She Likes Trains: Redoxx Engineer The Fullerton engineer girl has made another conquest with the help of my most perfect bag, the Redoxx railroaders grip. My number one engineer has seen it. And, now, my new one has seen it. It’s what gets his attention. Redoxx, you just made my life a whole lot easier and way more fun! “So, you saw my famous black bag on your trains,” I text to Glenn after my Lancaster trip. “It’s official nickname is the super hero bag. WE call it the baby.” The baby takes up residence on my left shoulder, snuggled on my hip like a comfortable child. Two years of owning this bag have shown me how to pack it, how to evenly distribute its weight so that it rests easily whether I carry it with the webbed shoulder strap, connected to its durable material by the nickel plated d rings or the small carry strap with the snaps. On a warm night prior to my birthday, two years ago now, I text Glenn that I’m about to by this bag, and now, he has seen it. “Take your bag, and meet me outside, Shelley,” he says on train 214 on that light summer day just before the hot, humid days of summer settle over southern California, and now continue to haunt us with their heavy, moist air, making you want to stay inside during the day with air conditioning. Or, if you go outside during the day, pack plenty of water and liquid offerings in the vast expanse of the baby, set it at your feet, and wait. Wait for trains, take naps in the warmth, stroll the platform letting the brass bells with their gold and silver polish ring, letting the world know that you are there. I think one engineer knows I’m here. “No one could forget you, Shelley,” says another engineer on a particular day a year or so ago as he sits on the bench by track 4 listening to his radio, the pleasant babble of some broadcaster informing us as to the various plays of the Angels and their opposing teams. The sounds of Pat’s baseball game join with the sounds of occasionally starting cars, the whish of wheels on the blacktop as cars pass on the street. The light tinkle of elevator bells mingle with the heavy clattering of cars sliding over the worn switch points putting them on track two or one or three. There may be an engineer or two who would like to forget; or at least not be reminded so often of my existence. It’s all part of this month’s adventure. The time can be measured between June 14 and the procuring of an engineer’s picture and an eventful ride to Lancaster, perhaps not as adventurous as some and not as easy as others, and the event of the Redoxx engineer on the south side of paradise, July 1, 2013. In that time I’ve made more trips to Fullerton than perhaps I have in the last three months, partly to deal with nervous energy generated by that Lancaster trip, and partly to try and make more contact. It has occurred to me during this time that I have accomplished what I set out to do, originally. I have caught the attention of the locomotive engineers, something that is integral to my railroad journey, perhaps a binding agent to my interest in the power and the machines and the stories. I don’t’ think this is something that is a surprise to anyone, especially if you’ve read any of my journal entries. What surprises me this time is the force with which I’ve tried to do this and the stunning success and my ever present fear of losing that connection. Prize it. Cherish. Treat it with care. Let it sit. Leave it in peace. Caress the memory. Write the lists. Prepare for the next adventure. Deepen the first one. Meet the new ones. Learn the stories. Enjoy. Be teased. Tease. Analyze. Day dream. Imagine. Do all of this, and then do it all over again. From the very moment I was brave enough to get a phone number till the time when I coolly, confidently pressed that icon to take Glenn’s picture it’s all about this and more. I haven’t made the trip to Montana, I haven’t gone to the union meetings. I’m working on those. Instead, I’ve gone to the source. I’ve written the questions. I’ve asked and had them answered. I’ve responded to passion about the politics and the scandals, the missing money, the faulty locomotives. I’ve sat on the platform with the veteran watchers and listened to them discuss politics, the state of education, the fact that so and so is wrong about Mr. Roosevelt. There’s been the saga of Wally and how he now has to go homeland go to bed because he now helps his son deliver Little Debbie cakes to stores. He’s going to go broke, someone insists. Wally, in my opinion, has always been the one to try and screw someone out