She Likes Trains: Chatsworth? Or Paradise
Shelley J Alongi

 

Today, have I gone to Chatsworth, paradise, or hell? The closest I ever want to get to hell in its purest form is Chatsworth. Maybe that’s just my opinion today. Certainly I’ve had a different one in the past, but today’s trip, strange in its own kind of way, but not really dramatically strange, is just, yes, I said it, strange. I’m not sure what I was expecting today when I started on my journey to Chatsworth, but I certainly got an earful and a lot has changed. It’s just another step on my railroad journey, and perhaps the next trip will be better. There has to be another one because I can’t just leave this one where it left me: shocked and stunned, but mostly annoyed. It has it’s good points. All my railroad journeys do. But, today, just seems to be a non honeymoon kind of a day. That’s alright. It ends on a good note after all. I’ll take it. It gets better from here.

The first thing I notice about the Chatsworth station today on this cool, breezy June gloom date of Tuesday June 4, 2013, is that the train is on the wrong track. It used to stop on the other side, didn’t it? It has been a long time since I’ve been here.

Getting out of the business class car, talking to Shirley, the attendant, I step down and pick up my bag. The bag figures in this story, too, because it always does. Today one railroader has picked it up without complaining about its weight.

“Can I get that bag for you?” he says when I transfer from coach to business class in Los Angeles. It seems I’ve gotten the wrong car in Fullerton, though the boarding was smoothe enough. No worries, I can just change cars in Los Angeles. I can get my diet Pepsi and my snack pack in L.A.

I have to chuckle though when he picks up the bag because he is the only one who has not complained about it.

Stepping into the car behind the engine I am distracted by a familiar person shrilly, the lady who used to stop in Fullerton on her way home from running 784 is the car attendants today. I’ve known she’s on the train but since I haven’t seen her for at least a year, I am unaware of her schedule change. We catch up she has three days on and three days off.

“and the conductor?” I say.

“No, not the conductor.”

I should know that since the conductor on my FaceBook page runs this trip every other day, it seems. I’ve wanted to see him today but it’s not to be. Seeing Shirley is a nice substitute, and at least I know someone on this Train. In the event of the day, she is one of the three people I know. The rest I must add to my name file, but don’t. At least, not today.

The young man bearing the bag puts my tickets on the car table and deposits the bag onto the seat. I take my spot, plugging in my phone to finish the charge it started in the coach car from Fullerton to Los Angeles.

The strangeness starts perhaps on Monday when the Amtrak website is being a pain, at least for me. It wants to put me on 785 I want to be on 777. At first I try to go to Santa Barbara but there’s no return trip, at least not a direct one, and so I decide to go to Chatsworth instead. I don’t want to pay the price to go to SBA. I figure I’ll do that some other time. The joke is the last time I went to Santa Barbara I took the train to go to a Payless Shoe Store and buy a hand bag and a pair of shoes. That usually gets a good laugh from whomever I regale with the story.

The last time I went to Santa Barbara by myself was about going through tunnel 28 and a song behind a Chatsworth accident simulation video. This time I will go to Chatsworth because it’s more in my price range and I want to see how things are at the station. I have anew surprises in store, most of which are not related to accidents or even trains. Maybe one is related to both.

Taking my spot in the coach car at fullerton, I reflect on my day. I could have not taken this trip. As it turns out the conductor I wanted to see on my vacation works this train the next day. But, since I’ve gotten up and taken the ride with a friend who drops me off at Del taco, and since I’ve taken the bus here and am sitting ten feet from the tracks I decide to take the trip. I would go whether or not I knew anyone on the crew, so I might as well hop on and see where I end up. Did I end up in Chatsworth? Paradise? Hell? Who knows. It only gets better from here.

I notice the strident, inflected tone of a Texas black woman on her first train trip in California, it seems. She is headed for Palmdale. I don’t’ know if she is going to live there, but she talks incessantly to her neighbor who lives in Big Bear lake, she says. She will go and get her ticket in L.A. and Ruby, the Texas woman, will continue her trip to Palmdale. This gives her a bit of anxiety, as she has never done this before. Yes, I tell her, she can take a train from L.A. It’s not as comfortable as an Amtrak train, says the other woman whose name I do not learn. It used to be comfortable till post Chatsworth accident regulations resulted in the removal of tray tables and the narrowing of seats and aisles. Aisles and seat width may have more to do with money and such things. But, they do the job. Today both Ruby and I end up on Metrolink trains. I hope she enjoys her stay in Palmdale.

