She Likes Trains: Quaking Trains
Shelley J Alongi

 

As usual, many memorable things happen at the train station. Since January 2014 there have been many that have graced my endless loop of adventures. We’ll begin somewhere in the middle and end up at the beginning, or perhaps, at the end. But, the endless loop of adventure will continue, no matter where we start or end it. Trains come and go, and so do crews and rail fans. And, we end up when all is said and done, with a million stories starting in a million places and all ending up here, somewhere on these hallowed steel rails. Hot steel. Thunder on steel. Work gangs. Trains. Light power. Sometimes, bad power. Long, orange trains, blue and white locomotives, sea green wavy lined cars, they’re all the same. They’re all stories and I want to know all of them.
Somewhere in the middle of the older and younger railfans, the ever shifting landscape of the train station, I observe equally and then write it all down for posterity. But, my main occupation when at the station is trying to meet the crews or sometimes, just sleeping and debriefing from my days as a debt beset working class lower income middle class upper crusty love sick star struck engineer chasing railfan. I’ll buy all that. Lineup.

About three years ago, standing on the bus docks waiting for the 47, on a cool night between trains, Scooter told me that given a year's time the people who frequent the train station would change. Sometimes, when I think about my first days there, I know he was right. From those first heady days when I wondered what the engineers did up in their secret lairs to now when my number one engineer calls me and tells me he's going on vacation, I think about that statement. Sometimes, the days are still heady. Sometimes, I still wonder what the engineers are really doing up there. Now, when Glenn’s picture is on my iPhone and my Disney Windows computer, and I know someone in engineer training, I see his point. Bob and Janice are no longer with us. Norm and Larry are no longer regular patio faithfuls. Glenn isn’t at Fullerton anymore. I haven’t seen bobby for almost a year, and, Carey, when I go to his train, is not there. My schedule is so inconsistent lately that I don’t meet the engineers much. I try when I get the chance. But, so far, I haven’t had much luck.

It was just in the cards for me to meet Glenn, first. He has turned out to be awesome, the engineer of my dreams. I do manage to see his first conductor, Richard, who still runs the Laguna train when he’s not on vacation or doing something else. He says hello once in a while, that is when I can make it.

Shopping, dinner, heat, sometimes Angel games conspire to keep me away from the side of my cherished locomotive cabs. If I were more consistent maybe I could catch one of their operators. But, these days, I am lucky to look up into the window of 608 perhaps run by an extra or someone who doesn’t know my name; at least, not yet. I think the last engineer to talk to me was Shawn. I haven’t had a chance to ask Carey who’s on 608. I did possibly give the 608 engineer a scare on a Friday in May, a cautious soul by perhaps walking too close to the safety line. His bell rang and I wondered who he rang it for. Walking toward track 4 to meet 642, I realized he was probably ringing it for me: and, if he wasn’t, then, well, I did move out of the way, anyway. He may have been telling his conductor he was late. But, I don’t think so. The bell rang at its normal pace. As soon as I moved out of the way, off the line and closer to the planters the train moved. I’m sorry, Mr. or Ms. Engineer. I didn’t mean to delay your progress. At least, however, I was smarter than a bicyclist in Palmdale. And, whoever you are, when I meet you, Mr. Engineer, line up behind number one. You know who that is.