of a dollar. I’ve asked him that in those actual words. Yes, he says. He has been the one to do that. He did own his business, once. This may or may not break him. He may or may not get burned for all the product that doesn’t sell in the stores. It makes me want to go buy Little Debbie cakes. Unwrap a smile, says the commercial. I think, in my case, over the last four years, I’ve unwrapped more than one smile. In the last four years I’ve learned the names of twenty-three Metrolink or Amtrak engineers. I’ve made friends of some on Face Book, lost others. I’ve talked to young ones, older ones afraid of getting older, and one who was forced to retire, according to Tammy 684’s conductor, because he couldn’t see the signals. This may be why James is back on 642. I still haven’t found him. It’s been almost a month since I’ve been to Lancaster and all I’ve seen on that train are extras. I’ll have to call him. In the last month I’ve made the trek to 608 and not learned the name of it’s engineer. I’ve learned that Carey was on medical for foot surgery, that he returned on Tuesday July 2, if he indeed did return on that ay. I haven’t been to the station to find out if he has been back. I’m currently working an eight day work week because I don’t wan to work on my birthday. So, I’ve asked for Thursday and Friday off so that I can spend Friday, my birthday, doing exactly what I want to do. I don’t want to answer questions about hotels. I have to admit that since I’ve gone back to work after my eighteen day break I’ve been very relaxed, almost cavalier about my job. Maybe, it’s because on Friday June 14 when I got on train 684 and asked Tammy if she would give Glenn some bells I finally realized that wherever you work there is pressure and until they get me my walking papers I’m there and Imp going to enjoy my job. The realization strikes me in the cab car of 684 as Tammy explains that perhaps one of the arsons why some of the engineers might not talk t me is because they’re paranoid about their jobs. Perhaps the ones who do talk to me know there’ pressure and just don’t care. Why should I care? Why should I lose sleep over numbers and such if thing line up right and I still get a pay check? This isn’t to say I should be sloppy, or that engineer’s should break rules deliberately. That would not be good. It just goes to show that wherever one is employed there is always going to be pressure. So, enjoy talking to the fullerton engineer girl, sweet engineers. Pressure is everywhere. Sitting in the almost deserted cab car on the 684 train talking to Tammy is like having an epiphany. It resembles the moment that I realized the connection I had med with the Metrolink engineer on 111 before he lost his life due to a senseless mistake and the overwhelming power of a freight train. Guess we’ll always blame him for that. It doesn’t make him any less human. “I can’t stick up for that guy,” Glen says. No one says you have to, dear. Just be your awesome self. And, what does any of this have to do with my railroad journey from June 14 to July 1? I think it has everything to do with it. I’ve realized that yes I did catch the attention of the locomotive engineers, the one thing I wanted to do since the beginning in 2008. I’ve gotten phone numbers, hours of conversation, a few test, happy birthday wishes from metro link’s number one engineer. this is the one I didn’t want to lose. He got out of his cab to tall to me in LEA, this former runner of Amtrak trains and Santa Fe freights. For two years he’s said I could have his picture. He takes my arm and walks me to track 8 and looks at the camera for me. Like, he wouldn’t? I mean what would he do? Stare adoringly into my eyes? What good that would do him. Looking at the camera is a much better proposition, I think. Now, you know what he looks like. Yes, I’ve got the attention of he engineers. And, I think that’s even brought home to bear even more on July 1 after three weeks of gratitude and analysis, hoping I don’t just annoy this guy or omen other one, learning the name of Carey’s replacement while he’s on medical, thinking about writing a book, looking up train stories, preparing to look up more locomotive lists, trying to specialize my notch. As I’ve taken rides home from the schoolteacher who is sometimes passionate about trainband sometimes passionate about the deteriorating state of education, experiencing the death of his father, and maybe sometimes just being a cynic, I’ve realized I’ve learned a lot and have much more to learn. And, then, there’s July 1, on