I sit and read my book Swiss Family Robinson, and charge my phone. The whistle blows the crossings. I type a few messages to people on FaceBook who ask me where I’m going. I answer messages and read through mail. I suppose after six years of working I can act like a business person in business class.

I fold up the tray table and put away my lose items, waving down a worker. This is when I tell her I’ve been put into the wrong car. She passes the information along because while we’re sitting in L.A. another person, I think the conductor, says he’ll get my ticket when he gets back. He’s the one who picks up the bag, the brave railroader. We end up in business class with Shirley.

“I never see you on the train,” says Shirley who has only seen me on the patio waiting for 608.

You’ve only seen me flirt with the engineers,” I say.

She always said I did that. I maintain I don’t because I just want to see who runs the trains and learn he stories. That’s not flirting is it? Anyway, we’re not going to argue that point. She just tells me she doesn’t know his name because he just got on the train. There is a crew change in Los Angeles, something I should know, but something that Jared my conductor friend on FaceBook and occasionally at the station, confirms later.

Now safely ensconced in business class, I spend my time still working on my phone and charging it. NO, I guess this time it’s not about eating on the train or doing anything train related. The only thing that settles over me is a feeling of what will I find here? How are things with the people I met so many years ago? Chris who gave me his phone number had his line disconnected years ago. I haven’t talked to the security guard that was here the day of the accident. Will the Metrolink volunteer bob still be there? The thing I do realize, and it has nothing to do with any of it, is that I have to use the restroom.

Now, the train comes to a stop, I stand with my bag at my feet. Shirley picks it up.

“The railroader picked it up today and didn’t complain,” I say.

It is heavy, she tells me. How do you carry that all day? There is a shoulder strap in it, guys. You need a cart to put it on. Yeah, an equipment cart would be nice. But, that gets complicated and it’s not that bad. I like my baby, i.e., grip, just the way it is, thank you.

I hoist the bag to my shoulder. Today, it holds apples, raisins, nuts, granola, egg salad sandwiches, a book, and the rest of whatever I think I need: towels, flash lights, writing materials, a small shopping bag just in case, two Starbucks mugs, and phones and various accessories. I’m sure I’ve left something out.

As I walk along the platform I notice all the activity is on the other side. Cool, gentle breezes, pleasant sunshine spread their warmth and comfort against the dusty buildings, concrete, and steel of the modern station. A man approaches and asks if I need help.

Usually I say no. today I say sure. Do I really have to cross the track? I really don’t like crossing railroad tracks. It’s not that I don’ know how to cross them. I know their standard width and size. There is a smooth walking path across them. I just don’t like crossing them. What if a train comes out of nowhere? As it is, I walk along the tracks and hope I’m wrong. I know I’m not wrong. The man, Persian accent, Palestinian, something close, says yes, we have to cross the tracks. But they come so fast. And, I read too many stories. And, well, ok, I just don’t’ like crossing them. Maybe I just need to get out more. I know too many crews. One crew is one too many if there’s a fatality and Dan it I’m not planning to be the fatality. I’ll stand here and wait forever and miss my train. I remember crossing the tracks in Santa Barbara, that seemed easier. But, here, with a red signal and a train blowing a crossing I’m reluctant.

“There’s time,” says the man. I shouldn’t listen to him. He won’t go without me. Ok, fine. We’re across in a minute, of course and then the train is there. You see, this is why I hate crossing railroad tracks.

We walk down the other side of the platform, one train sits, now. I go inside the station.

There’s the table, the chairs, the smell of coffee or paper. I walk to the café. A Spanish accented lady sits behind he counter. She will remain nameless. You’ll see why, later.

I have to buy something.

“Does Chris work here?”

