Storymania - She Likes Trains Adventures With The Super Hero Bag by Shelley J Alongi

She Likes Trains Adventures With The Super Hero Bag
Shelley J Alongi

It is all in the rhythm of the station, all a welcome return for me. I am done with over time. They aren’t offering it anymore right now. I’m happy to be back with my men of the railroad. I plan to return many times before the end of the year to indulge my love, perhaps meet new engineers, learn more stories, more tales from the rails, and to have more adventures with the railroad grip, the super hero bag.

A cool fall evening, not as cool as the ones two years ago when I stood on the platform at track 3 on the south side of Paradise waiting for my magical, sweet petulant engineer, or engaging the other one, Carey, the two I consider to be the gold standard in railroading: at least my part of it. The cool evening greets the patio faithful, the railfans at the end of the platform, and sees me once again, waiting for a man who hasn’t seen me in three months, 606 Carey. . Tonight is brisk enough in temperature to send Dave Norris to his car to get a jacket. Mine sits folded in my black railroad grip, I call it a bag, a grip just sounds to professional or something, I shouldn’t carry a grip I’m not a working trainman, but I do have the bag. It follows me everywhere, just like a child, it has done so since July 2011 when it came to live with this Fullerton engineer girl. The engineers haven’t noticed it yet, I’m always carrying a bag, though, I just haven’t told them that this heavy bag at my feet is supposed to be carried by train crews at least in the Midwest. I’ll have to ask them if they carry the Redoxx bag on the California tracks. Redoxx has been making railroad grips and other assorted adventure luggage since 1992, according to its website, a place I’ve visited often since purchasing the bag in July, 2011. This railroad grip was the first one I found online, and after reading the rave reviews from people who owned this bag, I was hooked. I couldn’t go anywhere else. It gets comments from all manner of people as it accompanies me to my various destinations. It is black with amazingly heavy duty zippers, deep, wide pockets, and heavy nickel-plated d rings and handle clips. The handle detached from the whole affair can easily be employed as a weapon its metal clips administering a painful blow to any body part unlucky enough to come in contact with it.

The most amazing thing about this bag, designed for the radio and lantern, says the advertisement, is the deep pockets. They may be designed for the rule book, the lantern and the radio, but they are perfect for whatever I think I have to carry in my sometimes sixteen hour days. I am famous for leaving at 5:00 in the morning and getting back at 10:00 at night, depending on my obligations the next day. I am famous, it seems, for carrying lots of “miscellaneous crap” as one engineer put it, (about his stuff, not mine). It was a pretty good assessment of what goes in my bag: travel mug, water bottle, canned food, can opener, jacket, like the one that sits here tonight on the ground at my feet, and whatever else I think I need. I do carry a first aid kit and have actually put it to use. I’m famous for introducing myself to head level objects on occasion and though the injuries are not serious, they can get bloody. Railroad grip to the rescue! Or at least a good first aid kit!

I have eaten a few meals out of my bag, too, waiting for buses, trains, or just wanting sustenance before getting home to my cupboards. I have developed a taste for protein bars, a liking for canned fruits and vegetables, and always, in my case, the stash of diet soda that follows me anywhere. The flashlight, the small radio, my two phones, my first aid kit, extra clothes, and even a roll of toilet paper, follows me everywhere. And let’s not forget my BIMPK bag, it’s there, too! Call it a grip, call it a bag, whatever you want to title it, it works for me, and I’ll take it.

This bag has acquired a nickname from some in my circle of diverse acquaintances. They simply call the railroad grip the Super Hero bag. Indeed! One railroad blogger said that if stranded on the line the grip was what was depended on for support, so you better put all the miscellaneous crap you think you might need in a day’s work, because at some time, somewhere, you’re going to need it. I suppose a railroader can use anything they see fit for carrying their belongings, and it is true this duffel bag is on steroids, but I’ll take it. It’s the best bag I’ve ever owned and I’ve owned a lot of them. If train crews carry this bag and find its performance to be stellar, I’m even happier. I’ll definitely take it.

Tonight the super hero bag follows me back to where it all started, the Fullerton station, after an extended absence because of working over time during an unexpected busy summer at the Walt Disney Travel Company. The last time I remember being here was September 2 when I recorded train bells from a freight locomotive and an Amtrak cab car and loco 452, not sure which paint scheme adorns that one. Finally, tonight, the bag accompanies me up the three flights of stairs, over the tracks and down to the palm tree just before the six car marker. Yes, the Metrolink trains still stop here, my men of the railroad still ply their magic on these rails, and 606 and 608 are still, after so many months, the only trains I can make on a regular basis.

