She Likes Trains: Convincing The Engineer
Shelley J Alongi

 

This week is replete with engineer stories. If one had to be convinced, others did not, but no matter. I meet them all along my own personal railroad journey and they’re all important. I wonder how many engineers I’ll have to convince to tell me stories. We’ll cross those bridges when we get to them. This week, one doesn’t get bumped, one can’t run a train, one gets out of the cab, one is once again through Fullerton, and one, is the very best.

“Hello. How are you? What trains did you go to? You and yours have a great day.”

This one is married with two little children, younger, perhaps with new challenges, I don’t’ know what they might be, maybe I’ll find out in Montana. Tonight, when the conversation ends, I only know the new train numbers. But I got them because I guess my message convinced him to call.

“Hello this is shelley!” Does he remember me?

“I got a call from this number,” he says. I know who it is because his number is in my phone under his name. He’s the one who wrote my number on his rule book, he says two months ago, tapping it. Can I touch it? The rule book? He’s the one who asked me how I was going to read his number as I reach into my bag and pull out paper. Here, tonight, I’m lazy, write it I’ll get someone to read it and then tell me what it is. This is a far cry from standing at the cab and Glenn looking out his window at me holding my own pen. Two months ago I go across the tracks and askkathy to read it and then write it on my paper and then put it in my phone. Tonight, I’m just lazy. An now, here, Sunday, standing in a Subway line, here he is on my phone.

I almost faint standing in the Subway line getting ready to pay for my jalapeno tuna sandwich on a Sunday night before I head down to Fullerton. I’ve decided that I have to go, it’s either go there or go shopping. I will have to pay cab fare or buy food and I figure I’ll be home working for two days and so I’ll just go to the station. Maybe I can convince the former freight engineer to tell me stories? Yes, he says he’ll tell them to me, so I’ll just have to see if he’s there.

In the meantime I stand in line waiting to pay. My phone rings. I jump. I don’t get calls. My adolescent calls are ended; I don’t ‘get many these days. Here’s the ironic thing about my phone calls lately: they’re mainly from engineers with five minutes. I’m at Taylor, we’re in the crew van, I’m..you’re on my phone. This is way better than high school! It’s all harmless and professional, friendly, fun, and my middle-aged whatever it is. I’ll take it.

Maybe it’s the culmination of a difficult week, not at work that goes pretty well, it’s just been emotional because I’ve almost lost one engineer, learned about one with troubles, not current, but the story brought back a lot of memories.
This place has been about trains, but it’s been about debriefing and distressing and planning, creating. This week it’s about missing fans because I ended up on one side and they wer on the other. That was okay, really, because it gave me a cool, crisp evening without someone complaining about someone else or something else. After updating my manicure and getting money, I make a short stop before heading hoem to finish out my week. It’s a week for marveling at the power, counting locomotives, 4, 7, one consist has eight locomotives, watching the P-42s, the announcements that some train is standing room only.

Tonight, Sunday brings all this quietly to a close.

“It’s Shelley from Fullerton,” I say to the man on the other end of the line. I can hear him; I don’t have any trouble with blue tooth. He’s not on his way to Lancaster. He’s quiet; his life seems kind of normal if not long on hours like most railroaders I guess, or at least the ones I know. If I’ve met the best first, this one is a little more of what I’m used to. He calls people back.

“Hey!” he says, now he remembers me.

“I was calling you to see what trains you were on.”

He tells me.

How is the family?

Good. I called Eddiek, today, he says.

The conversation is short, I learn he has one route through Fullerton, strange schedule, normal, says another Dave, a veteran of the railroad when I see him that night. Turns out he knows my number 1 engineer, too.

I don’t think he’d remember me, Dave says. But I met him years ago. He introduced himself. And so how does he remember his last name? Probably from the agent’s book or something. Anyway he’s got the right one.

James, the one on my phone, is the one who tells me that I can get agreements online. I can’t get anything without a password. Never mind that now. He’s off the weekends and he runs three trains and when I come to Fullerton on my days off I’ll come and see you, I say.

I get back in line and pay my bill.

“I had to take that call,” I say as I put down my money. The cashier, who I waved away when I stepped out of line, is laughing.

If this one calls me back, it’s the one on 608 that I’ve almost lost. James, the one on the phone was bumped the second time I met him. Ok I’m not taking responsibility for the railroad shuffle. But now two months later I’ve found him all because a message I sent convinced him to call.