the Southside of paradise, waiting for 608, when I miss 707 because I’ve waited for a late 606, that the next chapter in Shelley’s’ engineer saga occurs. A light, breezy hot day, the heat evaporating into the air, the sounds of the AM radio station drifting across the tracks, I make my way through the benches, holding the superhero bag, the baby. I think nothing of it. It is evenly distributed. It is light. It is full of apes ad granola, nuts, peanut better, diet soda, mugs, and phones, the usual accoutrements of a middle aged woman interested in trains and combating summer heat and short on funds. NO matter any of that. Silence drifts across the station; no fights, no crazy passengers yelling at late trains. Amtrak pulls up on time, obedient, Metrolink spots the ADA ramps, life goes on. “Redoxx!” The word gets my attention. I stop and turn to face a tallish young man maybe between the as of twenty-five and thirty, wearing his blue and white Metrolink uniform. “railroader’s grip!” he says into the calm stillness of that July afternoon. “You must work the train” I say. It can’t be the conductor. I think I’ve heard the conductor say this train’s out of service or this train is that, doors are closing, whatever conductors say on Metrolink trains something I should know. Is it possibly the engineer? “yeah,” he says. “Engineer.” Oh, dear. Four years I’ve struggled to get these guys to talk to me. I’ve sat by track 4 and waved as the engineer with his jingling keys walks past me perhaps seeing me, but not stopping. Maybe he’s on a mission? Maybe he’s been told about me? No, I doubt that. Maybe he’s just hungry. I’ve walked tentatively up to locomotive cabs and asked for nothing except to talk to their operators. I’ve stood shyly under the stairs listening to the engines pure, kind idle when it’s the EMD, and cursed when it’s the MPI, the one someone insists is faster loading than the EMD. The MPI sounds cheap, I say, like it’s going to fall apart. No, it doesn’t, insists the schoolteacher. How does he know? Does he stand here for hours trying to talk to the engineers? “DO you want the train, miss?” “Do you want to ride with us?” “Where are you going?” “She likes trains!” says sweet, magical Glenn! Ah, relief! High energy, gentle, reprimanding, scolding, comforting engineer, one who says I know more about the railroad than most people and then supplies the word control points when I say I’ve forgotten the names of signals. This amazing four year journey, high five in L.A. on 607, bye’ he says as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with me. Don’t let it bother you, he says when Mo brings up that whole question about whether or not I know he’s married. No. I don’t know that. But, I know now. This whole adventure, spanning the nervous engineer girl standing on the platform, waving, to snapping the picture and walking arm and arm with the number one engineer to track 8 at L.A. Union station, and it all comes down to a single word: Redoxx. It all comes down to I didn’t go to him he came to me. I didn’t try to find him and here he is. “I’m a foamer,” the engineer volunteers. “Yeah?” Ok, do I sound like my number one engineer? “You’ve got bells and switch keys,” he says excitedly. “I have an engineman’s lantern.” “I have a lantern,” I say, the Redoxx lady and the engineer facing each other between the bench and the palm tree, just shy of the six car marker, between one train and the other; between the stairs and the Santa Fe café. “I have 92,” and he proceeds to tell me a bunch of numbers he has. “Do you live in the area?” The bag is lighter, its red logo shining sweetly in the early dusk. “There’s a railroad show in August.” “Where?” It seems like people disappear. It’s not like my first magical communion with the locomotive, standing quietly while its operator looks down at me, observes what’s on the platform and whom, sees darkness and piles of dirt and chain link fencing. That engineer, the brave one, the one who gave me his number, stares in years past at the place where this one comes from. “I’m on the extra board” explains this engineer. “They work us so damn much I don’t know.” I smile. A railroader, for sure. “I know.” And, I do know. My sweet number one engineer works too damn much and he’s not on the extra board. He’s in my heart and now on my phone. He’s my romance with the rails, says my friend. This guy just saw my bag. Me an Redoxx making friends! Now, the Redoxx sits on my shoulder. Caress it. It feels comfortable today, not too heavy like it did in Lancaster when I rested