If there’s anything that shows I have achieved part of my goal, it is that I now know someone who is in engineer training school. After years of trying to take engineer training for Metrolink and failing the “nut test” as Glenn calls it, Jared, after switching to Amtrak was offered the chance to go to engineer training school. His Facebook post three weeks ago said “Here goes nothing” as he boarded the plane to a slathering of congratulatory and encouraging comments. This is a milestone for me, progressing from sitting on the patio longing to know what goes on, to meeting my first engineer, to meeting Jared on the Laguna train and finally having him add me to his friend list on Facebook. Now, three weeks into the course, he has passed the mechanical and posted pictures of trains and such things. Going to Amtrak engineer school in Christiana, Delaware, he is now answering the question I put to Glenn so many years ago: how does one become an engineer? It depends on the railroad, he says, and things have changed. Indeed. It’s hard to believe I’ve come so far on my railroad journey. Glenn said he went to school in Barstow, and now, here is Jared in school. Jared is across country, never having lived out of the San Diego area, he says. As an engineer he’ll have to get used to that; he may find himself working several lines over his lifetime.
Concerned about all the sitting he’ll do, Jared says, by the end of the second week, that he is doing more walking than he’s used to. He hasn’t changed his diet, yet, he says. Do a lot of biking, and have Pepsi ready, I suggest.
By the end of the third week of training, according to his few Facebook posts, he has passed the mechanical final by ninety-eight percent. What did you miss? I ask. He likes this comment. “I overthought a question,” he explains, and answered it beyond the scope.
But now, as of this writing, there is another thing to pass. Air brakes. Bored, he posts pictures of trains, he says. Are you bored? Study your air brakes, I say. He likes that. But, he has an answer. No, I’ll start hard back into that on Sunday. That was last Sunday may 11. An engineer told me no, I say. It’s about time. Good luck Jared. If your engineer and conductor friends on the list think you can do this, you can, I say. He likes that. Guess I’m just the engineer cheering section.

When I’m not trying to meet or socialize with engineers, I’m taking part in my new station routine. When I first came to the station I spent a lot of money on cheeseburgers and such at the café. Things are a little different now. Coming in from the bus dock I enter the café, pick up either ice-cream or diet soda or water, and make use of the facilities. To my dismay I can never remember if mary or Anna is working the mid afternoon hours. As many times as I show up there I still get it wrong. They are both helpful and polite. But, I’ve gone to just saying hello and leaving it at that. I used to be so good with names. They’re always happy, however, to take my money. And, I’m happy to give it when I can. After completing my business, I head on down the platform to see who is doing what to whom and who’s car is parked next door.

On one particular day, Easter, after leaving work early, I make my cameo around 1:00. I decide to nap there on the patio as few trains pass us. Behind me, one guy smokes at least three cigarettes. Most of the time, the smoke does not bother me. There is the occasional puff driven toward me on this somnolent day. If a person wants to smoke that's their business just keep it out of my face, please. It's just the polite thing to do, and he does.
After an hour or so, entranced by the balmy weather and the lazy day, I retire to the usual spot where I find a family taking pictures with the cabooses. It looks like they might be taking Amtrak 785 to Santa Barbara. As they pose, I relax and listen to my new music purchases from iTunes, among them The Waltzing Cat, as done by the Boston Pops. It is a lazy day, indeed. It has been quite some time since I was able to spend a quiet afternoon at the train station. It always amazes me that in this busy, bustling part of Orange County that the train station remains, during some parts of the day, a retreat from modern clamor.
Soon, I decide to enjoy the spaghetti Factory for my Easter dinner. Mary or Anna at the Santa Fe Express Café says they will close at 5:00 PM. originally when walking in from the comfortably breezy afternoon I thought I might eat there for my special dinner. They were closing at 9:00, maybe, she said, or perhaps 6:00. But, when I decided at 4:00 to eat there, they changed their minds. Business was slow. They were closing at 5:00 and if I wanted something to eat I could have a cold sandwich. No, I said, I don’t want a cold sandwich.
“Are you sure?” she asked as I walked out of the café.
Yes, I was sure. I wasn’t going to pay $7 or $8 for a sandwich with mayo and meat and bread if I could buy the ingredients myself. I’ll buy the cheeseburger since she has to cook the patties, fry the bacon and do the work. But, if I can slap mayo and meat and cheese and such things on a sandwich, I’ll buy the ingredients and do that myself.
So, now, I head down the platform and make my turn at the ADA ramp, turn and follow the railing down the ramp and trail the planters that lead to the double doors of the former Union pacific depot now serving as the Spaghetti Factory. Perfect is my waiter. He says since they’re so slow on Easter that the first person to sell five of the specials gets to go home first. Do you make any money that way? I ask. I work for Disney. I am familiar with offering one thing and making more money from the results. You’re losing money, I tell him. The restaurant is making money. I don’t know what his hourly pay is, but I bet that’s the case. Its okay, he says, he wants family time. The special that night was Catalina with sausage and Parmesan cheese. I’m not a huge fan of Parmesan, but I tried it. It wasn’t too bad, its own drawback being the saltiness of the sauce. A side of mushrooms helped that. And, he did sell five specials first and was able to go home first. So, his goal was accomplished. I kept hearing him offer it to others. It seemed an easy goal to reach. I know their menu and I was willing to try it. Why not? I’d probably get it again. I also included with my order my usual extra Italian sausage. Their sausage is mild but I don’t mind. The price is right for being near the tracks.

