She Likes Trains: Slow Order Freights
Shelley J Alongi

 

Protests, flange bite, hamburgers, engineer conversations, music, and station entertainment. It all falls into the pattern of my own railroad experience. These days it’s not about learning the technical details, though they are reinforced time and time again. It’s about taking a break, anticipating, planning for the future, glorying in the past, and just plain fun. The question is, really, where does it all end up for me? The answer is, of course, it gets better from here.

I have, it seems, for the past month, July, 2012, been buried in transcript work. No sooner do I finish one project than another presents itself to me. It must be the hand of God. I must believe it. With my job in transition and my future, I feel, hanging in the balance, it’s nice to have something to occupy my mind. The secret, I believe, to my survival of stresses real and imagined, is to find a project and work on it. I’ve practically begged Kathy in the oral history department to please bring me work. Last week, dropping by to pick up some rare cassette work, I ask her if we’re busy, or is she just simply bringing me more work? No, she reassures me, we are busier this year.

“Exciting, isn’t it?” she inquires in her small office lined with metal desks, bookcases, and no windows.

Indeed, it is. I’ve used the extra money to pay bills and purchase a few things, both needed and unneeded, I’m sure. But, as I like to say, I remember when I couldn’t afford toilet paper. Now, I’m not out of the woods by any means, but, for now, resources are plentiful. Two months ago this wasn’t the case, but since then, I’ve been working two jobs, though Disney still continues to monitor my numbers. I’ve been advised to search other employment. I have a new direction I’m looking at, but, so far, I’ve been buried by my second job. I’ll take it.

I inform Glenn of this hapy fact by text message, both of us busy with our own lives, me always greatful when I can get him. It’s always, as I reiterate, worth the wait. Between working my first job, taking time off for my birthday, or a short personal leave cut much shorter than originally planned by the cancellation of my trip toMontana, and God only knows what else, I slog along, hanging on for dear life, typing madly, and once in a while, taking a much needed break at the station. It’s a good break. It always leaves me refreshed, and ready to tackle the next task at hand.

Carey asks me on my first trip this week to the station, occurring on Tuesday July 24, how I am treating life. I’m treating it just fine Mr. 606 engineer, with everybody’s help. I’m treating it just fine. It’s sometimes overwhelming, but no more than usual, and less than it could be. I smile at his question. I’m treating it just fine, Mr. Engineer, just fine.

When I first came to the station three years ago it was the engineers I wanted to meet for all my personal reasons. This is where I made the connection. I’m meeting them. You know that. It’s now the conductors I’m starting to recognize. Sitting on the patio, eating hamburgers, meeting the new people in the café with extended hours, buying supplies of Diet Coke or Dr. Pepper, I take in our glorious July weather and observe snippets of conversation here and there. Around us refreshing breezes waft, cooling our backs and shoulders and faces. We sit back in our hard iron chairs, the umbrellas overhead, flapping in the wind, my steak fries slathered in Ketsup, the burgers dominating the little oval baskets the café uses to hold them. I must buy some of these baskets. I think they’re kind of cute, really. Bob, the ring leader, rebukes me once, giving his hearty laugh, one that I don’t encounter often. It shows he is still alive and kicking behind his quiet, observant stance, sitting in his corner. He orders food once in the café, spies me sitting at a table inside.

“Sitting by yourself?” he asks me. “You don’t want to be friendly with us anymore!”

I smile. He’s teasing. I remember when I sat in the corner just to the left of that trash can wishing to meet these guys. Three years later, one retired BNSF entineer later, I know all the groups that hang about here, the homeless campers, the foamers, Scooter Boy, the man who knows everything about everything, the various participants in the Santa Fe Express café’s daily business. I know some of the train crews, some of the ticket agents, one baggage car attendant who probably doesn’t think very kindly of me. I know the cab drivers, I excoriate them when they stand and yell directions to me. I really don’ like that at all. I let them know it. Some of them give me rides home. Sometimes I call outside taxis. Sometimes, I get rides home from the schoolteacher, Tom, or the world’s most talkitive railfan, Wally. He takes me to dinner, sometimes. I guess I’ve worked hard to get to know this family of commuters and crew and agents, all of whom contribute to the rhythm of the Fullerton station.

