She Likes Trains: Quality Engineer
Shelley J Alongi

 

“Quality as advertised” say the railfans on the platform as a manifest train hurtles through the station showing its numbers and long line of cars: Swift, J.B. Hunt, headed for the Port of Los Angeles. It’s one of the sayings that you can hear on any Friday or Saturday night at the fullerton train station when men and boys and some wmen of all ages partake of their train worship rituals. Quality, it may be about the manifest train, and maybe, too, it’s about the engineer.

Metrolink Train 642 departing for Laguna Niguel leaves at 7:45 pm, returning to Fullerton by 9:30 pm to make a final run to Ocean Side. Just around the corner stretches track 3, the place where Glenn first mentioned the building of this track, two years ago now. Tonight I find the gap in the brick wall that leads to track 4, passing the station lights, the benches, making my way along its edge, turning to follow the concrete path between the safety line and the benches. A low wrought-iron fence lines the wall here, gray and almost new in its position. Cars travel along Lemon straight out ahead of the fence that lines the end of the platform, the sounds of traveling vehicles from Santa Fe Avenue drifting to me from the right. Streets line this little stretch of paradise this Friday December 30, 2011. There are two days left in the year. Tomorrow is the yearly railfan party in cage 3, tonight they sit there, talking, their conversation drifts to me as I pass that section making my way out to track 4. Months ago I imagined myself sitting here, meeting the crews on this train. So far I’ve met the conductor, the engineer still a mystery. I don’t’ know to this day what fascinates me about meeting railrod engineers. “A different lifestyle,” says my retired Southern Pacific conductor, the one I never knew worked on the railroad, in a phone conversation on Monday January 2. I finally speak with him and learn much, but tonight, Friday December 30, I sit here. Two teenaged kids tustle to the left of me near one of the station lighting stanchions. I make my way midway down the platform taking a spot on the hard, cold metal bench my heart warmed by the endless possibility of a train meet with an engineer. It is quiet. No music drifts in snatches here, but in this secluded haven it seems that there is no one around. Just around the corner is the way back to track 3, but if I have found another spot in paradise, this is it.

The train is late tonight, giving me time to make my halfway exploration along the platform and finally take that spot, resting my red and black backpack beside me. Yes, today the black railroad grip is missing. I have sent it back to Montana to have its unraveling threads repaired. There are six months till I go to Montana, count down begins today, January 2, I tell Glenn in a text message. But I don’t want to wait that long to fix it, I decide. I will wait no longer. I wil send it in and make my trip to see the railroad grip makers with a nice bag and not a damaged one.

“You could put three of those in there,” says Kathy, Dave’s wife about my red backpack. Now that would be a heavy bag. But tonight the fullerton engineer girl sits directly parallel with track 4, a place I’ve visited a few times, but tonight, I’ve made a more supreme effort to get here before that train arrives.

This train meet is squeezed in between Carey and bobby, 606 and 608 so it’s really quite easy to get here. My usual routine is to go back across the tracks and hang out with the patio faithful on the north side, but I do believe my routine will be changing, now that I’ve discovered how quiet it is over here, and also discovered that it’s an escape from the loud public address system Amtrak uses to announce the arrival of its trains. Months ago I met the crews from the angels Express trains, one of the conductors is on my Facebook page, friends with the railfans in cage 3. As of yet, I have no engineers on my Facebook friends list. It’s okay. I have one of their numbers and I have a whole list of names.
 
The sound of the cab car’s neumatic bell punctuates the silence now as it enters, broken only by the distant hush of moving street traffic. The train slides slowly, majestically down its track, reaching the wall which stretches to our right, far from the place I occupy. I sit up, observe, the doors open, a few passengers get out, but I have placed myself where the locomotive rests, far from the conductor, I think. I know it is Friday, this is Eddie’s train, or does he have the day off? I do not know his schedule, but now I sit here and observe as a figure moves inside the cab, using a screw driver, it’s the sound of a wrench turning, not sure what he’s doing, It’s a question I’ll have to ask. The hum of the engine, the auxiliary unit fills the silence, not unpleasant, not too noisy, except for the MPI, Boise Locomotive company engine I do not like even if it is more powerful than my lovely, slow EMD.

“I saw you over there,” dave tells me later. “How could you stand it with the MPI?”

I will brave a Boise Locomotive Company engine for an engineer, any day.