And, then, there’s the day the earth moved, literally. Friday night, March 29, I come in from the bus stop, arriving for an evening’s festivities. Slipping my quarter into the restroom door I hear someone ask if their friend felt the 3.1 earthquake at 8:00. No, someone says. Earthquake? Are we up to that again? I slip out the café door having completed my business and picked up a bottle of water and head down to the east end of the platform. It’s the usual circus, old movies, and cars, people who frequent the station, and who knows. I have a GP9 sound affect, I tell Dave. I’ll have to hear that one, he says. He wants to know if it’s a real GP9. When I download it from iTunes I’ll let you hear it. Life goes along. In a lull, seated on the bench, perhaps Tyler bangs on it with an empty water bottle, his ear muffs protect him from the noisy trains, and we pass the time. Soon, the ground trembles, the awnings overhead shake. We all know what it is. Tom, Dave, Tim, Tyler, Kathy, Anna all step out to the safety of the tracks. I remain seated. I’m not worried about the awnings falling on my head. The quaking continues. Tim takes my hand and pulls me out to the open space. Now, everyone is worried about piles of railroad time tables and papers and old things falling. The platform empties, Dave to check his piles and me to check the cats. The railroad stops the trains and inspects the tracks. Arriving home I find the shelf balanced precariously on the toilet tank in the bathroom has toppled over and landed on the floor. This is the first time I’ve ever had things break in an earthquake. Three little bowls I bought from the pampered chef and honestly find useless have broken. They won’t be missed. And, the cats are fine. They’re ready to eat as usual Brandy waits at the cupboard, pearl follows me, somewhere. Make that everywhere.

Tuning into the Lancaster nightcap later I hear Glenn say their train isn’t moving, but I don’t hear anything after that. It’s a quiet night after the quake due to the inspections. But, it is my first earthquake at the train station.
And, then, there’s the blast from the past and it doesn’t have a thing to do with trains, except maybe a song that says give me a ticket to an airplane, I don’t have time to take a fast train. On a Tuesday night, the night that people come down to do a feed, many things are happening. Neil appears and tells me that he’s talked to Greg, an old interest from the mid-1990s. Desperate for a wife he dismisses me and now has been presented with divorce papers by his current wife. Ok. Well, I guess I missed that one. This was long before my railroad days and the connection is that in our first concert together sixteen years ago or so Greg’s band played that song. You see, there’s always a train somewhere to unite the past and the present, leading inexorably on to the future.