it on the ADA ramp rail and struggled with it at my feet in the new car than no one likes an glen says is experiencing damage because the couplers are being bypassed. How d you do that, exactly? For now, here I am, talking to one of his colleagues, and I didn’t have to go to him. My superhero bag got his attention. “What’s your name?” I ask now, confident in my role as engineer girl. Another story. “Mike,” he says. “And, I just ordered one. He’s talking about the grip. I wonder what drew him? Was it the logo? Was it the bells? It’s just Redoxx, making friends. There’s silence. “I better go, he might say. “Get something to eat.” I wondered if he was on his way to eat. Can I come with him? No, I won’t ask him that. I Want To go find 608 and see if I can meet that engineer. Wonder if he has a Redoxx? We shake hands. He goes his way, I go mine. I wait for 608 and decide since it’s late to save the mystery for another day. Besides, maybe bobby on 707 will tell me who’s on 608, if I can keep from missing him. Someone’s always late. Or just not there because of work schedules. Now, I walk over the stairs. “There she is,” it’s the cheerful engineer, not yet holding his grip. “Where did you eat?” The conversation continues naturally enough on the stairs between the north and the south side of paradise. “The Santa Fe Express café.” He sounds so cheerful. Maybe he’s just happy he found someone holding a Redoxx. I’ve been called Lady of the Redoxx. I do love their stuff and this bag follows me everywhere. The only ones who don’t ask me about it are the engineers. Glenn doesn’t carry it on Friday June 14. The conductor on Amtrak 777 doesn’t complain about it, he just carries it. They don’t ask me if I should have a bag with wheels. They’re railroaders. They want their grip simple and sturdy and attention getting. I think this one got attention. “There’s a lot going on everywhere including trains and I’ll tell you about it” I Text Glenn two days later. He’s still my number one engineer. I want to tel him everything. He tells me about money. He tells me about his wife’s cats. He tells me about the railroad. I do think, somehow I’ve come full circle from sitting on the patio to wondering about their stories, to going to the cabs and trying to make contact, to bravely asking for phone numbers, speaking through peanut butter and almost crying when my engineer’s trains have fatalities, to this. It can only get better from here! “Well,” I’m still talking the engineer. “I like to talk to the engineers. Not the conductors. The engineers get left out.” “We’re just sittin up here in a box,” he says. “No one talks to us. How long have you liked trains?” This is the young engineer asking the same question the older one asked. Four years later, the answer is a little different. “Five years. It was an accident. It got me interested in the power of the locomotives and then I got interested in the people who run them. But, I knew people before who watched trains so I knew where to go.” NO franticness here. My heart has already ben taken. He smiles. He’s headed back to his train. “I’ll probably see you around,” I Say. “Oh, I think I’ve seen you before I just didn’t’ say hi,” he says, getting ready to head back to train 644. Four years ago when train 608 at the five car marker stood idling, Glenn told me there was a new train, and I pointed behind me and said they were putting in the track back there, Mike wasn’t an engineer. He’s only been one for almost a year, he says. Now, I’ve met the older experienced ones who have operated locomotives that these guys won’t run, and a new one perhaps with no fatalities and a lot of learning ahead of him. The common thing between both of them is they’ve seen the Redoxx. Mike heads up the stairs. “Stay safe,” he admonishes. “Absolutely!” No bitterness He’s the engineer. I’ll take it. Glenn puts his hand on my shoulder showing me where the cab car is. He says “It’s safer for you back here.” Glenn never tells me to stay off railroad tracks, but he makes sure I’m safe. It’s the railroader thing to do. I’ll take it from them. “Good luck” I tell him now. He turns back and looks at me. We part ways, the baby on my shoulder. I’m sure I’ll see him again. I just know it. The Fullerton engineer girl has made another conquest with the help of my most perfect bag, the Redoxx railroaders grip. My number one engineer has seen it. And, now, my new one has seen it. It’s what gets his attention. Redoxx, you just made my life a whole lot easier and way more fun!
Copyright © 2013 Shelley J Alongi |