The other news in Shelley’s social life this week is that bobby on 608 is still there. A week ago Tuesday I make a special trip down to see him. This is the day that Dave and I talk about train 7 and 8, but I forget for some reason to mention this one in that journal entry. I take Gary to dinner and then we go down to the station. I have to know. Eddie teases me, he says bobby might get bumped.

“I might get bumped,” Bobby tells me a week earlier. “I’l know by Tuesday.”

So now I stand at the train after talking to Dave about 7 and 8.

“Did you visit with your engineer?” he asks me when I come across the tracks.

“Yes. He’s still there.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” says bobby to me now out of the cab window. So we’re safe, for now. I didn’t have to convince that one to stay. I think he was more worried than I was, I figured I’d find him, I could always ask all my other ones where he was. I haven’t gotten any contact information for him. I’m not sure he wants to give it to me and that’s fine. I’m not going to get everyone’s contact information. I have my book and my list. It’s just fun to know these people,and I know part of bobby’s story. He knows my retired SP/UP conductor. They worked together, he tells me. It’s a small world this railroad world.

“It’s a different world,” Norm says once. Norm’s not here tonight, Sunday, when I get there. Dan and scooterBoy, and Bruce are there. Bruce sits in the corner, Bob in his usual perch. Two ladies sit with us, one with a black dog with a white muzzle.

“She’s a cocapoo and we’re leaning toward Tuesday as her name,” she says. The puppy is one month old and very cute. She does well with the surrounding noise of the freight trains. It’s an active, warm, breezy Sunday. It’s nice to be here with my bag.

“You’ve got a hand full,” says Jan, yes, it’s a hand full but it’s light today. The two women, Jan and Linda, go to their train.

I wonder down to the platform. No, Norm isn’t here tonight, so I’ll have to wait on my engineer stories.

But the week has been replete with engineer stories. The most memorable one comes from a conductor when I ask about train operating procedures in cases of emergency. I learn abut an engineer who, due to underlying medical issues discovered later, and perhaps with a combination of some other factors, decided out on the line that he can no longer run his train. A conductor convinces him to take the train into a siding so that others can pass while they find a replacement crew. The trigger may have been the forgetting of a speed restriction and a reminder from his conductor, causing the stress to balloon out of proportion, requiring her assistance in getting him to run his train into the siding. The story is powerful, for some reason it strikes a cord with me. Sitting in front of my laptop reading this message I find myself in tears not because of the eminent danger, that was dealt with competence, but because it’s about something I recognize: a sense of being overwhelmed so much that a task that is handled competently under normal circumstances can not be completed. My intense interest in train operations, my connection with stories, and my understanding of the anxiety and self flatulation that goes with it serves to bring back my own memories. After two separate accidents several years apart I had trouble convincing myself to cross streets. In ome cases I had others help me do something I was perfectly capable of doing; it was a rare instance when I asked forhelp. Sometimes it wasn’t available and I had to talk myself into completing the tasks. Sometimes someone else just has to do your thinking for you and in the case of the railroad crew he was more comfortable with the conductor’s intervention. Been there, don that more than once. It was a powerful story, but it’s all on my railroad journey.

“Guess I’m collecting my own railroad stories,” I tell people later on.

And if that wasn’t enough, the station has lost two more regulars, one directly and one person’s father. The first is a transient, one I had a conversation with two years ago when I was really stressed out and he was very encouraging. He promised me a birthday cake that year; somehow I knew he wouldn’t come through and he didn’t. It was okay; though I don’t remember the conversation right now, it was encouraging. I may have written it down somehwer else. In any case, His death is under investigation, but he will probably be forgotten, if not in these pages.

The second death is Scooter Boy’s father. I try to make his funeral but can’t, I don’t’ wake up till fifteen minutes before it starts and I’ve just been slammed with more work. It’s the second funeral I haven’t been able to make. In fact I haven’t made any of the funerals in the last five months. Mo, Janice, curtis, and Scooter Boy’s father. Somehow all of them are family here even if we’ve never met all of them.

The week is about sitting at the east end talking about the upcoming Winter Rail festival, the reemergence of railroad days in Fullerton this year, nicknames of UP employees, why does everyone love to hate the Union pacific? We talka bout the time tables Dave used to publish, about old lines and train cars. I don’t remember everything, I sit and relax, on my own railroad journey.

