Metrolink111: Flowers For An Engineer
Shelley J Alongi

 

The names in this essay have not been changed in order to more poignantly thank my helpers and say kind things about the innocent and the guilty.

Today Friday September 11 holds significance in United States history for the deliberate murder of five thousand people in New York City’s twin tower disaster commonly referred to by everyone as 911. While this date holds significance for so many, it also holds importance for me because today marks another milestone on my quest for information about Rob Sanchez’s accident. Today I go to the Chatsworth station and lay flowers, a dozen red and a dozen orange roses for him, an event in my own mind separate from the official memorials planned tomorrow, September 12. I won’t be there for those events, I will be in Santa Barbara doing a wine tasting event, something that will be discussed in an entirely different essay. Today I am going to take the Metrolink111, the train on which that accident occurred and whose name I immortalize in my essay titles. I hope you know I don’t mean to degrade the service provided by Metrolink, I’m sure there are plenty of people who will do that. I use that title as a reference for people looking for information on my journey through the accident and being absolutely obsessed now with trains. I am writing all this down for posterity and for myself because I know I could never make up what happens at Chatsworth or the fullerton station. If I wait to write it down I forget most of it. So kick off your shoes, relax while I make the harrowing journey, here we go.

Flowers and the Ten Dollar Snack Pack

Today, Friday, is a warm, muggy but not entirely unpleasant day. I get up early, 3:00 in the morning that is, to complete some email assignments and work on my railroad engineer stories. At 11:00 I get ready to go to Chatsworth, having made my reservations on Amtrak’s 775 to L.A., business class, of course. I board the train holding my flowers and my railroad bag. Before boarding, I get several comments during the first leg of the trip about the flowers. When I’m sitting at the Fullerton station there are two olden gentlemen sitting on the patio and we talk a little bit about the accident, and mainly about Dick’s trip to Banning. Pat, who comes there by Access, a Para transit service for people with disabilities, remembers me from two weeks ago when I sat on the patio talking to them as we helped the lady understand trains and told her when the Southwest Chief arrives and where to go since she has a sleeper ticket. Today there’s no one waiting so early for the Chief. I’m sitting there waiting for the Surf liner, holding my flowers. I say I’m taking them for everyone but really in my heart they’re for the engineer, Rob Sanchez. Now I’m on the air conditioned train enjoying my snack pack (I paid $10 to upgrade just for the snack pack and the Diet Pepsi, and it’s worth it.) The trip is quiet. The train crawls along and suddenly we’re there. After all this time I’m at Union Station waiting for the Metrolink 111. Sitting there waiting for the train I remember that on the day of the accident Rob Sanchez ordered his roast beef sandwich from this very station. “I’m at Union Station” he is reported to have said. Now I’m at Union Station because he was there before me. How many hours had he spent here? How many hours have I spent here waiting for the coast Starlight and Pacific Surf liners? Many. But not as many hours as rob Sanchez spent there. He must have known that lobby and those platform ramps in all of their concrete splendor. This is my imagination talking now, not anything I’ve heard first hand. But somehow I can imagine an engineer climbing down from that cab, in his case perhaps not so much of a climb if he was six foot two inches tall, and hightailing it into the station to take care of some urgent matter, or even to place a cell phone call ordering a roast beef sandwich.

This muggy, breezy afternoon, A lady sitting on the platform bench parallel to the track 5B at L.A. Union station asks me about the flowers, interrupting my thoughts of the engineer. I am going to Chatsworth today to lay them at the station, I say, not mentioning the engineer. She is going to Simi Valley to baby sit for her grandson so they can have a nice dinner.

“And when do you get your nice dinner?” I ask the Mexican woman. She only laughs. Soon the train comes and we both go our separate ways, she to her baby sitting and me to my mission. There always is one, it seems, especially when I head off to Chatsworth. Before the accident, or even before July, I had never gotten off the train at Chatsworth. Why should I? Now it seems the most appropriate thing to do.

Meeting the Conductor

Right on time, Metrolink 111 sneaks into position and it’s time to meet the conductor and not anticipate it anymore. The first introduction gets off to a somewhat shaky start only because there’s a steep step down to the platform and then to the train and the attendant, of African American descent I think, tall, dressed smartly in his Amtrak uniform, and who has been hanging new time tables along with his colleague, waits while the conductor places the ramp across the gap so I can step onto it. I’m not entirely ungrateful but I keep asking how the others got down to the train They were already standing at a different level, he says. Ok. I’m standing too close to the edge, the conductor has to set the edge of the ramp there and so I step backwards. I wonder if bob Hildebrand thinks I’m a difficult passenger? Sometimes I think I am. I try not to be, but you know I have to keep my reputation for being difficult, or at least asking hard questions, or at least defending my position. Rob Sanchez is lucky to have me defending him. But he’s not here to see it; so that’s just the way it is.

