Metrolink608: Number One Engineer (1) “I’m the number one engineer. I have the best job.” That just about describes everything over the last two weeks, the teasing, the learning of the schedule, the final greetings of 2009, a full ten minute conversation, laughter, tears, and losing the engineer’s heart to a black lab. Forget the star struck adolescent adult railfan, it’s the dog! And still Glen is the best. As he says, he’s the number one engineer. I knew that. Your Mission Should You Accept It “I’ll go over there and wave for you,” Janice says as she and bob enter the café. Bob settles himself and his walker behind the small Formica table, Janice orders the beef tip special. I sit with no plate in front of me today; today is the day for the annual Southern California Train Travel Group Christmas party held at the Old Spaghetti Factory. I will be eating my fill of spaghetti in an hour or so and the only thing I order from Jose’s café today is a Diet Doctor Pepper, a Bud lite by his account. I’m concerned because I know I won’t see Glen only if I sneak away and that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. I won’t see him on Tuesday because I work late and I have a Christmas card for him. It is a snow-covered mountain that says Hope Your Holidays are filled with everything you hope for.” My personal writing is short and sweet. It’s hard to know what to write to a man who means so much in so many ways, ways that he knows nothing about. My three month long weekday two minute relationship with this engineer who has been running trains since 1970 is a very powerful connection to the whole event of the rails for me after Chatsworth. Some of the days I’ve gone to the station since September 2009 when I first learned his name have been very stressful, some have been supremely joyous. All I know about my engineer is what I learn from the cab and that isn’t much, really. He has my phone number, I have two minutes of his time, and he has my gratitude forever. “Thank you for making my day so many times. Merry Christmas,” the card says. It’s short, sweet and to the point. The party starts at 6:00 PM, and there are bound to be great stories there that I don’t want to miss. But glen’s card burns a hole in my heart only because I want him to have it now and not two days later when I can make my next evening station trip. The offer to go and wave is a teasing one but today I’m on top of it. Let’s go give him the card that way he gets it and I won’t have to worry about getting it to him. Janice says she’ll be my messenger, my bearer of tidings of great joy. . After all, she is the one who instigated the whole thing, she says. I suppose she is since I’m the one who gave Glen the note and then she is the one who showed me where he was in the cab. We sit and enjoy the half hour before I make my way to the Spaghetti Factory for our party. It is a lively event, fifty people crowd into one room, the retired police officer, Larry the guy who gave me the list of books on the Santa Fe, Ken, the Orange Blossom Special I think is his nickname, Dan Dalke, and my table mates Don, Robin, an dons’ wife Pat. Pat, the center of conversation at our wooden, square table lined with wooden backed chairs with decorative posts and carvings has all kinds of stories. Amidst the clink and clatter of glasses, silverware, and the buzz of conversation, a noticeable lack of cell phone interruptions, servers dressed in smart uniforms weaving in and out of chairs and sometimes for a number of reasons unsteady guests, we are regaled with stories of travels abroad, raising money for a school district, and the funniest train story ever. It seems that she took the train from Houston to Los Angeles and needed to take a train to San Juan Capistrano. San Juan Capistrano is about an hour out of Fullerton, south of us, a short hop from San Diego, a center of tourism in southern California. She boarded the train that announced a San Juan Capistrano stop. Upon arrival at home she received a call from Amtrak apologizing for the fact that her San Juan Capistrano train did not depart Union Station. Would she like a refund? It seems the conductor on the train she was on never asked her for her ticket. She had gotten on the wrong train, there was no departure for her regularly scheduled train, and now she is awaiting her refund. She is sure she won’t get it. Amtrak does cancel trains occasionally. They’ve done it a few times in the last week. Thanksgiving week was a bad week for Amtrak, a series of breakdowns made the railroad lose money and inconvenienced a whole lot of guests going home for pumpkin pie and turkey with all the trimmings. It’s all an adventure when one surrenders their life to a train. It seems if you’re riding the train or just trying to meet the engineer who runs it, life is an