Sitting in cage 2 I notice that Valerie keeps begging scooter for a blanket from his bike locker. He keeps putting it off.
“Are you going to go get her one?”
“No,” he says. “She has plenty of suff in that suitcase of her’s.”
“I’m cold,” she insists. “I want to go to bed.” She has a pillow, now she needs a blanket. She’s a strange one, among the others who “live” at the train station. There’s Steve, Ray, Valerie, and Hank. They all curl up in the wood work somewhere and call this place home, that is, till they’re removed by the powers that be. It’s part of the rhythm of the train station. I’m only one part of it, but I’ve inserted myself in to it, somehow.
Somewhere on the way from the beginning to the end, I tell Dave about a Friday April 18 voicemail from Glenn. At 10:30 on Friday my phone rings, its glen’s chime, I'm asleep and I know the chime, I know who it is, I can't get to my phone because I'm really asleep. At 9:00 I’ve gone to bed, really quite sleepy. I keep having trouble sleeping and I know if I go to bed early I’ll wake up too early. But, I just can’t help it. There’s a fad afoot right now to attribute blindness with a sleeping disorder called non-24 when the absence of dark and light plays havoc with sleeping schedules. I don’t know about that. I have my own issues such as staying up till 4:00 and needing to be up at 4:00 two days later. And, I do ingest quite a bit of caffeine. I’ve noticed in the last three weeks since regulating my own schedule and cutting back on caffeine that my sleeping schedule has become more predictable. So, I’m not inclined to think I have any such malady. But, on Friday April 18, now I’m awakened by the bestest engineer in the world. I hear the sound signaling a voicemail. Should I listen to this? Now, what have I done? I don't know why I always think I've done something. Then, I decide to answer my phone. So, full of anxious wondering I pick up my fancy phone and hear the following voicemail.
"Shelley. This is Glenn."
On his first voicemail when he asked me what the first train through Fullerton was in 2012, and the second when he asked about Mo’s service, and the third when he said sweet dreams, his voicemails have always begun with those famous, prize-winning, longed for words. “Shelley, this is Glenn!” And, still I wonder if I’m in trouble. I know who you are, my love.
You sound a little different.
"Hey, uh."
Ok, now, that really is Glenn. You know in June when he said did you come to ride the slow and poky I couldn't recognize him but now I can, even with what I wonder is happening next.
"I have to work this tumor," he says, or did he say something else? What did he say? His speech is slurred.
 "Go to school."
Ok, something is up here.
"And then two weeks’ vacation." Hesitation. "Have a good one." "I'll have to talk to you later. Bye."
What's wrong? Surgery? Something is up?
And, then, I wonder. I fell asleep when he was running the train. He sounded like he'd been drinking, hanging out with my Starbucks friends. Well, if there's anyone who would deserve the Tallboy it would be him. Someone was driving. I was so asleep I didn't call back. And, then, I woke up and started stressing. Is he ok? Did I do something? And, why does all this happen to me? The rent, the taxes, the debt, whatever. It just all came crashing down on me. I said well I have to call Life Care, a program that offers counselling and help with financial resources. I haven’t ever found them helpful, to be honest. Their financial assistance organizations are usually out of money or don’t answer their phones. And, I really don’t think I need counselling. But, in order to exercise my options for helping myself, and perhaps learning of other places that exist, I finally made that call. The call triggers a cascade of questions. Why does all this happen to me? Why does he have this effect on me? And, why do I care so much? I just do; that's all.

Saturday I text and say leave you in peace got your message last night good luck with all that enjoy your time off
Then on Sunday
Glenn, Fri you said tumor? Surgery? Let me know. We'll talk, soon.
Sunday or was it Saturday: Hey #1 engineer no household projects on your vacation go has some fun you deserve it just had to say that qob out really.
So, two weeks later, he’s back and suddenly I think he said tomorrow not tumor. Was he laughing at me? Did he remember what he said on my voicemail? Who knows? I’ll just have to ask. It makes more sense, though.

I don’t know what I’m worried about, really. Texting him after he returns from vacation, I get a response on the radio. On Monday May 12 I’m typing away on a transcript. “Queen of Bells” I hear. What did he say exactly? I hear part of it. The transmission is week. I’m not sure if it’s the atmospheric conditions, the iPhone, the locomotive transmitter, or him not placing his mouth close enough to the microphone. I don’t really think it’s the microphone issue. I think it’s the atmospheric conditions or the locomotive. If he goes to a different area I’ll probably hear him more clearly. But, I definitely make out “queen of bells.” The nick name Queen of Bells goes back for me probably ten years. When I met Todd the airplane pilot I was Cessna Queen of Bells. That occurred in 2004. I don’t remember exactly when I got the nick name, but it works and it is unique. No one has that email address except me. But, Glenn is the first one to address me regularly as the Queen of Bells. I guess he figures I’ll know who he’s talking about when he says Queen of Bells.
“I hear Queen of Bells. But the transmission was weak. Did you say shoot the queen of bells?” I text.
“By the way,” I text again, “today I heard someone I worked with in my writing world passed away recently. So your Queen of Bells made me smile.” It is true. Lori Stayer, the editor of Slate and Style before I became its editor for a short time, has passed. She was a mainstay in the NFB Writers’ Division. I only met her twice in person, but we exchanged many emails and many ideas over the last twenty or so years. I once considered being president of the division and she said she would support me. The magazine took a different turn, I moved on, and Lori did one of the first proofs on the book Glenn keeps reminding me I’m writing. Her passing was a sad one for me.
So, his Queen of Bells acknowledgement really did make me smile, especially after wondering if I’d done something wrong. Why is it that I always think I’ve done something wrong? I’m convinced more and more every day that he was the engineer I had to meet. I always say that twenty years ago I couldn’t have done the railroad thing. It took me twenty years to be here, I told someone once. And, it’s true. It’s just so important and full of import. Twenty years ago I would have derailed any relationship. This one is just perfect.
“Well, have a good night. Sorry about your friend. The book better be good or I’ll call you a rail nut.”
My sweet Glenn.
“So, you called me your rail nut friend. So, if my book isn’t good am I a double rail nut?”
“Good night, Shelley.”
This happens on Tuesday. I’m not expecting it at all. Walking through the living room I hear this.
“Good night, Glenn,” I text.
Sweet. Just kind. And, perhaps, he knows. Of course, he does. He acknowledges my crush. And, he takes me seriously. What more could I ask for?
The station has its other moments. Jim, Wally, and Dennis all involved in conversation makes the waiting between trains sometimes interminable, and sometimes amusing. You interrupted me. No, you interrupted me. Let me talk now. It’s my turn. Two mechanics and an old school teacher talking about who knows what. Then, Robert has his Volvo brakes replaced. It’s expensive to do this, he says, because all four brakes are replaced at once. The conversation that goes on here sometimes, especially with the older rail fans is about cars. The younger groups I believe talk about a more varied array of subjects. It seems sometimes the world ended in the eighties for the older ones. I’ll have to do a time check on the younger ones.
Somewhere in the middle of all this, Dave gets to hear my GP9 sound affect. He says it’s real. He listens to some of my railroad songs. Susie likes my Moonshine Kate “My Man’s a Jolly Railroad Man” song. The next time Glenn asks me when I’m getting married, I’m going to recite this line to him, I say.

