Metrolink708 Engineer Magic
Shelley J Alongi

 

I stand here now at the end of the second week after the engineer drama. Life is good again; sweet; magical. It is full of interaction, the rekindling of the first engineer magic, the proud display of the switch key, the adoption of the railroad, the engineer questions, and I am contented; surfeited; satiated. The Fp59 wins the engineer heart, one asks where I’ve been, and another wants to know if I’ll be here tomorrow. Tomorrow is come and gone and now Engineers number 1, 2 and 4 take their leave. NO matter. The magic is back.

The Rebirth of the Glen Magic
In 1859 a railroad was chartered, the C&NW, Chicago and Northwestern, running steam locomotives, an art form some say. Union Pacific bought the railroad in 1996, the year it seemed a lot of railroads merged or were swallowed up as single entities. This was the year the Southern Pacific, the railroad Carey ran freight for was bought. In 1996 the Burlington Northern bought the Santa Fe, the railroad where Glen spent his freight running days. Perhaps thirty-two years before Glen was born, my great grandfather, the womanizer some have implied, ran steam engines in the 1920s and perhaps the 1930s. Lengthening the attachment to the Santa Fe in a very indirect kind of way, remember that the engineer’s daughter, my mother’s aunt, taught me how to make peach cobbler and introduced me to practical hygiene suggestions for train travel. Engineers and practical women, and maybe sometimes impractical ones, “she doesn’t cook” Glen says of his wife, all are connected with this freight company and now here I am, realizing that the Glen magic has not, as once, suspected, or as it felt sitting at the east end of the platform on those dark days when I dreaded the loss of a very special connection (at least for me), has not faded at all. No, it has intensified, blossomed, produced fruit, cuddled, tantalized, revitalized, and energized the next step. It has swollen to historical proportions, perhaps only in my own mind, all because a woman probably said something she shouldn’t have and made me step back and reevaluate my interest and energy. I may be, because Glen told me not to let her conversation bother me, the Railroad Energizer Bunny.

you can see pictures online of long, majestically sweeping freight trains with SD-40-2 , GP-40 and 3 gp-7s the long series of locomotives that ran that road and span the history of the C&NW, its histry vast, providing tempting morsels and appetizing meals of information for people like me who have inquiring minds. But the last two weeks I’ve only been to our train station four times, and had my share of engineers, starting to realize that the Glen magic is even more magical now than it was when I stood shyly off in the distance wondering just how to make contact with this vast rich source of information. Okay so these guys have their own lives, maybe their personal lives are full of heartache and trouble, debt, fun, Nascar races, or whatever fills their hours when they are off the railroad clock. They are, though, the vast source of information, people who can’t say no, or yes, who think I’m too excited or maybe just want somethin they can’t give, who knows what fuels their minds. They live in the here and now while I see the whole picture, or at least my part of it. These human engineers who run these now computerized Diesel locomotives pulling vast or short trains, who ran trains for companies that no longer exist as they once did in their hey day, Santa Fe, Southern Pacific, and maybe the C&NW.

In my hand, under glen’s window rests tangible proof that the C&NW once existed. In the palm of my right hand, fingers close together lies a switch key, a brass thing, a hollow cylindrical tube with a small very faintly reminiscent l-shaped projection at its bottom, with worn letters, SRA Slaymaker, Lancaster Pensylvania, C&NW. The letters are a bit worn, the brass shiny and of sturdy construction, resembling a key used to wind a mechanical chiming clock, the only difference being the slight protrusion just beyond the opening at the bottom of the key. Railroad experts who have been watching trains say that C&NW keys are not rare, they were in my price range for purchase, but that the one I have is a real key, “guaranteed to work” if I can find the lock. “Where is the lock?” Glen asks me on Friday March 12, looking out at me from his perch atop the FP59. Two weeks ago he asked me the same thing.