In my extended absence, I have not been deprived of trains by any means. A steady flow of text messages from Metrolink has kept me up to date on their “issues” as they like to text to anyone who follows them on Twitter. I have my Twitter messages sent directly to my phone, so I never miss a thing.

Sometimes my engineers have been late, encountered signal issues, or had problems with locomotives or doors that don’t close properly. Glenn, my number one engineer, the sweet magical petulant one told me in our last conversation that the doors on the last car of their train failed to open at one stop, forcing about ten passengers to exit at the next station and take a bus back to the intended destination. He said that Metrolink fired an electrician for doing a faulty wiring job somewhere. I don’t remember anything specifically about any of Glenn’s trains having door issues, but I can believe his story, the text messages I receive on a regular basis lend credibility to his information; in legal terms, the evidence corroborates the story. It’s always nice when the engineer and the person I call the Metrolink texter, the issuer of updates, say the same things, I suppose. If I’m patient enough with my number one engineer, I get good information. I just have to be a patient star struck middle-aged adolescent railfan.

Tonight, standing by the six car marker, I reach into my bag and pull out my black phone. “Waiting for 606 Carey” I text to my Face book page. The message tells those who know me where I am. I am happy to be here. Tonight as I take the stairs and find my place, no one asks me if I want the train. I wait with a little trepidation as the music from the Santa Fe café drifts across the tracks, the foamers down at the east end talk about something, someone takes the elevator, its little bell reminding us that it is a Friday night here in Fullerton, a place that seems delightfully unchanged, welcoming, comforting, familiar. In the distance, the train approaches: 785 is on time tonight, and then here is 606, and tonight I have found it, exactly. I wave, the window opens, the click of it welcomes me back to the side of the locomotive cab, a place I have been absent from far too long.

“Remember me?” I ask its engineer.

“No,” comes the familiar call. “Have we met before?”

Carey has to be used to hailing people from the cab, he’s been running these trains for thirty years he tells me a few months back. He’s been on this line at least since 2009 when I waited for Glenn. He takes his personal days but tonight here he is, and he smiles.

I laugh at his response to my question.

“I was thinking about you the other day,” He says, “Where have you been?”

“Working! Over time!”

“How is your shoulder doing?”

This Is amazing to me. Someone I haven’t seen in three months remembers my injury; if he remembers my name I do not know. I think he does, but I can never be sure.

“Much better,” I project over the purring of my sweet EMD, thank God it’s not the MPI, and I wave with extended motions, demonstrating its agility. It isn’t fully recovered but it’s doing well enough to wave at my engineers. That’s progress! I don’t’ have to help it anymore, only keep using it.

Carey’s conductor gives the signal and so I wave and smile.

“I’ve got to go,” he says. I remember this after so long; once used to the sound of a high ball one never forgets it, I suppose. It’s obvious I haven’t been forgotten; I am remembered by at least one I wanted to remember me. I wave 606 and Carey off to the Orange Subdivision. He accelerates, then does his running brake test, squeaking and finally disappearing away into the distance. On Monday I run to catch his train, rounding the corner just as he passes, sprinting to his bell, waving and saying goodbye.

“Did you lose your bearings?” he asks me from that cab window.

“No,” I’m panting, “I was late!”

but tonight I’m on time for my train meet, and now I make my way back to the bridge and decide not to go across since 608 will be here in less than an hour. I make my way to the benches and stand at the tree, texting my Face book profile.

“Saw 606 Carey. He remembered my shoulder. I haven’t seen him all summer.”

As carey goes off to Ocean Side and we wait for Riverside train 707 a woman approaches the bench and asks the lady sitting there for something. I’m not sure what it is: a ticket or money; the well dressed woman may be the red haired pan handler, I think, but I’m not sure. She walks away to my comment “that was pretty slick” and then returns to ask me if I have something. No, I don’t have anything for her, I’m just so used to people coming up and asking for money that my first thought is that she is up to that, but I can never be sure. She meets a man on this side of the tracks and they walk out to the parking lot.