My man’s a jolly railroad man,
Folks all call him Shorty;
He never works at anything else,
Tomorrow he’ll be forty.
An engineer is what he is,
For him I’ll go the limit,
Try and beat him if you can, his engine’s never timid.

My man’s a jolly railroad man,
His engine’s number eleven;
If you want to find a better man,
You’ll have to go to heaven.
Anything he undertakes is always on the square,
The only thing he asks of you be sure and pay your fare.

[Text taken from Mudcat.org taken from Moonshine kate’s recordings.]

On cool, pleasant nights, the strains of eighties rock music and nineties lyrics coming to us from the Slidebar and surrounding clubs, Allan continues our online teasing sessions by teasing me about thunder on steel. Thunder on Steel is an album of diesel locomotives at work. Hey, I didn’t make up the name of the album. Thunder on Steele…right. Steel. Lettie is a pain. She’s the UP54 dispatcher. Victor a UP dispatcher shows up on a vacation and talks about the precarious placement of UP trains. He’s stressed out. I can’t blame him, really. A few times I eat food that Kathy brings. We have dinner from the Chicken Pie shop. I don’t really like the food there. It feels like its fifty years old. How long has the shop been there? Fifty years, says Kathy. I still have to try Kimmie’s, a local favorite of some of the railfans. We eat In and Out. We eat sushi. It’s all good. Brett and company make their usual dinner stops. Albert joins us and talks about the Graph Spay in Argentina. Jim asks me how I know about the Graph Spay. I think he’s annoying, really. Old, crochety man. Maybe we’re all like that, sometimes.

As usual, many memorable things happen at the train station. Since January 2014 there have been many that have graced my endless loop of adventures. We’ll begin somewhere in the middle and end up at the beginning, or perhaps, at the end. But, the endless loop of adventure will continue, no matter where we start or end it. Trains come and go, and so do crews and rail fans. And, we end up when all is said and done, with a million stories starting in a million places and all ending up here, somewhere on these hallowed steel rails. Hot steel. Thunder on steel. Work gangs. Trains. Light power. Sometimes, bad power. Long, orange trains, blue and white locomotives, sea green wavy lined cars, they’re all the same. They’re all stories and I want to know all of them.
Somewhere in the middle of the older and younger railfans, the ever shifting landscape of the train station, I observe equally and then write it all down for posterity. But, my main occupation when at the station is trying to meet the crews or sometimes, just sleeping and debriefing from my days as a debt beset working class lower income middle class upper crusty love sick star struck engineer chasing railfan. I’ll buy all that. Lineup.

 

 

Copyright © 2014 Shelley J Alongi
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"