“I’ve been asking myself that for two weeks,” I say, “maybe Pensylvania?” Maybe that switch key would work in Pensyvania. But then I lose my historical perspective as I once again remind a sometimes moody engineer that most likely has forgotten that I send him a text message with this information, “the lock is in Flagstaff.” Flagstaff may not have existed as a town when this key was in operation since it is located in Arizona which became a state on February 14, 1912. Some scant perusal of Flagstaff geography suggests to me that it might not be such a bad place to visit. It has become the code word for a Shelley and her number one engineer inside joke, but it is situated at the base of the San Fransisco peaks, boasting the highest mountain range in northern Arizona, Humphreys Peak, at an elevation of 7000 feet. This would indicate that Glen’s imparting of the information back in January that Flagstaff got seven feet of snow would not be so far from impossibility as one might think. But for here and now, no one knows where the lock to that key currently resides. It may exist much like the C&NW only in the minds of railfans everywhere. The engineer may or may not reverently admire the key but when he asks where it came from, his response is classic Glen. “Chicago Northwestern,” he says in that inflection that drips with excitement, recognition, spurring me to imagine his brownn eyes sparkling behind those glasses, maybe the first indication that the Glen Magic is reborn. I walk away comforted, the two week awkwardness, at least on my part, has ended. Ah, sweet baby back! The magic is back! Glen is my number one engineer and the C&NW is my railroad, at least for now.

Reestablishing the Bond

It has been two weeks since that dreaded conversation took place. Standing by the three car marker I await Glen’s train; it is Wednesday March 3. Where have I been? I’ve been home working on other projects, missing trains. Errands, shopping, and maybe a desire to just take a break from all of my own personal drama. I want to be there, but I don’t, if you know what I mean. Sometimes I get tired of sitting there with people who just express negative opinions about things. Talking to the engineers is my reason for being there, of course they don’t have time to express opinions about political things or engines or how hard it is to work for the railroad after Chatsworth. I’m sure I’ll get my share of that and maybe I’ll need that but sitting here with people who think they know everything about everything sometimes gets old. Sometimes I get tired of being teased about talking to engineers though part of me likes that. Perhaps part of me is nervous about talking to Glen after that little complication because I didn’t really want anythign like that to happen. Mostly I think though that I take a break from the station because when it comes right down to it, I did what I came there to do a year and a half ago now. I’ve met the engineers. I know how to find them. I know how to get their attention. I have the phone number of one of them and who knows maybe I’ll end up with more phone numbers. I have ideas about writing a piece about engineers who run Metrolink trains but that idea is in the beginning stages and isn’t quite ready for me to express to anyone. Glen could help me find people to interview. I really do enjoy talking to them. There is the emotional attachment. That can never be ignored. Someday I’m going to tell Glen my story. But for here and now I’m realizing that I can easily fit my train watching and engineer interest into another niche in my life. This one, as you might suspect, has potential. I have over one hundred and twenty-nine or thirty years of history to investigate, not all of it pleasant and some of it missing. But for here and for now it is the people who run the trains and the power of the locomotives themselves that draws me. Even while I am away from the trains I miss them. Glen probably just thinks I’m working. Maybe. Maybe not! But the sounds of those lovely FP59s! Oh oh oh sweet engine purring! They still pur more sweetly than one of Glen’s wife’s twenty-two cats. That’s just crazy! It all turns out and I know this journey isn’t over. No it’s not over, not by any means. But it sure is interesting this train thing. I’ve always foun a way to meet new people; this has been the most emotionally draining of all my passions, I think.

Now here I am, it’s Wednesday. And I do have a question. Well I always have questions but this one is about an engineer. Where is Frank from the 708? Where did the engineer go? My number one engineer took the place of my number three engineer. My number two engineer told me where my number one engineer was; so now my number one engineer can tell me where number 3 is. What train is he on? Maybe Glen won’t be so worried if I’m asking himabout another engineer. Oh who cares about that; I just want to know where Frank has gotten to since the big railroad shuffle took place two weeks ago. Not that I ever talked to him. He was surprised once when I came back to see him and I knew his name.