Crossing the ramp, I step onto the train and then suddenly realize that if I’m going to introduce myself to this man, the man who was injured in California’s very significant disaster, and who said he had no trouble with Rob operating the train, and who turned Rob in for cell phone use, I better do it now. He’s standing there at the door and I’m about to go into the car. I know once the train gets started he won’t be available and it won’t really be appropriate to discuss the accident or at least introduce myself.

Remember I’m a competent Toastmaster, I have two advanced rankings under my belt and I’ve been a district leader, but all week I’ve been anticipating this day and so my mouth might feel a bit like it has peanut butter in it. I take a deep breath and turn to him.

“Bob, I have to talk to you between now and the time we get to Chatsworth.” I sound extremely calm for talking to a man who survived a locomotive ramming into another locomotive and two passenger cars. He was a hell of a lucky man, if you don’t mind me saying so. He stands there, looking at me, probably my height, waiting. “Chris in Chatsworth said I should introduce myself to you I’m the one who made Rob’s plaque.” That was the full extent of my conversation.
“Oh,” he says his voice rising a little, a hopeful indication to me that he knows who Rob is and that he understands, though I can never be sure about the understanding part. “I’m going to Chatsworth to get it,” I said, holding my red and orange bouquets of roses. They had made the long trip from an Anaheim Vons store to Los Angeles Union Station successfully. Our hands separated, but there it was; I shook hands with the man who knew Rob Sanchez professionally and who could fill in so much information for me. But not today, not while he is about to work a very full train. He finishes putting the front seats down in the hall, there are two of them just before the exit door, and he finishes his job. I walk into the car and find a seat, readjusting my Train web bag that will hold Rob’s plaque on the way back and my flowers. The train slowly pulls away from the station, bringing all of us to our separate journeys. The Train is roomy, I feel the throbbing of the motors running through the car, the generator running the lights and the power whirs on, the air flows through the vents in the ceiling making us comfortable. He shuttles back and forth between the four car train, explaining to one passenger that their tickets may need validating. I hold mine out and ask him if I need to validate the ticket. He takes it and looks at it and says no; it isn’t a ten trip ticket, so it doesn’t need to be validated. I’ve never had a conductor ask me for one and he had mentioned that tickets needed to be validated.

Along our journey through Glendale, Burbank, Van Nuys, that he keeps reminding people to check for their personal belongings, watch your step while disembarking the train, and that famous Amtrak or Metrolink saying “stand clear, doors are closing.” Several times during the trip he talks to people he knows only in passing, Steve, and another man at L.A. Union station and tells him they’ll meet again at Simi. Simi is Simi Valley, of course. Periodically, he comes into the car and sits behind me looking at papers, rustling through them, fidgeting, and occasionally coughing. I can’t really talk to him, there is a person next to me and the seat back is too high to have a conversation and he really doesn’t sit there long. He gets up to open the doors or do something else. Finally, Chatsworth comes into view and I get up after talking to a man who apparently retired and is on his way to visit grand children (I fid this out by listening to the conversation between himself and another lady), and make my way to the exit. Bob stands there, ushering passengers off the train.

“nice to meet you,” I say. He responds in kind, then tells me to make a left to go down the ramp into the depot. He is very professional, very focused on his work. Those are good qualities.

After walking accidentally into a travel agency, I make my way to the depot and open the door. The high-ceilinged room with its hard wooden benches and round table and chairs greets me with the smell of freshly ground coffee, a welcome scent to someone who has been up since 3:00 in the morning, and who, incidentally, has no cash. I have a debit card of course but the café doesn’t take it. I had forgotten about that since by the time I got to the station I wanted a bottle of water.

“Hi, Shelley,” Chris says. He stands at the counter in the café. He says he’ll be back. “Stand by,” he instructs and rushes outside.

Waiting for him I find my way to the restroom and put water in the Pampered chef pitcher I brought and then arranged the roses in the pitcher and carry it back out to the depot. I stand in the place where Rob’s plaque hung for one day, talking to Chris, holding the pitcher. We talk about Marcella taking time off in the afternoon, the press being there that day watching trains come in and out of Chatsworth. ABC was still there when I got off bob’s train. I ask if anyone interviews him today. No, he says.

“You were one of the last people to talk to Rob and they didn’t interview you? They don’t care about him, I say.

No, Chris agrees, they don’t care about him. He was, I say, a hard-hearted, murdering, calloused, irresponsible, and then I stop because I can’t find my words for the contempt the media has pored on this man.

“Text messager,” Chris finishes for me.

“yeah. That’s it.”

“did you read Rob’s text messages?” I ask as coffee drips into the pot, temping me with its fresh, rich perfume.

Chris responds that he started to read them but said “there’s no future in this anymore” they were illegal. He knew he shouldn’t have that in the engine, he says. I agree. “It doesn’t change the fact that for the last five seconds of your life you’re going to get hit by a freight train” I say.

“Only he knows,” he says. “An the Lord.”

