Metrolink608: Meeting Locomotive 800
Shelley J Alongi

 

This week at the fullerton train station the Shelley Glen adventure contains a little bit of everything; texting, train brakes; teasing; bells, locomotive 800, quiet, weary Glen; and finally on Friday his two woman fullerton fan club. Whatever it all is, it's all Glen.

Is This The right engineer

Text messaging for me sometimes is a painful thing not because I am a bad typist, instead it stems from the fact that I want to get the message across perfectly every time. The semi accessible phone I use doesn�t always make it easy. Even when I pay close attention and painstakingly type each letter onto the screen without being able to proof my work the message doesn�t always come out right. On Monday, glen asks me about one of the texts I sent him. Apparently I confused the engineer. We�ll blame the phone. The alternative explanation is that maybe it�s just that I�m nervous when I text glen and it�s not going to come out right anyway. Well, ok that might be exaggeration. Glen�s question about the message confirms for me happily that he sees my text messages. If I�m looking for a locomotive engineer to answer questions or just amuse me, I�ve got the right one. The phone might be a different story.

Feeling It in the Butt

Monday February 25 I�m not supposed to be at the station, but here I am at 5:00 walking toward Noelwood restaurant for the Southern California Train Travel monthly meeting. No, if you�re wondering, I did not put my name on that early release list. There�s no real reason to do that and it would get me in trouble with my number one engineer. Why take that chance? I�ve already apologized to him twice, once for not understanding what he said, and once for calling him just before he got into the locomotive cab, lets not make it a third time. If there was a real reason to do it I would, no doubt about it. My decision making powers haven�t been completely usurped by some two minute train talking engineer. Oh but wait, this isn�t just some train talking engineer, this is Glen we�re talking about here, and so I wouldn�t count on that. I better just stay in my place, be a good girl and work my hours.

The train talking engineer this week talks trains because on Sunday I sit down in my green recliner and text the following: �Hi. I want to ask you something about trains on Tuesday. No time today. Have a nice two days.�


The two day hiatus turns into one. I was not planning to be at the station on Monday. At 1:30 I get a call from the resource desk. Disney cut over time for the week. Now I stand on the platform having crossed the bridge where I stand for the last fifteen minutes or so warming myself by the fire of the passing freight. It is a cold night but my heart is warm. No one stands on the bridge tonight, only me and now having made my way down the stairs, the bell rings, the locomotive approaches me like an old friend. Glen has his head out the window.
  �Hey.�
�They let me out of the cave.�
�Yeah?� he questions.
�They cut over time for the week.�

�Ut o,� he says. We fall silent.
A moment passes.
�Hey what was that message you were trying to say?�
I am ecstatic. He really does read my text messages.

�Oh I wanted to ask you something about trains on Tuesday but since I�m here I can ask you now. I wanted to ask you how you know when to slow the train so you�ll hit these markers.�
This is Glen�s subject. He warms up to it easily even in a two minute Metrolink stop. I think he might be smiling. If he�s not, I�ll pretend he is. Maybe I make the engineer smile.
�In the chair,� he says, �You�re feeling it here it�s all about feeling it in the butt. All trains,� he stops maybe listening for his signal or chatter on the radio, �all trains brake differently.�

�Oh really,� I say.

Ok I know most of that though I don�t know I do till he says it. The question he answers, though, isn�t the one I had in mind. I wanted him to tell me how he knows where to slow the train so he�ll hit these markers. I can rewrite the question, that�s no problem. I�m learning if the engineer says something and I recognize it I must have a working knowledge or at least the beginning stages of one. Glen�s answers are sweetly unacademic; refreshingly so. It�s an oral historian�s dream this gray headed, quiet friendly operator of the train with his hands-on experience and decidedly unbookishness. Maybe I�m wrong about that. Whatever it is, I�ll take it.

�Alright,� he says,� sweet talking his engine. It is time for him to leave me, time to prepare to feel it somewhere else, to brake that train successfully at least twelve more times tonight, maybe more. I wave. He rings that bell, and is gone into the sunset.

Meeting Locomotive 800

Tuesday Metrolink 608 almost sneaks by me. If I did not know what time he comes to rest here by that second palm tree past the bridge, I�d think he was a freight. But Glen is no freight. Glen�s bell is different tonight; higher pitched, a cross between welcoming and threatening if you can translate that into sound. The engine stretches overhead, even louder than my despised MPIs. but no, here he is, right here.

�What�s up,� he asks over the clatter of the engine; it�s like a hissing sound, nor aptly pistons like the MPI�s. I can barely hear him.