“How did you know that?” Frank asked when I told him his name.

“You talked to me six weeks ago,” I said. Now he’s not here. Maybe, Dan suggests, Frank is on Glen’s old train, the 608. No, no definitely not.

“What’s up?” It’s the usual greeting. I don’t remember now which bell greets me; probably not my favorite. It seems as if there have been a lot of MPIs coming through there. We’ll get more on that later, but for now I stand there smiling, all the drama gone.

“Where did Frank go? The one who was on the 708 before?” I ask.

“Out of service,” Glen says.

“What?”

Frank has broken a rule. He is suspended. Who knows for how long.

“What happened?” I ask incredulously, knowing Glen won’t answer that question. He is a professional. He won’t tell me. He shouldn’t as a professional. I respect that. I don’t’ know why I ask that but I have asked not because I really want to know, I ask because I’m surprised at the answer.

“He did something wrong, Glen says.

“Oh, no”

“Sometimes life happens,” Glen says.

Yes it does and in the railroad business you never quite know what that life will be.

“He talked to me a couple of times,” I say to Glen now as we wait for his departure signal.

“Nice guy,” he says. What else can he say? It is enough.

He gets the signal; we’re off into the sunset. Glen will be done with this run by 7:00 PM or so. What is his schedule like after that? I don’t’ know. I only know that here we are. It is the beginning of the next adventure.

It is the only timeI see Glen this week. Thursday I don’t finish my business in time to get back and Friday ends up being another day off because I have to wait for a cable guy to fix the router. By the time he gets there and we get done, it is too late and I am just ready to get back online. It is a close one; I almost don’t make it. I have to call the tech guy back and I’m not happy, but Friday night is quiet, gentle, and I know I’ll be back Monday. Life is good. Trains are good. Engineer meetings are good. It’s all good.
  
Hands On

But really there hasn’t been any awkwardness since Glen told me not to let MO’s conversation bother me. That conversation may have occurred but Glen has, as he seems to be good at doing, made it a non issue by just letting it drop. Perhaps it’s how he gets through life. Maybe he really is a smart man. It is not really an issue. The issue is me taking a break from the station. Monday March 8 finds me there, standing at the three car marker waitin for my magic engineer. If he’s in a good mood he’ll talk to me. It strikes me as people line up for the Riverside train, as they talk on their cel phones, park their cars in the parking lot that is literally feet behind us and make their way to the platform that the ritual here is more relaxed. Perhaps it is because I have finally gotten a Braille book to take with me. Maybe it’s because I don’t’ endure so much teasing prior to my Glen train meets. This might be the most beneficial of the schedule change. Oh I get plenty of teasing especially since this week I make more contact with engineers, but this one needs a break. It is a special connection. It is accademic, educational, friendly magic. Glen has proven to me that he is human. I will buy the package as much as it is for sale. If he’ll answer the questions I’ll take him. The other engineers are not yet so responsive, but they are there and I’m sure willign to answer questions once they get used to me. Do I still have a crush on Glen? Of course I do. But it’s better than that now. I suppose only time will tell what becomes of this connection for me, but for here and now, and today, even, it is good; very good.

My heart pounds a little as I play my little game with the bell. No one asks me if I need the train.

“What’s up?”

My engineer’s voice projects to me out of the cab of that MPI.

Okay, now that we’ve gotten through crisis number one, I am going to ask the question that Andy thought was a good one, even if he did laugh at it. I’ve been intensely curious about this for months, not sure why.

“Train question,” I start the exchange off, holding up both hands, tucking my cane into the belt that secures my fanny pack with its cell phone and credit cards, bus pass and other various things I think I need to get through the day. Maybe Glen will laugh at my question. Will it be too personal? Too physical, maybe, not personal? Ok here goes.

“Which hand operates the throttle? Right hand?” I suppose I gesture with each hand. “Left hand?”

