hear his answer. "Both," now says the veteran engineer. During the entire explanation he hasn't wondered how I knew any of this. And, he hasn't corrected me. We really have come a long way since that first conversation when I asked him about visibility in the cab. "The reason I ask is because I was looking at where the incident on 269 occurred. Your accident. I posted a question on my Face Book page for clarification about where Sierra Highway crosses the Metrolink tracks. A media report said that the accident was east of the Palmdale station. I’m a little shaky on my Valley Sub Division geography. I don’t have geographic information readily available so I’m not sure if Sierra Highway is before the station or after it. Tied into this uncertainty is my weak grasp at times on railroad directions. Southern Pacific used to own these tracks running toward San Fransisco, putting all trains heading from Los Angeles to Lancaster in a westward movement. Both glenn and David the man who answers my question on FaceBook tell me the same information. So, does Sierra Highway cross the Metrolink tracks before or after the Palmdale station? When reading the answer that David put on Facebook, I recognized one of the mileposts as one of the signals you guys call. 69.2." "Are you talking about where I hit the guy on the bike?" "Yes." Then, the engineer ruins my best laid plans, sort of. “It was at Palmdale Boulevard,” he tells me. Aha. Well, the milepost location still makes sense. “Do you know the milepost for Palmdale Boulevard?” I ask him serenely. I can’t believe how calm I am. Four years ago I would have never known even what a milepost was and what it meant. We really have come a long way, baby. “I’d have to look on my chart.” Ah, just like the other guy. Well, that’s probably why that bag was so heavy in Los Angeles. All those rule books and charts. Where can I get that chart? I tell Glenn in a text that night before my plans change and I can call him that I just have to know this stuff. I'm not an ambulance chaser. On October 19, 2013, one of the strangest Saturdays on record, a full moon for anyone on the reservations sales floor (a strange day indeed), at approximately 6:38 pm according to the Twitter feed, Antelope Valley line train 269 "struck a person." This message comes to me as I sit at Varsity Burger after work enjoying a meal with Vince, one of my Starbucks secret admirers. My only thought is that the crew is having their plans wrecked, and someone has just proved their brilliance by being on the railroad tracks when they’re not supposed to be there. I have no idea who’s running that train. I find out two days later who was running that train. Three hours later, home at last, turning on the Lancaster feed at a little before or after 9:00 pm, I catch 269 as the engineer, calls 69.2. 69.2 is one of the mileposts David supplied as part of the answer to my question about where Sierra Highway crosses the tracks. There are two crossings, mp65.8 seven hundred feet north of the Palmdale station, and then one at a different mp 69.2, this crossing considered east of the station. If Glenn says the accident, and they’re calling it an accident, was at Palmdale Boulevard, and if 69.2 is the Sierra Highway crossing, this tells me that at least Palmdale Boulevard is before 69.2. I almost know where we are here. This is the catalyst for the whole conversation with Glenn. The thing that keeps me from calling him, instead turning to my FaceBook connections is that I’m waiting for roommates and a cat. But, a conversation with one of my new roommates confirms that they will not make it on this Sunday night, after all, freeing up my time. So, when the lights dawn, when I realize that The milepost locations and the signals I am hearing called coincide, I know I have to talk to Glenn. But, I’m proud of myself. I went to another source, first. Now, fate having perhaps dropped opportunity in my lap, and armed with familiar numbers, I call Glenn, leave the message and take my chances. And, so, after all the numbers and dancing and waiting, here we are, and he has answered my questions. But, now, an old nemesis plots to separate me from my favorite engineer. “I’m going to lose you,” he says. The mountains will come between us. “Ok,” I say, and wait. In a moment, after clearing whatever he clears, I call back. “There are so many numbers on my dance card,” I explain, “That’s why it took me so long to find your’s.” Really, he’s the only number I want on my dance card. But, remember, I’m the high school railfan. He’s the grown up. Well, ok. “So,” I tell him, “If I could find something useful to do with all this information about milepost and signals, I’d quit my job in a minute.” “What’s this about quitting your job?” It’s that twenty-first century cell phone thing. I have to chuckle. Is glenn always afraid I’m going to lose my job? I remember once two years ago he said “what’s this about you leaving Disney?” Is he afraid anyone is quitting their job? Is there someone in particular he wants to get a job? So, I answer the question. “There you go,” he says. It’s the standard answer. It means, whatever. I like it. The entire time I’m still not nervous. But, I am excited. And, happy. And, then, it’s back to the Palmdale station and mileposts and accidents. I didn’t know, I explained, whether the accident was before or after the station, so I had to not only get the milepost locations, but I also had to know the direction the train was heading. After clearing all that up, Glenn reconfirms railroad directions. The basic principal is that railroads run in two directions unless companies or railroads designate them as north and south. It all goes back to