�What�s this thing!� I�m right up on the engine, standing on tiptoe, maybe it looks like I�m trying to climb up the side like one of my cats; climb right up into that window and stare dreamily into the engineer�s brown eyes.

�It�s from the seventies,� he says.

�the bell,� I articulate over its clatter, �it works.�

�Yes.�

He articulates the word carefully. He wants me to be sure I hear him. I stand there with my mouth dropped open, laughing. This huge piece of machinery beckons me, calls me to learn more about it.

�Have a good night,� he says.

He pulls the train away, leaving me awe-struck. I make my way across the bridge and set my bag down in the caf�.

�did you see that engine?� I ask Bruce.

�800,� he says. He�s referring to the locomotive number, of course.

I do a double take. Locomotive number 800 is the first engine I learn about when I make my very first trip to the station in October, 2008 just four weeks after the Chatsworth accident. Locomotive 800 is all white in front, not showing off the colors of the Metrolink logo, white and blue, and not even close to the new color scheme, white with green stripes. Standing in the caf� I have a �lights on� moment. I know locomotive 800 has been in the station before, but tonight, it is here, and I have met it. Tonight, fifteen months after the accident, and fourteen months after I learn about it, here it is, and My engineer is running it.

Teasing the Engineer

Wednesday I stand waiting. Blessedly, the quiet sound of the engine meets me, the despised bell clanging stridently, but never the less, the engine offering some quiet moments. Even if I have finally met engine 800 I don�t want to spend my two minutes yelling over its clatter. I approach the locomotive in my friendly way, familiar with its bearded and mustached number one engineer.

�What�s up.�

It�s the sweet bell. Today I�m in a teasing mood.

�Is this the train to Flagstaff?�

If he�s going to send me to Flagstaff he�s going to take me there himself.

�This is the wrong one. This one goes to Ocean Side.�

��There�s no snow there.�

�No,� he says shyly. �You could go water skiing but it�s cold.�

�Or have a heated pool,� I say something funny like that.

�What time did you get up today?� Glen asks, a strange question but one whose explanation lies in the fact that in the morning, waiting for the bus, at about 5:35 AM, I send off a text. �Good morning. Stay safe.�

I can�t think of any reason that he would refer to me getting up and what time that was; he hasn�t suddenly shown an interest in my sleeping habits. He never says anything about getting the message but somehow I know he has read it. Why doesn�t he ever mention things directly? Mysterious.

�3:00 I say.

�why so early?�

�Because I had stuff to do before leaving the house.�

�Oh,� he draws out.

�Feed the kitties. Get myself fed.�

I�ve lost him. I hear the radio and it�s time to say goodbye.

�Stay safe,� I yell up into the vast expanse of that window. The bell rings and he�s off into the sunset.

�Do you think he might be a little shy?� Susie asks at work on Thursday. Maybe a little. If not shy, then a little curious.

Friday on Thursday

The kids are back on the bridge today. The rain and chill night air has kept younger children and teenagers with cameras away from the enclosed structure. I suppose only commuters and anyone who wants to talk to the engineer or check out the construction would come over here or maybe people who have parked here. Tonight the kids trickle back; a three year-old asks where the train is, I walk around the group, smile and wave and make my way down the stairs. I don�t make such a big deal these days about finding the safety line, marking position. I know the spot within a few feet of its resting place. I play my little game with the bell most nights, and mostly beat the engineer to the spot, he rarely passes me. Nevertheless it is my romance with the bell that makes me do my dance, sidestepping the locomotive,

"What's up?" Glen hails from that open window.
 
"You brought the right baby in here tonight with the right bell," I say animatedly, waving, standing right up next to the engine.
 
"Yeah,� Glen responds. Then he asks something different; something he has never asked me since that first day when we finally began vocal exchanges.

�How are you?"
 
"Okay,� I say a little surprised, pleased. �How are you? I'm glad it's Friday."
 
"I'm barely getting by but I'm alright," responds the weary, teasing engineer. He is weary I can tell but there�s a hint of the tease there, too.
 
"I'm going to take some days off," he explains quietly, looking right at me.
 
"What are you going to do? Work on your race truck?"
 
"I'm not sure. The only thing I'm not going to do is turn on my alarm clock."
 
"I hear you on that one. I'm exhausted."
 
"I'm going to sleep in till 6:30."
 
"6:30?" Well that's half an hour later than he said the last time he told me he was going to sleep in.
 
It's time to go. Tonight's two minutes have been quiet. It is quiet glen, engineer Glen on the scanner, not Glen yelling at me over the clatter of an engine, or talking to me on the phone in the engine or at his house. He's my weary, teasing competent Glen.