There is a slight pause, as if maybe the engineer with almost forty years experience has never had a question like that. I don’t know. Someday I’ll have to ask him that. For here and now, with the wall behind us, the people getting on the train, the conductor not giving him the highball, he pauses only briefly. I imagine he smiles.

“Left hand,” he says, as if it’s the most natural answer in the world. “It’s like you’re sitting at a desk. Someone decided it had to be a desktop.” This is a familiar concept since people have explained the arrangement of the controls in that kind of configuration. “Used to be you could get into 23 or 24 positions, relax. Now you can only get into two or three positions. Everything is done with the left hand,” he says. Does the man who stood atop the stairs looking down at me back in October remember that day or think this is a strange question? No, I don’t think he thinks it’s strange. He answered it. He didn’t ignore it. The freight engineer who is not working for BNSF right now because of some reoccurring medical issues, has never really answered my questions satisfactorily, and sometimes Glen’s answers aren’t quite what I expect. Today I’ve given him a specific question and he’s answered it nicely.

The radio crackles into life, it is time for Glen to take his passengers on to their destinations and leave me, this time, greatful, comforted, and informed. I smile just before he rings that bell.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you that for months,” I chuckle. I lift my hand in farewell. “See you tomorrow, I think.”

He is the best and hey he didn’t ignore the question.

As it turns out I don’ see Glen on Tuesday or Wednesday. On Tuesday, yes for the second week in a row, I am absent from Fullerton’s hub of rail activity. About noon we’ve gotten a call from the resource desk informing us that we’re adding over time today. I take it. I work till 6:15 and then go home and escape into my room, and even though the computer is fixed, I don’t get on it. No, I go right to bed, after making dinner, and start it all again on Wednesday. Wednesday finds me absent, too.

But there is something different now. Something has changed. It isn’t the Glen thing at all. This is proof that I’ve made it into railroad circles or some such thing. On Wednesday night as I go home to make dinner and catch up on the sleep I didn’t get, and maybe look up information on the C&NW, I check my voice mail.

“This is Janice,” says Janice, “Bob said he didn’t see you down here last night what’s going on.”

“We worked over time,” I say in a reply to her voice mail.

“Okay what’s the scoop on tonight?” she says in a second voicemail on Wednesday night. I don’t get it till 5:30 in the morning on Thursday, but I’m laughing. You see, Wednesday I’m so tired after work I fall asleep on the bus, miss my stop, and get off and take another bus that lets me off near a McDonalds and catch another bus home. Lo and behold it is the driver I would have riden with if I had gone to the train station and taken the 7:45 bus home, which if I had gone there, I most likely would have done. I do get home an hour early but it’s just ironic that I catch that same driver. I know tonight, Thursday, I’ll be back.

Engineer Questions

“I have one of these nasty MPIs,” says my engineer. The crowd has quickly dispersed to the open cars, putting down cell phones, a child looking for trains excitedly sees this one, no one warns me away from the tracks.

“Hey. It’s about time! You have the FP59.”

“yeah it’s about time,” he says.

“You don’t like the MPI’s?”

“No.”

My hand rests on the door, I duck my head, laughing, happy.

“Good.”

I look up, imagine I catch his curious gaze.
“Why don’t you like these engines?”

Is their tech talk in our future?

“It’s hard to get them off and on,” he says. “It’s hard to see out of these and they’re noisy.”

Glen, if you’ve forgotten, yes I agree, but locomotive 800 is more noisy than one of these rattling MPIs. Locomotive 800 sounds like my air popcorn popper. I don’t say that to him, but even if I agree, there is something noisier out there.

“And they bounce,” he says. I think he’s referring to the cab. Behind him, the cars do not respond in that kind of manner to the locomotive pulling them.

“Up here?” I say.

“Up here,” he responds. We both know he means up here.

The pleasant weather rejoices in the engineer’s technical talka bout the engine. The thing is now I have to ask him how to start the engine. I remember the first week I talked to him on a Friday night amid the hubbub of the Fullerton bad band fest I asked if he started the engines. I asked him this over the clatter of an MPI, yes even Glen’s despised locomotive and my despised bell is preferable to the bad bands that grace our station on Friday nights.