the railroad in charge. But, basically, and all confirm this, railroad compass runs east and west and never the twain shall meet. Unless you’re at Atwood. “Here’s a strange one,” he now says in a relaxed mood. “When the Santa Fe goes toward a location and passes Atwood it changes directions even though it’s headed in the same one. So, if it’s heading west, it’s now heading east. “Why?” I ask him. And, then, I realize, the reason why things get mixed up in my head sometimes or the reason why I am curious about things is I’ve always asked why. It’s why I didn’t do well in math, I tell him. Because, I can’t just accept things. I have to know how they work. This is the same kind of reasoning that gets all kinds of people into all kinds of trouble. Or, maybe it’s why I am always passionate about something. Now, here I am at age 47, interested in the railroad. And, here I am talking to the bestest engineer, ever. Somewhere in the journey to Lancaster, between talking about railroad directions, different freight railroads in the United States, and informing me that CSX is a United States railroad, not a Canadian one, the engineer of my dreams decides it’s trivia time. That could partially be my fault because as I often do, I have to make comments. Sitting on the floor at this point with pearl curled on my lap I ask: “So, is there a test on all this tomorrow?” No, but it is time, it seems for more trivia. This calls for more pacing, so Pearl loses her little spot and goes off into the shadows. You know, at this point, I’m still the new kid on the block. So, I’m not surprised when he tells me in our conversation that it’s trivia time. Do you know the five major railroads in the United States? He wants to know. We’ve just spent some time talking about CSX. I can’t remember now how CSX got in the mix. Somehow I’ve always thought CSX was a Canadian railroad. I’m not sure why I thought such a thing. Tonight, I learn, I am wrong. Here’s my love on the rails asking me something. Here’s something I should know, sort of. Union pacific. I say. Southern Pacific,” Glenn ejects in surprise, as if he can’t believe I said that. “Southern Pacific is gone.” Even through raspiness and some hints of congestion, it’s Glenn. His response surprises me a little. Did I say Southern pacific? Now, sitting there on my bed, feeling a bit heady, talking to him, it’s a “don’t look down” moment. I’m thinking. I don’t know all those answers. The new kid on the block is talking to the forty-three year veteran of the railroad, a man who says later “I don’t know what I’d be doing if I didn’t work for the railroad.” Did I say I wasn’t nervous tonight? Excited, maybe. Holding my fancy phone, silence, engineer happiness, conversation really is easy, talking to my railroad crush, no wonder I said Southern pacific. What is the answer? Union Pacific, Kansas City Southern who runs freight from ports in Mexico, CSX, BNSF, and Norfolk Southern. Now, is glenn repeating himself? Somehow, I don’t think I’ve heard all his stories. But, suddenly, we’re visiting a subject that I knew nothing about in march, 2013, when he mentioned Claus Spreckles. I don’t remember now why he brought up Spreckles. Perhaps it was because when he said that the reason the odd numbered trains were heading west was because of Southern Pacific, we touched on San Francisco and that’s where the sugar magnate was famous in his day. I know, love, you told me. But, I can never get it right. When he first mentioned speckles in march, I wasn’t sure if he was saying Speckles or Spreckles. Now, tonight, I’m still not sure. But, having looked it up several months ago, I’m familiar with the general story. Claus Spreckles, sugar magnet, shipped his sugar mostly through narrow gage rail to Moss Landing. He was important in San Francisco and his company existed in some form till 2005 when Southern Minnesota Sugar Beat Corporation bought it. Spreckles also was the principal financial backer for another railroad: the San Diego Arizona Eastern. I think Glenn likes Spreckles, or something. Or, maybe he just likes sugar? Then, it’s personal story time. I can hear him. He has time for me. “When I hired out it was about who you knew. Family. I went to Union pacific first, those clowns.” “I live near Union Pacific tracks,” I explain. “By the 5.” “That’s too bad,” he says. I smile. “So, I went to Union Pacific,” he explains, “and there was a stack of applications. Then, I went to the Santa Fe. They had about fifty applications. I said ok thank you very much and took it.” “I used to work for the Santa Fe,” says Glenn’s father to the agent. He was with him in 1970 when he applied for that first railroad job. Remember, that was one of my first questions to him. “What was your first railroad job?” “I was hired as a fireman on the Santa Fe on September 30,. 1970,” he says from his locomotive cab in October, 2009. Now, he’s telling me how it happened. “What did he do?” I asked my friend about his father. “He used to be a fireman on the Santa Fe.” At first, he explains, they said, thank you very much, Glenn. But, then, his father stepped in. And, the rest as they say, is history. It is now, after discussing how he got hired to work on the Santa Fe, that I pull out my big secret, something I was reminded of four years ago. I’ve been waiting so long. “My great grandfather was an engineer for the Santa Fe in New Mexico.” “Yeah?” Did Glenn just sound like a kid in a candy store? “I’ve told you several times but I think it got lost in the shuffle.” “Where?” I swear he sounds excited. Sometimes just his responses are worth the questions or the passing along of information. I’ve waited four years to tell him this and his response is