adventure. Hold on tight! Mission Accomplished According to the story told by Janice Marsh, bob’s wife, the social butterfly married to the railfans ring leader, at the appointed time Janice crosses the bridge and awaits Glen’s train. Meanwhile I’m being enthralled by conversation and just wondering if he’s there yet. She waves the card. Glen opens his window. “Shelley wanted me to give this to you,” she says. Glen closes his window. He gets up and walks to the front where the steps are. He opens the door and climbs down the stairs. He takes the card. “Shelley’s at a train meeting they’re having a Christmas party.” “Oh. That’s good,” says my engineer. He climbs back up the stairs and retakes his position in front of that sweet control panel. Janice gives a final wave. Glen returns it. He pulls away into the sunset my card in that cab with him. He doesn’t know how much he really makes my day. I learn all this later after sitting with the railfans and gawking at trains. I sit by the tracks and eat my cookie shaped like a train. I’m happy. Mission accomplished! The Strangest Conversation Ever “Hey how are you today?” This is becoming routine. The usual hubbub goes on behind me as people get on the train and kids snap pictures. My train idles. Glen is talking to me. “How was the party?” “Entertaining,” I respond. “You know how rail fans are.” “Yeah.” So far so good! Then the conversation takes an unexpected turn, partly I think Glen’s teasing and my analytical mind too hard at work…again. Are you going to get everything you want for Christmas?” What kind of question is that? “No.” “Why not?” Because my dear glen you won’t talk to me about trains in L.A. I don’t know what to say. “Not enough money.” Oh my that sounded stupid. That has nothing to do with what I’m not getting for Christmas. “Do you play the lotto?” “No,” I shake my head vigorously. “That might be your ticket to Paradise.” Glen you’re so silly. What happened to my serious engineer? I’m about to say something really stupid that sounds manipulative and you’re talking about a ticket to paradise. Glen, you are my ticket to Paradise, oh, and the train, too, when it leaves on January 18. Yes I’m contemplating taking another trip with the Southern California Train Travel group, but more on that later. Right now, I’m standing here, the place of so many adventures over the last three months. We’re talking about money, lotto, tickets to paradise, not trains. What has this thing come to? What’s next? “Well, you never know. Santa might surprise you and bring you something nice.” This is the weirdest conversation ever. Then later I realize he’s teasing me. Why does he keep teasing me? Seems like for the last week he’s teasing me. Great. Now the station faithful are teasing me and now the engineer is teasing me. He doesn’t mention my card. He’s still my glen. Cutting to the Chase Thursday is Christmas Eve. Chris joins us. “Hey what’s up.” “Merry Christmas.” “Merry Christmas,” says my engineer. “Nice puppy you got there,” he’s talking about Chris’s dog, Francis. “That’s his guide dog.” “I know. That’s cool.” “This is Chris, he works with me. He comes down, sometimes.” “I come down to flirt with the engineer like she does.” Oh brother. “Yeah,” says Glen. That’s such a great response. It either says everything or nothing. I’m sure I’m turning three shades of red at once. I must blush spectacularly. I think people tease me because they like to see the blood rush to my face. Forget my serious academic training, everyone’s out just to watch the entertainment put on by my facial muscles. Fine, ok, if that’s what you want. “You love it,” Robin says earlier on Monday after we leave the Christmas party. Right now that train and it’s engineer are sitting there, the stairs behind me. I’m trapped in a corner. A railroad engineer and a man probably his oldest child’s age are both out to get me. Ok Uncle! “You’re both mean,” I say. “So you were asking me last night if Santa would bring something nice are you talking to him did he tell you what he’ll bring me?” “Well, you’ll just have to wait and see.” Funny that sounds like something my mother would say. Guess Glen really does have kids. “Ok take care, Glen,” I say. He pulls the train away, heading for his Christmas and leaving me to make Disney magic. Making the Engineer Blush Is it possible on Monday December 28 that I could make a man five years younger than my father blush? I don’t know Glen’s age, he’s never told me, but unless he was running Santa Fe freight trains before age twenty, I’d put him at no younger than sixty-two years. Spunky, old and wise, experienced, whatever he is, I bet you by the end of this conversation he’s blushing only just a little. Oh sometimes to be able to see those eyes! Maybe in this case it’s better not to see them. “Hey what’s up!” “Hi. How was