�enjoy your day Friday,� I text just before snuggling under the covers with the kitties. It�s the last thing I remember till the morning.

The Fan Club

�Boo,� says Moh, the frog lady on Friday January 29. It�s cold but pleasant. Across the tracks, the music plays readying us for a band. A huge freight sits on track 2; it has been here at least since about 4:00 PM. When I get to the caf� Bob says it has been there for a while. Noticing the huge freight I go outside and lean against the wrought iron fence of the patio, staring shamelessly. �Huge freight sitting at the station. My ship has come in. Sweet. Where�s the engineer� I text to my Facebook profile. Kids snuggle around the edge of the platform, gawking. I gawk at the train in my head.

Straggling over to track 3 I first talk to Carrie letting him know that I�m going to San Diego with my dad on Saturday.

�Your dad and mom?� he asks.

�No. Just my dad. She died years ago.�

I haven�t even told Glen this much about me. Two different men, two different relationships, two different adventures.

Carrie gets ready to pull his train away and then I sit. Carrie thinks the freight train is waiting for Amtrak 785. We find out later the freight isn�t waiting for 785 at all.

Standing now by the tracks, I look up.

�where have you been,� I ask Moh. We haven�t seen Mo here in weeks. Now she stands along with me at the place where Glen will bring his train.

�This is my last hurrah,� she says, �before my surgery on Thursday.� Chemo therapy apparently has worked for her, the tumor has shrunk down to nothing, doctors can�t find it. She�s going to have the surgery because she not �a beach bunny� she says. �I�m 61.� �Besides,� she continues with all the vim and vigor that Mohr is known for, �my husband is a leg man. I can get rid of these unsightly varicose veins and wear shorts all the time.� Oh my. Mo is a character. Now she stands waiting with me and I suppose she�ll talk to Glen.

�A train hit someone in Riverside,� she says, �and now it�s messed everything up.�

A huge freight sits on track two, Amtrak trains are late, the Metrolink 707 is late, and so everything is out of sync.

�Not Glen,� I say as the MPI bell sounds his approach. �He�s right here.�

He pulls his train to its marker. I step back a little. Moh approaches. She tells him her surgery is on Thursday.

�Thursday?� he asks. He is sweet Glen. �Are you holding up alright?� I think that is a kind question. Moh nods.

�That�s good,� he says. Glen likes that phrase. He uses it when he finds out I�m working.

I stand there not sure if I should talk to him, maybe she�ll want to talk to him some more. I�m standing here. I�m happy. I only need to be near him.

�What�s up,� he says, addressing me.

�It�s your fan club,� I say, waving. Mo laughs.

�When I left number 4 wasn�t in the depot yet,� he says.

It is time for him to go. I haven�t had a chance to ask him something. Tonight I wanted to ask him if I could call him this weekend and ask him about trains. I will have to take the bull by the horns and ask him tonight by phone or maybe tomorrow.

Glen pulls his train away, leaving his two woman fan club on the platform.

�I want to ask you something about Glen,� I say. �Is he, does he, um,� I can�t think of the words, me who has three years training in the art of putting words together suddenly can�t think of five or six words to ask a simple question. �Does he have expressive facial expressions?�

�He�s very expressive in the face Comical, happy facial expressions,� the 61 year-old railfan explains.

�It�s hard to know how to inte5rpret his responses, sometimes,� I say. �Sometimes I wish I could see his face.�

As I have suspected all along he is very expressive. Give me time I�ll figure it out.

�Men are way less complicated than women,� I say. Maybe it�s just glen who isn�t complicated. I am discovering that glen is a multi-faceted individual with all kinds of layers that make him appealing.

My number one engineer is about 57, she says. He has red hair and brown eyes, a tattoo on his arm of Yosemite Sam. He reminded himself of Yosemite
Sam, she says with the red hair and such.

�Is glen shy?� I want to know when she tells me that he has one shy daughter. She laughs. �Glen doesn�t have a shy bone in his body.�

�I was standing by the cab car,� she explains, �when I first met him. He opened his window and said �do you want to go for a ride?� It wasn�t a pickup line, she says. Well he couldn�t� say something like that to anyone anyway these days. Unauthorized cab rides are strictly forbidden, especially after Chatsworth.

�I don�t� know his reasons for hesitating,� she says.

�Maybe I was just standing too far back. Maybe he didn�t realize I couldn�t see him. He kept waving at me.�

No matter now. We�re talking and it�s the best. This week it's a little bit of everything; train brakes; teasing; bells, quiet, weary Glen; and finally on Friday his two woman Fullerton fan club. Whatever it all is, it's all Glen.

 

 

Copyright © 2010 Shelley J Alongi
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"