The door of the locomotive opens and the figure steps down the ladder, approachingme. This is my moment. Will I seize it? After working for a month to get one magical engineer out of his laire and talking to countless others, “How many engineers do you know now?” someone asks me. I name them, counting in my head. Well I know the names of several but I don’t think I know any of them as well as I know Glenn, and I don’t know much about him at all. He keeps revealing himself in layers, but so far, I’ve met quite a few, nine names I can count off the top of my head with experiences to match, four whose names I know but who haven’t officially spoken to me. Frank, John, Rob, Ray, Carey, bobby, Glenn, Sam, chad, these are the Metrolink ones I know. There’s Kathy, Veronika, Danny, and now Dave, the one who Bobby says runs this train. There are two others, the two engineers from the Angels Express trains. Then, of course, there’s Harvey, the one Glenn tells me about. Combined with these 15 engineers are two freight guys, and one Prince Charming. Those would be Jason, Randy, and prince Charming who says I get around good. Rounding up Shelley’s lineup are two Amtrak engineers, both of whom haven’t made an appearance on my dance card for quite some time, but who can’t be forgotten. Ulyses my very first engineer even before I talked to Glenn, and Jason our engineer on the trip I took from Santa Barbara to Los Angeles two years ago when Matt the conductor showed me his key ring. Count them up, that makes a wopping twenty engineers! They probably don’t’ all remember my name though as excellent railroad employees, observant of their surroundings, they certainly know my face. What do I know about my engineers? They eat, sleep, some more than others, I think.

Tonight this one climbs down and walks toward me. I sit quietly, my hands in my lap, not waving, not exuberant as I am on Saturday at the railfan party, no, tonight I am just quiet, awe-struck after two years of talking to railroad engineers, here we are again.

The man stops in front of me, eyeing my red bag, my cane is out of sight I don’t’ know what else he sees. Maybe he sees a dreamy middle-aged teenage railfan sitting here, looking lost? Does he see a foamer?

“Are you looking for the train?”

Always the engineer question. How should I respond? Only your part of the train. No, I’m not looking for the trainm, I want to meet the engineer. Ok I think next time I’m going to say that, even if it sounds like I’m flirting. I’m not looking for the train, I’m looking for the engineer. Maybe he’ll just be surprised like the other ones are. I like that line. It’s honest; truthful; I want to meet the engineer.

“No,” I say, my chance slipping away with every passing second as this nameless handler of a locomotive looks at me. “I’m just watching.”

Yeah, you could say that; I’m just watching; watching my chance go by to find out whether or not he’s indeed the engineer., Given the closeness to the cab and the door and how long it took hin to get out of that train I’m betting he’s the engineer.

He doesn’t seem annoyed or worried about me being there; he simply wants to know if I am looking for the train.

“Okay,” he says and as quickly as he has appeared, he is gone, making his way to our right, passing the gap in the wall and making his way to the elevator to do what, I don’t know. I’ve missed my chance. If this were Montana I would have missed my chance. I have six months to practice asking or saying: Are you the engineer? I just came to meet the engineer: quality engineer.

“The engineers are that way!”

It’s Dave Norris hailing me in the large group of people that flanks the platform tonight. There are the usual, Jonathan, Brett, Tom the schoolteacher, Dave the Trucker, Curt sliding in on his bike on occasion, Ana, Robert, Dave Olson, according to the t shirt, wearing mnotorcycle boots, one who works on steam locomotives, but diesels, no way, he says, no it’s all about steam for him. It takes me half an hour to realize that I’ve met this man before. Our last encounter occurs the weekend that UP844 came to town and Glenn asked me in a text message where the train was going. This man, standing in a group of railfans by the patio gate, informed me on that day that the old Union pacific steam locomotive was at Colton and then I told Glenn in a voicemail where it was and that its final destination was Vegas. He leaves us later, leaving room for much more conversation.

Tonight it’s about two or three conversations at a time, me recounting the story of the engineer who saves the day two weeks ago, rescuing the conversation from the edge of food poisoning disaster.

“Wonder what they think when they see a group of us sitting down here,” I ask her.

“You probably don’t want to know!”

“But I do! I can handle their opinions.”

“It’s all part of your research,” she says.

I can handle railroader’s opinions. I’ve always been an observer, maybe I really should be a reporter, though I tend to want to save my best writing for things that deeply interest me: like trains, and engineers, quality engineers.

Dave and Kathy have learned that they will be grand parents, they should find out on Tuesday January 3 when Anna gets her results from the doctor. So another adventure to await! Two years ago it was track 4’s opening. Three years ago it was me awaiting my first encounter with an engineer. Twenty names and experiences can’t cure me: I must have more, more quality engineers. Twenty stories, even if I don’t know the all in detail, I hope by the end of July, 2012 it’s sixty stories!

I guess I do know the name of another engineer, he appears to be my father’s age: Steve, jack tells me, he’s the retired SP conductor. Steve was the freight engineer in the UP loc6512B, the train that banana peeled Metrolink111 locomotive 855 and three passenger cars. He’s the kind of guy who would go bakd to work, Jack says. Yeah, it appears railroaders of this age group are like that: probably of any age group, butso far the hardest working or let’s say the ones who work the most are the older ones: and maybe only one takes it to extremes; that would be my number one engineer, the one all twenty engineers must line up behind. Lineup! Line up Quality Engineers!