your Christmas.” “It was good.” “You have company.” “You did?” “No. You have company. The kids did you see them?” He doesn’t respond to this question. He may not have seen the young family from Israel standing on the platform waiting to wave to the engineer. I’m the instigator of this ritual, I’m afraid, pretty good for someone who didn’t want to wave at engineers till February of 2009. Miriam and Najal wave to the 608, my friend, my connection with trains, my sweet engineer. “Step back,” says the young mother to Najal. “why?” “You don’t’ want to get hit by the train,” I say. “That would not be good.” “You would make the engineer cry,” says the mother. “That would definitely not be good,” I say. Glen’s tears are not something I want to personally contemplate. I’d be wanting to comfort him and he wouldn’t be the only one who would have a bad day. The child obeys, the young ones wave and then as the locomotive pulls gently to its stop they disappear further down the track to catch their train. We stand here now, no one behind me. “How was your Christmas,” I ask. “It was good.” “Mine was good.” “Glad everything worked out for you.” Glen is so perfect for my experience with him and the rails. He doesn’t know about the personal drama going on in my head. I find moa out about this later, but for here and for now I can rest assured that he hasn’t had any inkling of the crisis that overwhelmed me two days ago when I told him I wasn’t getting everything I wanted for Christmas. It makes me even more willing to say what I must; I’ve been thinking about this for a few days and I think that today I must tell him my feelings about meeting him. He can take them or leave them. He has a whole cab to hide in, I can run away up the stairs He can tell me to go away. Or he can, because he is Glen, take it all in stride. “I decided that this year my Christmas present was meeting you, my first train engineer, that is all very exciting and the cards and the money I got for bells was just icing on the cake.” “Alright,” Glen says quietly. He has, it seems, taken it all in stride. He revs the engine. We’re finished for the night; what a night it is; I don’t know the impact of my words. Suddenly the bell is silent and the engine pauses in its eagerness to obey its engineer’s commands. “What?” I say, a little confused. “He told me to hold up for a second.” Ok, Glen hasn’t stopped talking to me. I guess I’m okay. I hear the chatter on the radio and raise my hand in farewell. If I embarrassed, flattered, complimented, or simply made the engineer blush, he’s still talking to me. We’re good. I’ll take it. Train Talking Engineer Tuesday is a good day. I go home from work early, do laundry, get my package of new bells I’ve ordered for Christmas. This is a slow week due to holidays and so I’ve asked for vacation pay and said to heck with it I’m going home early. They let me go at 9:15 AM, less than three hours after the start of my shift. I go home and have lunch, too. I’m eating leftovers, On Sunday I had Gary over for dinner and Bob and Janice from the station came over, too. They enjoyed my cooking. So now I’m benefiting from my cooking, yea. I discover somehow that I don’t have a working stylus and I want o get Glen’s number. I don’t want to text it into my phone or leave a message I need to write this down so I call a friend of mine and ask her if she has a working stylus. She does and she delivers it to me that day. I go to the station it has been a good day. I’m trying to figure out how to ask Glen for his number. He can either say yes or no. I gave him mine. He hasn’t called me but it’s okay, really. I’ve been listening to the scanner today. Something’s going on out in Culver. But as it turns out, something is going on in Fullerton, too. Trains heading for Ocean Side and River Side are on track 1 today and trains heading for Los Angeles are on track 3. Seems like a father and daughter or family got into an argument and the daughter ran off by the railroad tracks and stepped in front of a train. This happens in the city of Placentia, and that means train traffic is screwed up, not to mention someone’s life is gone and a family is without a daughter. I take my spot in the Santa Fe café and just order hot tea that day. It is cold outside. The Weather here lately has been chilly and sunny, crisp, invigorating and wonderful. It is a quiet day, Janice is working, Shirley gets off her train in Los Angeles and works her 785 from Union Station rather than catching it in Fullerton. Frank and Carrie show up at their appointed time. I stay planted in my spot, waiting. I go to Glen’s train holding my slate and my stylus. I am ready to write. “There’s a special coming behind us,” Glen starts out and hardly breathes, taking up our sweet two minutes, talking trains. Guess I did tell him he was