We fall silent. Our time is ended. Slowly normalcy is returning. And I’ve learned more about the engineer’s preferences. I’m glad he prefers the Fp59s.

It’s time to go.

“Alright,” he says and another day has ended.

I walk up to the next marker, awaiting Carey.

“That guy is looking out his window for you,” Curt now says suddenly appearing on his bike. Carey’s train slides to its stop.

“Hi,” Carey says as I approach.

It’s a friendly conversation.

“I wondered where you’d been,” he says. His regular train meet isn’t here today so I’m his second string, just like he is mine.

I explain my absence. I can’t remember what else we talk about but it is a familiar conversation. My engineer interactions are shapin up nicely; very nicely indeed. My number two engineer misses me.

“I bet you Glen wishes I would just go away,” I tease. I don’t’ think he really wishes that, but you know. “I’m sure he’s fine,” i reassure my second engineer.

We wave, he prepares that engine for departure.

“That’s Bill Cosby I’ve never seen him before,” says Curt. Curt has nicknames for all the engineers, and the taxi drivers that hang out at the station waiting for business. Glen is the Glen Miller show. Now Carey who is of African American descent is Bill Cosby.

“And he has a bike,” I say.

“A motorcycle?”
“No. A regular bike like yours,” I say.

“Carey is friendlier than Glen,”: says Janice.

It’s not that he’s friendlier, although he does say goodbye and he does talk to me after getting the signal and even as he starts to engage the bell. Glen doesn’t usually do any of that. “Glen is just concentrating,” I say. I don’t think Glen can do more than one thing at a time. It’s either me or the train. If you give Glen time or get him on the phone in the right mood he’s a chatter. We already know he can be moody. Yes, but can’t he! Like I’ve said so many times, my engineers are just like my cats, all different and all worth the wait.

And tonight there is another engineer. Since I’ve gone to meeting Glen on the 708, the 608 has received less attention. But the 608 is where the magic happened, maybe if I go back there it will revisit itself, though by the end of this week as I’ve indicated, it has been reestablished. Each day I come to the station I say I’m going to go see if the stock broker is on the 608. Tonight I really will go see who is on the 608. There is no Metrolink agent to tease me. Shirley and Garis have taken their northbound train to Los Angeles. Bob and Janice sit and wait. Earlier, as in last week, I tease Bob and tell him he is the one who told me to go to the engine.

“Don’t blame me,” he says, his stroke taking over, “Blame yourself. Mo knows Glen pretty good.”

I just laugh. The ring leader, the one I’ve wanted to hang out with is chiding me even if he doesn’t know the story. He’s not always like that; though he is the one who told me to go to the engine and his wife showed me where the engineer was. No matter, it’s all good and tonight he’s docile. Janice talks about the Vienese Boys choir wanting cheese ravioli for dinner. Cheese ravioli? Singers want cheese ravioli? Okay, whatever! Dan joins us. Curt sits with us for a while.

“Are you going over there with me to see the engineer?” I ask him. Somehow he doesn’t go and I end up there, waiting under the window.

“Are you going to ride with us?”

This is the usual engineer question. I’m used to it now.

“No. I just came to say hi to you.”

I don’t know if this is the stock broker or not. I think he talked to me once. That was last week so I don’t’ know who this is.

“Is this your regular run?”

“Till tomorrow.”

Great I just come over to chat with the engineer and he’s gon again. I guess I got lucky with Glen. Glen says he has perfect attendance. He was always on the 608. He never missed a day that I know of. I really did meet the best; or the most consistent. Life happens to people. Maybe Glen goes to work to get away from life. Maybe work is Glen’slife. Maybe he needs to get away from a woman with 22 cats, a son who drives a race car, a pretty shy daughter, and another child who has, according to lose lips, has been in a little bit of trouble. Ah, who knows. Who cares! Now I stand here talking to another engineer over the noisy clatter of the MPI.