Yes. Absolutely. An engineer who knows better makes one tragic mistake and you know it only takes one. I’m waiting for that end of the year report. For me, it wont’ change anything.

We talk about Disney. I offer to get him in free if he likes. He’s not going for his birthday, he says, since you can get in free this year. He’s going somewhere on a trip he knows nothing about. A friend is whisking him away for a surprise trip. Happy birthday Chris, and thank you.

They’re For Someone I Miss

Our attention turns to the red and orange well formed roses in my hand. I put them on the table, their long, thorny stems not always standing up straight. We put more water in the pitcher, and stand back to admire a very makeshift if heart-felt memorial to an engineer. They’re “exceptional” Chris says. The moment is marred by one sad-looking bud that hangs on the stem, a victim of the long trip, but their cheerful colors help to remember a man who if he died tragically, by all accounts was very thoughtful, if his last actions detract from that understanding of him. If the occasion is somber and the event is sad, he should be remembered with some color since he did have a “kind laugh” someone said, and was by most accounts of a cheerful disposition.

If anyone asks, I say, we’ll just say “They’re for someone I miss.” Many months ago I mentioned being a torch carrier for Rob Sanchez. I am definitely that. I’ve been told by people on his memorial page that I should meet him someday, that I should keep the plaque to myself, that I’m obsessed with him. I’ll buy the obsessed part. Someone needs to remember him publicly. I said months earlier that torch would get heavy. It may get heavy or people may just leave me in peace, but he will be remembered with kindness.

Sometimes I remind myself of Crazy Judah, Theodore Judah, the man most credited with building the transcontinental railroad because he laid the plans and surveyed the route and was so dedicated to his idea that he is known years later for bringing it to pass. He died before he could see his dream come true. Ok if that sounds a little dramatic, if it seems that I’m putting myself in the category of accomplishing big things, maybe I am, but who knows. I’ll tell anyone about my idea. Somewhere along the line someone will bring it to pass. Sometimes those things take time. I’ve only been at it officially for five months since I’ve had the plaque in my hand since April.

I have another idea before I go back to L.A. I’m going to go talk to Gary, Rob’s trainer, the engineer who had the most positive response to the plaque. I’ll find him somehow. I know he comes to Chatsworth and Chris tells me what time, but I can’t make it out there today so this is the stuff of another trip. I can always think of a reason to come to Chatsworth, and maybe next time I’ll have cash so I can get some of that fresh ground coffee.

Notes on a Story

It is interesting to me that the press was there today, but I was talking to the people who knew the engineer. Chris said they would exchange pleasantries, how’s your day, have a good weekend, and the dodgers, he seemed kind of private, he said, but that was the extent of the information he could give me about Rob. He would see Rob in the morning but he was in the cab car so they didn’t talk. I asked him who initiated the conversations and he said Bob usually initiated them. Bob is the other man who sits on the platform and watches trains. I don’t notice he was there today but Chris said he was there, that I probably just missed him. He’s the one whose scanner tipped me off to their presence on the platform back in July. Maybe next time I’ll see him.

I get ready to go, deciding after an hour that I’ll take bob’s train back to L.A. and get home so I can prepare for my other eventful train journey. Chris, running around, tells me he has a standing order with Bob and his engineer for coffee and so as I go out to wait for the train, he gets it ready. Just before his train comes in, ABC News leaves the station. I get on the train; Bob is nowhere in sight, but he’ll be around soon. I settle in with my plaque and my bag, ready to start the next phase. I’m grateful to Chris for helping me make some Chatsworth connections. I’ll be back, this is n’ over yet. Somehow I think you know that.

The Engineer’s eyes

On the return trip I don’t see Bob at all except once in the middle of the trip as he comes through. I wave and he says “hey.” When I get off the train he walks behind me for several hundred yards but we don’t speak. Sitting there for about ten minutes during the trip I visualize those last five seconds and the most overwhelming image pops into my head, the idea of getting hit by a freight train, oh those eyes! Those sparkling brown eyes! I just can’t get that image out of my head. The press is watching trains and showing pictures of the wreck and I’m imagining an engineer’s eyes! And the conductor now walks behind me till we separate for our journeys through the rest of the day. ? On the day the press comes to Chatsworth I get my plaque and take it back; no one sees my plaque for the engineer. But they will. I promise you that; someday they will see it. And I meet the conductor and I shake Hans with someone who worked with Rob Sanchez. I have to write it down today, the day it happened instead of relying on only memory to help me write it later.

Now I have two connections in Chatsworth, Chris who has told me all the stories, Gary who I want to talk to, and Bob Hildebrand the conductor. Wonder when I’ll see him again. I haven’t made my last trip to Chatsworth by any means. If he’s running that train I’ll see him; and if not, I’ll see him. You can be sure of one thing: I may not see him for a long time, and it may take a while to hang the plaque, but I’ll never forget that engineer’s eyes.

 

 

Copyright © 2009 Shelley J Alongi
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"