You can never judge a book by its cover, they say, and maybe tonight, I have done just that. This place sees an amazing cross section of humanity, and humanity it is a rather diverse lot, you wonder sometimes how the same brain cells that seem to make up each human interpret the same information so differently; if the human is a machine it is a rather unique machine, a wonderfully and marvelously made thing. Two people can take the same information and interpret it so differently, and so if you’re into people watching and if you want to make judgments about people, this is the place to do it. Just remember, you may be wrong. Who knows what the woman wanted? I hope she got it.

I know I got what I wanted. I got acknowledged by an engineer. I’m happy.

I make my way down to the six car marker to meet my magic train, Shelley’s Train, as Andy the Metrolink agent used to call it, yes, Metrolink, 608, terminating in Ocean Side. It will be here, soon. No freights precede it; number 4 comes before it, its gentle bell extending its length down to the east end of the platform, and then here is 608. Will he remember me? Will he be on vacation? Will he still be on this line? The railroad shuffle must have happened between June and the time I’ve talked to this man, but I never know how those schedules work. I guess it’s something I’ll have to learn. I can read about dynamic breaking, I can learn the stories of the engineers, I can finally understand that flashing yellow, and then solid yellow leads to a red signal, but I can never learn when the railroad shuffle occurs.

Now 608 stops right in front of me, I stand by the palm tree.

“Hey Shelley!”

Here we go! I approach, touching my locomotive, looking up, its bell comforting me.

“Where have you been?”

It is bobby, the stock broker engineer as we’ve dubbed him, he is still here. Guess he likes this route or no one else has bidded for it, or he has enough time to get what he wants. Once he told me he worked the Lancaster route, but never again, he says. Guess he won’t be bidding for that one. Glenn can have it. That’s fine with him.

“Working!”

“It’s been a while.”

The EMD purrs, again I’m happy it’s not the MPI.

“June,” I say.

“Good memory.”

He’s amazed I remembered the last time we spoke. I’m amazed he remembers me.

“I’m exhausted,” I confess to my number 3 engineers, or is he number 4? I only know they all have to line up behind Glenn, the right one.

“I hear you,” he says. I wave, energetic, dancing on the safety line, happy to get here.

“How are the girls?”

“Fine. Soccer.” He’s volunteering all weekend.

“Banquets. Games. Uniforms.” I line out the list of financial obligations. “It’s a good thing you’ve got a good job.”

He smiles. He either smiles or laughs at me. I like his laugh. It’s an amused, light, easy affair.

“what hours do you have now?”

“7 to 4,” I tell him. “we have to bid for schedules.”

“what days do you have off?”

“Wednesday an Thursday.”

“Ouch,” he says.

The amazing thing to me about my railroad engineers is that they never, at least not in front of me, wonder how I do my job. They just expect me to do it. Maybe they don’t have time for such speculation; or at least not in a two minute Metrolink stop. No matter. They just want someone to work as hard as they do.

“I don’t mind,” I say. “I got forty hours.”

I’ll take that, too. I take a lot from the railroad. I’ll take my engineers. I’ll take reading the general operating code. I’ll take reading about dynamic breaking. On Monday I tell him I was up till 2:00 in the morning reading about it.

“what?” he is always so amused or incredulous, I think it’s part of his teasing personality. “You probably know more about it than me. I only care if it works.”

I think he might have to know something about it in his mechanical testing, or at least something about the different breaking systems: dynamic, regenerative, air brakes, and whatever the other one is. I’ll have to go do my homework again. Blended breaking, electro pneumatic breaking, something not seen so much here, I think. He’s the one who tells me he never sees the exams till he takes them. Yeah, I think he probably sees something.

“You can get by without it,” bobby says.

I remember that later after Glenn tells me his story about coming out of Solidad Canyon without dynamic breaking. Glenn knows he can get by without it; he just likes it.

“The railroad was around long before it, I tell bobby, the stock broker. He knows it.

Right now, this Friday October 14, he sits here, the high ball comes and he’s gone.

I stand here watching his train disappear, the Fullerton engineer girl is requited. I have seen my men of the railroad. Three engineers in one week since I talked to Glenn on Sunday October 9, how can I stand it? I can stand it. I’ll take it.

Now I take the stairs across the bridge, the slightly grating sound of the wheels on the rails fades into the cool distance. My bag accompanies me, the three bells hanging from its zippers announcing my presence.

“Shelley we can here you coming all the way down here,” says Brett, one of the railfans half way down the platform. This is the group that strings the computer wires and makes an evening of following train traffic online and then saluting the cars in their own flamboyant style. I stop and talk to them for a while, and then proceed down to the end where the usual group sits down to their Subway meal.