priceless. Did I just hit pay dirt? Again? He sounds like an adult child, excited, curious, his cold or whatever respiratory trouble dogs him, forgotten. But, I’m excited, too! My engineer is excited that we had an engineer that worked for the Santa Fe. And, ran steam, to boot. “Clovis,” I say. “But, I don’t know where he ran.” Well, you could run eastward from Clovis to Amarillo or Slayton. Westward you could run to Vaughn or Roswell. “Well, apparently my grandmother, his daughter, didn’t like him,” I say. “I remember being at his house. I really don’t remember him. But, my dad reminded me once when he met me for lunch here at the Santa Fe café. I do remember being at his house in ’72.” “How old were you in ’72?” “six.” “Do you still have your mom?” “No. We lost her twelve years ago.” “That’s too bad,” glenn says. Sometimes he reminds me of my parents with his phrases. And, then, sometimes he’s just completely off the charts. I’ll take him. “But, I really don’t want to find out about him,” I say. “I don’t want my illusions shattered.” “then, you don’t want to go to Ancestry.com. My nephew and his wife, his wife and my daughter are into this.” They were showing him pictures of someone in his family a mug shot of someone. He was in jail for armed robbery, he says. So, I think we’ll leave my great grandfather to rest. We’ll let the present engineers shatter my romantic illusions. “I’m going to raise hell tomorrow,” Glenn tells me somewhere between Wrightwood and Lancaster. “Why?” “Well, I have a student.” I tell Glenn his student’s name. “Yes,” he affirms. It always surprises me that he never asks me how I know these things. Maybe he just expects people to listen to him on the radio. The gentleman in question has been with him for at least two weeks, it seems. I think I met him in Los Angeles on November 27, but he didn’t say anything to me. He definitely came from the direction of the engine. He had his keys and a radio. He went to the back and then to the front again, and then, I boarded train 205 and didn’t talk to him again. But, tonight, we get so involved in the discussion, and I’m so intent on interrupting the engineer that we both get distracted. Glenn kindly lets me interrupt him. “Yes.” “It’s hard to hear him on the radio. I mean he calls the train number but you kind of don’t hear the number of the signal he’s calling or know where you are.” “He does it kind of quickly, huh?” I think Glenn knows what I’m talking about. So, maybe I’m not the only one who notices. “He did better today” I text to him the next day. Toward the end of the week on the times when I do catch the transmissions he is slowly returning to the speed at which he was becoming indecipherable. But, as Glenn tells me in Lancaster, sometimes it takes a while. Well, I’ve heard a lot of people on the radio, not just Glenn, Metrolink engineers and conductors, BNSF, Amtrak, Union Pacific crews, and he’s the only one whose numbers I have trouble deciphering. “Shelley.” This is my cue. “Yeah.” Now, I sound like him. “I’m almost to Lancaster.” “Almost there?” Do I sound disappointed my favorite engineer? “Almost there,” he says quietly, gently, hints of congestion floating to me through my fancy phone. Even his quiet midrange voice is a little scratchy. I notice it on Wednesday in Lancaster, but today I can hear the intermittent signs of congestion punctuated by an occasional clearing of the throat combined with a sigh as if he might be a bit uncomfortable. But, he talks and talks and I listen, because, I’ve decided, I’m in love with this man’s voice. “We’ll talk again,” he says now as we conclude our call. “Okay,” I must say. “Have a good night,” he says and it’s over. And, then, I remember! I go to the contact and tap on his name. voicemail! No! I’ve never done this. I know he just talked to me. I am not nervous, remember? “What’s up!” It’s Glenn. “Glenn, you forgot to tell me why you were going to raise hell tomorrow!” “Oh!” He forgot, too, it seems. “I have a student. And, USC. The score was UCLA 35. USC 14. I’m going to bring him a deflated football.” This signifies what he thinks of USC’s scoring potential, I guess. Or, he’s definitely a UCLA fan. “And, you’re an Angels fan,” I remind him. I found this out when the Dodgers were in the nationals this year against St. Louis, and I was rooting for Boston to win their pennant and go on to the World Series. Boston played Detroit. I texted Glenn to see if he was rooting for blue and he said “no way Angels.” That’s how I knew he was an Angels fan. “He is Hispanic,” says Glenn about his student. “They’re all Dodgers fans. Art Moreno the owner of the Angels is successful. I don’t know why he’s not an Angels fan.” It’s kind of cute, I don’t know if it’s because of his new partials or just the way things have always been. He can’t say “successful” it comes out “sesesful.” I wonder if it has something to do with me not understanding whether he’s saying Spreckles or Speckles. I’ll take any of them. Now, it is time to end the conversation. He’s about to check in at the motel in Lancaster. “Ok. Take care of that cold.” “Alright,” he says in his quiet, almost surprised fashion. He always says it that way. I hear it on the radio, I hear it when he talks to me sometimes. It’s just part of his charm. “Good luck tomorrow with your new tenets. Sometimes, cats don’t’ get along.” “I know. But, they’ll be there on Tuesday when I go back to work. They can deal with it.” It’s time to end this conversation. “Sweet train dreams.” “Alright,” he says again and this time it is over. I hang up my fancy phone, supremely happy. He had time for me. I got to talk to the bestest engineer, ever.”
Copyright © 2013 Shelley J Alongi |