“You have one of these MPIs,” I say.

“Yeah. They keep breaking!”

I get the feeling the engineers don’t like the MPIs. I’ve not asked Carey what he thinks. I’ll have to ask him which ones he prefers. My bet is the FP59. The FP59 sounds better made, kinder, gentler, more reliable. It’s just better.

“what’s your name?” I ask. I can’t hear his response. It sounds like he says “Paul.”

Okay, I’ll buy that. I won’t see him after tomorrow anyway.

“What’s yours?”

“Shelley,” I say. I wonder if he hears me. There are too many consonants in my name to compete with the rattle of the MPI.

“Will you be here tomorrow?” asks the engineer.

Tomorrow? Let’ ssee, one engineer wonders where I’ve been, another one doesn’t like MPI’s, and another one wants to know if I’ll be here tomorrow. If the engineer tells me to be here tomorrow I’ll be here! Besides it is his last day.

“I’ll be here,” I say. Wonder if he’ll meet me in L.A. for coffee? Well, perhaps somday we’ll know. But not tomorrow.

He gets the signal. This is a ritual I’m more familiar with. The place where glen asked me if I was standing in the rain becomes welcoming again. An engineer wants to know if I’ll be her tomorrow. Does he know I stood there for five months talking to another engineer? Of course he doesn’t. I just think it’s cool. Glen asked me once if I would be there tomorrow. It was the start of something very railroady. Yes, it was.

I go across the bridge, smiling. I’ll be there tomorrow.

“He asked me if I’d be there tomorrow, I report. Janice says she’s going to bring me some twenty-five cent sodas. I usually pay a dollar for them. I’ll take them.

I’m a happy girl. I’ve talked to four engineers here now and two o them ask me if I’ll be there or want to know where I’ve been. One has given me his phone number. One is out of service.

“Help me out here,” Curts says Glen says. He doesn’t want all the love and affection. I’ll just have to think of more questions. I can do that.

I gather my book and make my way home. I’ll be her tomorrow.

Saying Goodbye

“Are you going to Winter Rail?”

I walk down to Glen’s train and smile. Winter Rail is a huge railroad show in Stockton. Dave Norris the one who asked me if I was going to show the engineer my switch key is there selling old time tables and dining car menus. He might try to sell the old Metrolink time tables that Andy took down three weeks ago when the routes an service changed.

“No,” I say to Glen, looking up. “The first show I went to made me feel like a deer in the headlights.”

I’m not sure he understands.

“Winter Rail? That’s in Sacramento?”

“Stockton,” he reminds me.

‘Oh yeah that’s right.”

I remember someone told me that bob Hildebrandt the conductor on Rob Sanchez’s train went to Winter Rail last year. I’ve never confirmed this. But I do know the name. Winter Rail it’s a nice name.

“I was overwhelmed by my first show in Buena Park,” I try to explain to Glen.

It’s one of those ground to cab communication things today. Usually I’m the one who doesn’t understand him. Yep, things are normal.

“Tomorrow?” he asks. He almost sounds like his old quiet self again, the engineer that says “are you sleeping in tomorrow?” or “are you standing in the rain?” “How come you had a stressful day?”

Ah Glen, it’s so nice to have you back! So very nice.

“No,” I explain. “Buena park that was three weeks ago. That’s where I got the key from.”

“Where did the key come from?”

“C&NW,” I say. I know he knows what the C&NW is.

The engineer may or may not reverently admire the key but when he asks where it came from, his response is classic Glen. “Chicago Northwestern,” he says in that inflection that drips with excitement, recognition, spurring me to imagine his brownn eyes sparkling behind those glasses, maybe the first indication that the Glen Magic is reborn.

“Where is the lock?”

Ah the question I’ve answered in the above paragraph. Someho I know when Glen says “Where is the lock?” that the magic has once again been rekindled. Now I can go say goodbye to my other engineer. I can say hi to Carey. I can have a good night. The glen magic is back.