The other highlight of the week occurs on Friday, march 2l It is tiem to go to my 606 train meet, that would be Carey.

“I met Carey,” I tell Bobby afterward.

“He needes to retire,” he says, “he’s like 67. There’s seventeen guys who might retire this year,” he says. He says Glenn might be one of them. No matter. Right now I stand, waiting for carey. I’m approached by a man who says that he saw me and became peaceful after experiencing some disturbance where he lived and coming here to get away from it. The conversation extends past the 606 train meet, on my way to track 4 where I miss that crew, but for here and now, I wait.

I remember when I wasn't sure I wanted to talk to Carey. He seemed to have missed a highball once, the conductor had to repeat it twice. The only reason I know that is that I was sitting in the café and the transmissions came over Bob’s radio. Maybe it wasn’t Carey? Maybe he was talkignt his friend? I’ve not known Carey to be distracted from his duties and maybe he was fixing something, but no matter, I wasn’ thinking that way at the time.

Then, Carey, sweet carey, saved my engineer life. He told me that glenn had gone to 708 only he thought it was 706. I hadn't gotten to ask Glenn yet, and so I went to both trains. I found him on 708. glenn is still happy to talk to me when he can. I'll take it.

I remember when Carey asked me where I was going. Here, I said, and he didn't get it. I explained I was waiting for Glenn, and somehow, over time, two and a half years of two minute interactions, and missing his train, a fatality last year, I don't know how many that makes for him, and asking him if he had kids, and just waving, and making him laugh. Yes, I talk to him. And tonight, I met him! It wasn't planned. perhaps that's the best kind! He's so friendly. Janice once said he was friendlier than Glenn, but they're friendly in different ways. Or I was just brave enough to get Glenn's number and call him despite my anxiety. Maybe that's what makes it fun. Anxiety is like pleasure, maybe in a strange way.

There's no anxiety or heart flutters when talking to carey. I just go up to the safety line and there he is. And tonight, I meet him!

I walk up to the train, happy. It's my lovely EMD, his bell rings far enough back for me to know it's Carey. All my engineers have distinct bell operation patterns. I can always tell when it's not one of my regulars. I'm standing here and suddenly, Carey is out of the cab. I wave at first and don't notice him. then the door opens, I think it's the window, but no, here he is, on the ground, adjusting a hose. he explained what he was doing but I'm not sure I can explain it. Dave said the gage might have been fluctuating so he was fixing it. Ok, I'll have to ask him later.

"What are you doing here?" I ask him, and that's when he explains it. suddenly all the people are not important, the warm weather, a little windy tonight, even the idling of the train engine is forgotten. here he is on his knees and then I'm stepping forward as he prepares to get back in his cab.

"I'm Shelley," I say, putting out my hand. It's a well manicured, cared for hand. I'm trying so hard not to bite my nails. I've invested in hand lotion and manicures to keep myself from biting them. It's really time to end that. Suddenly, our hands are clasped, his is warm, and very human, his fingers in mine. Is it the left hand? That's the magic hand, isn't it? Glenn says the left hand operates the throttle, operates the controls. I always call the left hand the magic hand.

"I'm Carey," he says. I can't believe it! this is the first time we've met out of the cab and I didn't have to plan it. It was just fun! for here, for now, I met Carey out of the cab. I didn’t have to convince him to shake hand swith me. He had thirty seconds out of his schedule to do that.

he climbs back up the stairs.

"Are you working this weekend?" he asks me.

"yes, I am."

"Have a good weekend," he says. I always tell him the same thing.

"You have a better one," I say. he always tells me to have a better one when I tell him to have a good one. So the tables are turned. I think he chuckles as he goes back inside and shuts the door.

I stand back, my hand out, his bell rings, he’s off to the Orange subdivision and his better weekend. After missing the crew on 642, I return to track 1 where we pass the night relaxing, reminiscing, and just enjoying our outdoor avocation. As I return home I discover that more work awaits, and so I cherish my time here, make the trip on Sunday, and prepare to await my next railroad journey.

This week is replete with engineer stories. If one had to be convinced, others did not, but no matter. I meet them all along my personal and they’re all important. I wonder how many engineers I’ll have to convince to tell me stories. We’ll cross those bridges when we get to them. This week, one doesn’t get bumped, one can’t run a train, one gets out of the cab, one is once again through Fullerton, and one, is the very best.

 

 

Copyright © 2012 Shelley J Alongi
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"