I know the traffic signal analyst, the attorney, the retired printer or something, people in construction, homeless people who frequent bus stops or benches all day, just waiting. I give bread to one of them. I know the young teenage railfans. Everyone has an opinion about each of the groups. My opinion is that we’re all here experiencing the trains whether it is just as they appear, or whether it is through watching ACTS, which I believe stands for Automated Central Traffic something or other. I’ll have to check out that name. Centralized Traffic Control is what Glen tells me two years ago. I can’t believe it’s been so long since I met all these guys.

We all have a train story. A few commuters like Jeff who takes the Riverside train join our group, new guys to the hobby join us. Am I such an expert? I don’t think I’m an expert. I’m just as curious as any of them. We’re all here, united by hunks of glorious, graffiti strewn steel on sometimes questionable trackage.

Lately, when I’ve come, and as I’ve kept up to date through the Twitter feed I’ve noticed a lot of track work being done. Trains sneak through here on slow orders, creeping along, passing through the points of the switches, and, proceeding on to their destinations: the harbor, Port of Los Angeles, Barstow, KIngman, wherever. There are so many things I don’t know, like wher all the switches are, and where the yards are and where the trains are made up and shoved in other directions. These are all things I have to learn, and slowly, as time goes on, these pieces of the puzzle slip into place. And, just as soon as you figure it out, it all changes, I’m sure. I’ll take it. It’s all part of the journey.

Equipment now more recognizable comes through here, an Amtrak train that looks like it’s been put together, two times, a P-42 on the front, an F-59 on the back, a café car with odd seating, a regular one, this baggage car. A freight with flat tables sandwiched between containers, UPS, Swift, matson, all the standard signs on our railroad. I’ve been told you have to know your railroad, and perhaps I’m only starting to fathom mine. It’s the draw, you know, the thing that keeps me coming back. So much to learn, it’s enough to keep me busy, at least, till forever. I’ll take it.

And, still my primary interest, is the people who run the trains. I want to meet more of the engineers, and to date I don’t get there before 5:00 pm or I can’t get their attention, or I’m just shy. But, this week, it is a conductor I recognize. The sad news is that Eddie, crazy Eddie I call him, the one who always teases me about talking to the engineers, with his boundless energy has been bumped to another position, Who takes his place? So far, none other than Richard, the man who gave my note to Glenn three years ago, and who kept reinforcing his name, and who told me Glenn would come out of the cab car when I sat waiting to meet this very friendly engineer, the engineer of myd reams. If I had to meet one, and waited a year to do it, he had to be the one. The others with all their personalities, are icing on the cake. I like cake. I really like icing! And, this week, the conductor who started it all, doesn’t remember me.

“Everyone remembers you,” says Pat, the 642 hogger. Well, Richard doesn’t. I’ll have to remind him. I’ll have to work on that.

We’ve had great conversation here. Cats, politics, jobs, railroad music, Big Rock Candy Mountain, The Wreck of Old 97. What was the engineer’s name? Steve, someone says. Someone is lying in old Danville, dead, I say. Can’t remember the name. So, I go home and find the song and listen to it. It’s the brave engineer who runs old 97 that lies in Danville, dead. I should have known it would be a brave engineer. And, his name was Steve.

I seem to have lost oen of my FaceBook engineers, but he’s out there, somewhere, plying his trade and I met him. I’m sure we’ll cross paths again. I know this week a bunch of them are in Montana, Billings to be exact. I wanted to go to the meeting and would have, except I paid off the property management company I owed money to and that put me behind. Montana will be here next year. No one responded to my emails about it. But, no matter. I’ll get there, wherever it is. Perhaps next year. I’ll just have to make it happen.

We discuss the protests that have been occurring this week surrounding Anaheim police shootings. Things are so serious that Disney Travel has closed its doors on Sunday July 29 due to safety concerns. Standing at the bus stop, a little group, Curtis, the good-looking one he says, Scooter Boy, me, and another woman talk about them.

“Are you going to Anaheim tomorrow?”

“I can’t go on vacation yet?” says ScooterBoy. He doesn’t know about the protests. I know about them. They broke the windows in the Starbucks that I frequent each week. I don’t know what will happen on Sunday. Let this just be a note that I know about them and that I have been close to that action. So close my job told me and all of us not to come to work on Sunday July 29. Not even Christmas could close our doors. It hasn’t happened for five years.