“You’re getting warmer!” It’s Mikey, the one who smokes cigarettes and whines about things, this time it’s the fact that Robert felt it was necessary to return his dog to another family because of incompatibility issues.

“Your perch awaits!” Dave tells me now.

“Yeah well at least no one barfed back there,” I say, climbing up on the wall, putting my bag next to me, taking up space for two, and lean back into my wrought iron cage. This is my visual vantage point, I say. I just like sitting here. Here I am after six weeks and things are the same. The smell of Subway sandwiches, the crinkle of paper, the discussions about dynamic braking and hot red wheels, the recap of the conversation I had with my number one engineer, the announcement of Norm the BNSF engineer’s retirement, the mention of Bruce’s birthday, the clicking of Dave’s pen as he prepares to write down all the car and locomotive numbers. All of this is complimented by the humming of the dynamic breaks on the locomotives, the chipped and tarnished paint schemes, the calling of the foamers down the platform, my sweet bells, and in the distance, the pleasantness of the Laguna Nigell train. It lays over on track 4. I have no idea where its crew is, this is a project I’ll have to take on. What young or seasoned engineer waits for me to meet him. No one seems to talk to that crew. I’ll have to take my super hero bag over to the new track and do that. Sometimes I go sit over there, but I haven’t since the summer when I met the two engineers from the angels Express trains.

I sit back now, breathing in the cool air, the quiet station. Gone are the days of the bands, their raucous music poring forth from the café, disturbing the condominium dwellers across the tracks. They sure bothered us; it would be fine if the music was good, but in most cases it is just tuneless rowdy chordal progressions. I’m sure someone finds artistic pleasure in the groaning and discordant shrieks. We don’t assign any significant importance to the music and apparently neither does anyone else. The crowds were usually small, attendance sparse, all the railfans escaping to the east end of the platform, and finally someone, for the last time, complaining about their presence. We will see if they appear again, some time. For here, for now, they are no where in sight or sound distance.

Instead, it’s the ringing of the bell for less than one second as a freight plows through here on its majestic way to the port of Los Angeles. The rails, it seems, have been fixed now, and so normal speeds are once again assigned through the station, the wheels slip easily over the oiled rails, the new welds fixing the low and high spots, the trains observing safe speeds through here, at least you hope they do. During the restriction era there were plenty of freights that flew through here and you were always glad nothing serious happened. Well, apparently, nothing serious has happened, because here they are, acknowledging their audience with tugs on the horn, or at least the flipping of a switch. Are we giving thee engineers the signal to greet us with the three note horns? I don’t know. I sit with my hands in my lap, just watching. I’ll take that, too.

It is comforting to be here.

“So where have you been?”
It is John the collector of switch keys, the former Knots Berry Farm engineer. I tell him where I’ve been and that I’ve been to Disneyland trying to meet one of the engineers. He gives me the names of several other engineers there, one is a collector, he says, a talker, one of them owned an old steam locomotive that ended up somewhere in Oregon now. He is a narrow gage guy, he loves telling stories about narrow gage railroads. Everyone here has a specialty. Jonathan’s specialty is chasing trains, he asks Dave about the best way to chase an upcoming steam locomotive,884 or something, I can’t remember the name of it. I’m into learning how to run the trains without running them. I want to hear the engineer stories. I want to hear about sitting on sidings waiting for freights to pass; I want to hear about agreements and what’s wrong with Metrolink. I want to hear the railroaders complain. There are people here who want to take endless pictures. I want to know about the personalities who run these big machines. I love my trains and I love my engineers. I want to carry bags that train crews carry.

Wally appears and talks about his experiences as a mechanic for the Army during World War II, how he procured engine parts and the personalities who distributed them. Wally is my ride home tonight and we sit there listening to 1961 music, I almost fall asleep as he drops me off at my gate. He is the train chaser, the one I chased a train with six months ago, the freight with the sparking wheels. The men of the railroad, the train chasers, the foamers, the cool fall evening, it is all my fun, all my new adventure in life, one that promises many things on many fronts: academic pleasure, lots of laughter, some great personalities, spectacular pictures, new opportunities, and my engineers.

It is all in the rhythm of the station, all a welcome return for me. I am done with over time, I say, they aren’t offering it anymore right now. I’m happy to be back with my men of the railroad. I plan to return many times before the end of the year to indulge my love, perhaps meet new engineers, learn more stories, more tales from the rails, and to have more adventures with the railroad grip, the super hero bag