“The lock is in Flagstaff” I say.

“yeah.”

It’s Glen. He ringsthat bell, it bids me farewell. I wave. I go await my second engineer.

The second engineer appears. Somehow I’m standing where I used to wait for Glen, just beyond the palm tree, closer to the stairs. A lady approaches.

“Here let me help you.”

I pretty much ignore her. I walk over to the locomotive.

“Here I am,” says Carey out his window. The lady still steadily approaches. I say nothing.

The cool night air is cheerful, the music hasn’t started yet.

“Hi, how are you Carey?” I say, ignoring the lady.

“Hi,” he says.

“Oh,” the lady murmurs and disappears. Carey, like glen, has rescued me. Glen says I like trains. Carey tells me where he is. I wonder if Carey knows I like trains.

“Do you have plans for the weekend?”

“I have an NFB meeting and then I’m going to Toastmasters contest I’m going as a listner not a participant.”

“Toastmasters?” says Carey with recognition. “I’ve wanted to do that. It’s an all around good organization.”

“yes it is.”

“How long have you been doing that?” he asks.

“since 2003.”

This is cool. I like Carey. He’s friendly.

“You would have some great stories working for the railroad,” I say. “You should do it.”

I’m about to ask him wher ehe lives, almost ready to recommend a club. I bet he’ll ask me about it the next time he sees me. Now it’s time to go. The parting is amiable.

Coming across the bridge, Howard and Clarita are there.

“where were you last Friday?”

All around us the crew sets up the chairs on the patio and surrounding the fence. The band is setting up. I’m ready for the weekend. The place is lively.

“I missed you last Friday,” Clarita says. We sit inside the café at one of those small tables. “If I had your phon number I would have called you.”

I reach into my bag and pull out one of my 2007 Toastmasters Division Governor cards. “here,” I say holding out the card. “Call me any time you like.”

“I like to talk to you,” she says. I tell her that I called glen about the big drama two weeks ago. She was happy with the answer. I’m happier with the outcome. I haven’t lost my connection. I bet you some day I go to a convention an meet a bunch of engineers; or they’ll all know me. But they’ll all have to line up behind Glen; because he is the best.

Now it’s time to say goodbye to the engineer on the 608. Will he remember me? Somehow I think he will. I haven’t shown him my switch key though I have shown it to a very curious three year old child. It’s a conversation piece. Some switchman or conductor used it and now here I am flashing it to rail fans and engineers.

Walking across the bridge for the third time tonight I wait for the mysterious engineer. We’ll call him Paul because I think that’s what his name is.

“How are you doing? He says.

“So this is it.”

“This is it.”

“Where are you going on Monday?”

“I don’t know yet,” says engineer number four. “I’m the extra guy. I might be here tomorrow and Sunday. Ocean Side. But I don’t know.”

“I see.”

“You have one of the FP59s,” I say. I say that to everybody. I guess it’s my engineer pick up line.

“yeah,” he says, like Glen. He looks at the number.

“874.”

Glen has operated 874 through here. I wonder if Glen ever operated 855. Locomotive 855 was the engine lost in the chatsworth accident. I wonder if Carey, Frank or Paul ever ran that locomotive? Probably. Tonight he runs 874.

Now paul gets his highball. He prepares the engine for departure, the air hisses, it is a comforting sound, it ends my three days of engineer bliss. He gently rings his bell.

I stand here now at the end of the second week after the engineer drama. Life is good again; sweet; magical. It is full of interaction, the rekindling of the first engineer magic, the proud display of the switch key, the adoption of the railroad, the engineer questions, and I am contented; surfeited; satiated. The Fp59 wins the engineer heart, one asks where I’ve been, and another wants to know if I’ll be here tomorrow. Tomorrow is come and gone and now Engineers number 1, 2 and 4 take their leave. NO matter. The magic is back.

 

 

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