But the trip to the station has started early tonight. I arrive around 4:00 or so, taking my spot in the café It is quiet in here, the evening train watchers have not yet arrived, though dispatch somewhere is obliging us with freight after freight, squeezing in the occasional Amtrak and Metrolink. Someday I have to get over there to meet those Metrolink engineers, but tonight I am hungry and usually when I arrive, if I’m going to eat, I do that right away. It has been a long, productive week, a vacation from work, working on transcripts and catching up on train research, writing a story that’s slowly taking shape. The cats have been my conversation partners, the classical music station providing liberal amounts of good quality music and excellent holiday songs. As usual I am late out of the house and none of my plans work out, but the ultimate goal is to end up trackside and so here i am.

Dennis is our cafe worker tonight. Wendy has left us, braking the heart of the engineer in the orange trains. She’s the only worker I think I’ve met in two years who pays attention to the crews. Jose did tell us about Tim, a BNSF official higher than the engineer, someone tells me earlier. No, in my eyes there’s no one more important than the engineer. It’s a long, long story. You’d have to start at the beginning to get all the nuances, but for here and for now, our journey starts with the ordering of the ham and cheese sandwich, French fries, and four Diet pepsis. Yes, count them ladies and gentlemen, 4! Wolly wants to know why I just don’t bring a two liter bottleand he’s right. The next time I get to the store which is Sunday January 1, I pick up two of them. They will make their trip to the station with me. Wolly has a nack for being thrifty. “I look worse than the homeless do,” he says, the former owner of this auto mechanic shop. Guess some of his thriftiness may rub off on me.

He takes a seat. Others on the platform seem to look at him with disdain, or maybe they just do that to everybody. I don’t’mind him so much anymore. He always has an entertaining story to tell. He talks tonight about racing duce and a half Army trucks in Germany in World War II. But Most of his conversation is drowned out by the constant influx of lovely freights, GE locomotives, more Amtraks. By the time 6:00 comes around I’m ready to escape to the south side of paradise to meet Carey.

It’s hard to hear Carey tonight. The gist of the conversation is have a good new year and what do you have plannd for the weekend.

“Come here and watch trains,” I say waving him to the Orange subdivision.

“Okay,” he says, getting the high ball, sending my quality engineer off to his own weekend. He is part of my gold standard, definitely a quality engineer. Happy New Year Carey!

After the train meet with 642’s mysterious engineer I make my way back to bobby’s spot. He spots the train at car marker 5 tonight.

“Well,” I say, “at least they didn’ give you a three car set!”

he laughed at that; he’s my easily laughing engineer. Glenn gets excited. Carey tells me to have a good weekend. John wonders if I’ll be there tomorrow, and Bobby just laughs. They’re all my quality engineers.

“have a good new year,” bobby says, getting his highball. Guess I’ll see all my quality engineers next year! Happy New Year all my engineers, and the ones I haven’t met yet.

Back at the east end of the platform in the large group of train enthusiasts, I look at my watch. She looks at her watch and the watch is slo, She looks at the water and the water is low. Well, not quite. These lyrics come from the Ballad of Casey Jones, one of them, the engineer that could, no, sorry, that’s the engine that could. Casey Jones, I believe his name was David Luther Jones, I’ll have to check, hit a locomotive on a line somewhere, killing himself and telling the fireman to jump. The only resemblance here is that I looked at my watch. I don’t think my watch was slow, but in any case, it did say 9:30. I have decided tonight that I won’t call a cab, I am heading back here on Saturday for the New Years party, an entirely different entry. I will save cab fair for that, so tonight I will take the bus, unless I can get a ride home from Wolly. I walk the platform he is no where to be found, at least not for me. I make my way out to the bus stop. Half way between the station and the bus dock, a car pulls up along side me. Why won’t he move along, I wonder.

“Shelley, this is Walter. Do you want a ride home?”

I hop in, greatful for the offer. It will save me an hour and a half of connection time. I can go home and play a little later tonight. I plunk my red bag at my feet and settle in for the ride. “I Can’t Get No satisfaction” plays on the cd player. Wolly and Mike download songs and so now Glenn’s favorite band entertains me. I can get all kinds of satisfaction I say as we head down Brookhurst and turn onto Crescent. Wolly drops me at my gate and I wish him a happy new year. He will go to a casino after he picks his son up from work tomorrow night. I head into my place, he turns and makes his way to his son’s work place.

I’ll be back tomorrow, Saturday December 31 to bring in the new year with more trains, more stories, andmore quality engineers.

“Quality as advertised” say the railfans on the platform as a manifest train hurtles through the station showing its numbers and long line of cars: Swift, J.B. Hunt, headed for the Port of Los Angeles. It’s one of the sayings that you can hear on any Friday or Saturday night at the fullerton train station when men and boys and some wmen of all ages partake of their train worship rituals. Quality, it may be about the manifest train, and maybe, too, it’s about the engineer.

 

 

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