Everyone has an opinion about that. Tom says they don’t want us there because they can’t protect us. The police want to be able to control the protest. And, so, I ask why aren’t other businesses closing? Starbucks will be open. Luz, the waitress at Baja, says they’ll be open. Last night, Friday, she says, they were expecting trouble and none came. Vince, the guy who hangs out at Starbucks says he’s getting the heck out of Dodge, he was ther when rioters broke the windows at Starbucks and tried to break them at Subway. This all occurs around the corner from where I work. We have a day off, I can return to typing since I’ve just picked up two new files.

This entire conversation occurs right here at the fullerton station where another beating and death a year ago threw Fullerton into a frenzy of trials an dspeculation and police reviews. The same will happen now in Anaheim. Where does this all lead? We will see. And, hopefully, it all gets better from here.

This subject and ones similar dominate the great conversation. It sprinkles the moments between fast moving freights, few and far between. The trucks, not perfectly aligned, sometimes combined with the physics of the cars being buffeted by air currents and weight forces the flanges against the rails causing an incredibly high pitched whine that reminds one of fingernails on a chalk board or the way a dog must feel when he hears a siren.

Another staple of my journeys here, my black railroad grip sits at my feet. I’ve decided why I love this bag. It’s because there are six pockets, making it easyier to locate things. Dave suggests the design of the bag calls for some planning. Yes, it does. I sling the duffel over my shoulder, finally masterin the art of packing it, adorning it with brass bells and Redoxx dog tags. Switch keys, two Disney keys, a railroad crossing trinket, they all lend color and pizzazz and character to a nice black bag. It gets a compliment on a bus once. Now, it gets compliments from me.

Purchasing a wheeled duffel, a small black and gray one from J.C. Pennys, it makes its ways down here on Tuesday.

“Are you going on a trip?” asks Carey, the engineer.

“NO, it’s just one of my many bags,”I enlighten him, standing at his train, competing with the clatter of the MPI. Carey’s always so observant. It’s a railroad thing. Wonder if they all notice my bags? So many of them.

The experiences are so varied here this week. Allen comes by and we discuss more track work. They’re working around Uclid. Yeah, they’ve been doing a lot around here, lately. It makes 606 and 608 late. It doesn’t seem to make Amtrak late, maybe once or twice, at least in the times I’ve been there since my birthday. I tell the platform guys that I want to know what Glenn collects, besides pay checks. Ask him if his cats are named after railroad things, Dave suggests. We’ve talked about John’s cats being named after railroad stations This is the man who collects switch keys, not the engineer.

Cats are a popular topic of conversation, lately. They kep us amused. Buckey doesn’t like boxes or paper. Brandy loves my railroad grip. Pearl has some kind of allergy. Cats are really humans. They sure do have expressive faces and boy can’t you just see the wheels turning in their heads when they want to accomplish something?

Once in a while the attorney shows up, he’s working on a case in Victorville.

Brett’s group discusses pictures and something about camping. They watch computer images of trains at Atwood, may, Esperanza, Valley View, Basta. These are all signal names I’m starting to recognize now.

Two freight accidens have occurered in the last few weeks, one in Oklahoma City and one overseas. We discuss those. And, I can’t remember the name of Connex, the company that hired Rob Sanchez. There, that ought to jog a memory.

Connex, says Dave.

Yes, that’s it.

This all occurs in the hours and minutes between freights, cool breezes, warm, gentle July nights. It seems summers have been cooler the last few years. One thing is for sure, they have been interesting around here.

The compilation of freights and conversation ends with a man and a woman sitting on the south side of paradise. It’s obvious they have returned from a bar to catch a train. The woman stands, shoulders back, haranguing the man who sits on the bench with his legs sretched out, his arms crossed, trying valiantly to ignore her diatribe. I don’t’ catch much of it. Tom seems to kno what’s going on. He describes the man’s stance in detail for my benefit. Punctuating the words are green signals, blessed relief coming in the form of another freight train. Then, the southbound Amtrak appears. The couple is swallowed up in a swell of noise and rolling bags, detraining passengers heading toward their cars in the newly opened parking structure.

Life clips along and today, Saturday July 28, we all get up to make our way home. The place has been entertaining, full of trains and people and great conversation, and anticipation. Where will this all lead? I don’t’ know yet. But, it will get better from here.

Protests, flange bite, hamburgers, engineer conversations, music, and station entertainment. It all falls into the pattern of my own railroad experience. These days it’s not about learning the technical details, though they are reinforced time and time again. It’s about taking a break, anticipating, planning for the future, glorying in the past, and just plain fun. The question is, really, where does it all end up for me? The answer is, of course, it gets better from here.

 

 

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