my Christmas present so he’s just responding to that and telling me about the train that’s coming behind him, going to San Diego, one locomotive, engine 7737 I find out later and three flat cars. I’m kind of confused. Is it a passenger train? “Metrolink?” that wouldn’t be special; Metrolink comes with three cars regularly, but Metrolink doesn’t go to San Diego. It stops just short in Ocean Side and the Coaster operated by the San Diego Regional Railroad takes over. So it wouldn’t make sense that the special train would be Metrolink. “BNSF,” Glen says. “Adios,” he says ad pulls that train away. There goes my chance, but I have insider information. I go across the tracks and tell the world. Everyone gathers to watch 4 leave then they stay and wait as two freights pass, then here comes engine 7737 blowing its horn, and lo and behold, three flat cars, a transformer sitting in the middle of two of them heading Dave Norris says to a power plant. Everyone reverences the train, Wally describes it to me, Mike has it on the scanner, Glen is happily on his way home and we’re standing in the cold. Oh the sweetness of the engineer, he gets to go home and go to bed and we’re all goggle-eyed over a train. Such is life. Armed with the Most Dangerous Information! Glen never says yes. He never says no. He just either gives or doesn’t. It’s Wednesday now and I work a late shift. At 1:30, two hours after they said I can go, I’m out the door, over to the train station. It’s really too late to go home now. By the time I get home I won’t have but an hour and there’s nothing really pressing at home, just the ever growing file of train station notes. The place is clean, all is in order, I may as well head over and see what’s going on. It’s drizzling steadily today just enough to keep the afternoon rail enthusiasts playing cards and drinking coffee in the shelter of the Santa Fe Café. Pat talks to me, a man probably in his early fifties, a man who tells me on another occasion about locomotives, or helps me get a Metrolink ticket and shows me where train 607 stops in the morning. I order hot tea, it seems to be my refuge lately. Raspberry tea has become my favorite, followed closely by the orange spiced variety. There’ something about sitting in the chill, the music echoing quietly behind us, people rolling their duffel bags across the platform or sitting and talking, looking down at their cell phones, engaging in conversations by voice or by text that just feels right for hot tea. It’s not till Glen pulls metrolink 608 out of the station on any day of the week that I go snuggle with the ice-cream, the Diet Doctor Pepper, and the group of railfans who always seem to participate in a spirited discussion of all things political, social, and sometimes the rails we all come to accompany through another long evening. The crinkle of pages turning in Dave’s notebook as I approach signals that he is looking for my train, wrestling the locomotive number out of its little spot on the page. So far I think we’ve seen 889, 874, and 900. Somehow they always get there just in time to see 608. Tonight, though, Wednesday, when I make my most brilliant discovery, when the much yearned for information is finally in my hand, resting confidently in my bag tucked against my hip, guarded like a top secret document, they aren’t there to tell me which locomotive ran 608 today. I don’t care. I’m armed with the most dangerous information! It will either make or break me. I intend on it to make me. So what is this highly sensitive information? A meeting in Los Angeles with a train engineer? No. Better! Standing by the tracks waiting on Wednesday I’m conscious that I only have two chances to get that number! Things haven’t progressed so far that one should be concerned about the exchanging of phone numbers, but this railroad dance has progressed from me standing shyly in the distance to now standing here by the track, waiting for the engineer, the number one engineer, he tells me later. If in the beginning of time God had to decree that Shelley would meet a locomotive engineer then I guess it has to be this one for all its worth from now into perpetuity. Could there have been a better one? Well, here he is sitting right here in front of me. It’s been two days since I told Glen he was my Christmas present and everything else was only icing on the cake. “Hey. What’s up!” Nothing has changed. “Oh, you know. The show,” I say. My darling FP59 engine beckons me, my engineer waits. “Hey I wanted to ask you,” I start and think quickly oh dear, not that again. I’m not stopped by my preamble, I plunge ahead like a determined sky diver ready to make the plunge into the cold chill. “Starting next week we’re hitting our peek season and I may not make it out here much.”
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