No, she says. So, no moor Chris Castle, I guess. I was lucky that first time I went to Chatsworth in October of 2008 and said DO you recognize this picture?” You can read all about that in “Assist at Chatsworth.” It goes into great detail bout meeting the two Crises and Bob. Now, one is gone.

Okay, you take cash, don’t you? I can’t buy anything I didn’t bring cash. This is why I like to have cash on hand. I stand here. No more Marcella? Who is to say. No information here. Ok, no problem.

I head over to do one more thing before seeing about catching my train. I don’t plan to stay long here. The idea for the trip is just to see how things are going. Apparently, not very well.

Two ladies sit at the table, we look for the bathrooms. They are closed. No public restrooms. No token. No key. They are locked. Interesting. We have this issue at our train station. But, at least they tell you where to go or they will open it for anyone who requests it.

“Go ask the sales lady,” says one of the women. “See what she told you.”

“I didn’t ask her about them,” I said. I go over to the counter.

“Is there a key?”

There’sno public bathroom anymore, she says.

I remember the last time I came here with flowers I went into the bathroom and used the sink and God only knows where the pitcher I brought is now. Who cares about that.

“There are restrooms on the train,” she insists.

Ok, that just gets me mad. Look, this is a public place, what if someone has an emergency? And, where do you go to find one?

She didn’t know where there was a public facility.

“And, what do you do?”

“I wait till I get home.”

Ok, so this is the second train station I’ve found where restroom use is limited or non existent.

Are they having trouble with the homeless? Are they too poor to pay someone to clean it? Im keeping all this in mind for the time when I run my business.

Well, ok. I’m going to complain. Yeah, I reember the last time I complained to a Chatsworth city councilman about anything. That was a nasty conversation. You can read about that in “Rob, Among the chips and the Cookies, Almost.”

The thing that annoys me is that she just dismissed the entire conversation by saying there were restrooms on the train. Does she really just sit there without a break? That’s just wrong.

Ok, thank you. I walka way. And, then I come ack.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

She’s not going to tell me.

This is definitely a lot different than the last trips I’ve made here. It’s just wrong that a public place does not exten the courtesy of a public restroom for whatever reason. Maybe, someone says later, they’re trying to show that if you want services you have to pay for them and if you don’t pay more taxes we can’t pay for them. Ok, I can kind of buy that, but not really. And, I’m sure someone will say well there were days when no stations had restrooms. Sure, and we don’t have the Harvey Houses either. Ok. I know people are slobs. I’ve seen the way they leave restrooms n theaters and other places and work. So, I understand, but it just seems inherently wron not to offer this service.

Nameless, at the counter, who won’t even give me a fake name, says I don’t undrstand. I’m complaining and I don’t’ understand that there’s no public bathroom here. It’s not her fault, she says. I’m not buying anything. I’m just complaining. Well, I don’t exactly see a line behind me trying to buy anything. It doesn’t look like there’s much to offer. And, the soda fountain looks kind of messy. Ok, you get the point.

I walk away. I’ll just have to solve this. Let’s just go worry about the train.

Outside in the cool balmy air two men sit talking. I explain that I need a Metrolink ticket and can someone help me with this machine because it doesn’t let me independently buy the ticket if I’m using the card. The guy is a security guard, he says. It’s his first day here.

“Does Chris work here?”

“He works in the morning,” he says. Ok, so one chris is here.

We argue with the machine. We finally get all the ducks in a row and along comes Bob. Yes, this is the man who knew Rob Sanchez and who talked to him that last day of his life. Does he remember me? He takes my card and tries it.

Well, I wasn’t smart enough to bring cash, I say. I was going to bring it. Several tries later, there’s a ticket in my hand. That man, the one I came to see several years ago and the one who picked up his grand children from the Burbank airport, bought me a ticket. The man who told me Rob liked to go to Las Vegas, and now who volunteers for Metrolink, bought me a ticket. Now, I really do have to make a trip back to Chatsworth. I said without the ticket I would just have to try. If they caught me they could kick me off the train. No need to worry about that now.

But, now, here’s the next thing. We have to cross the railroad tracks again. Bob tells the security guard to help me. Ok. We walk down to the crossing. A train sits on the track closest to us, the bells are ringing. The light is red. No, I’m not crossing those tracks.

The bells always ring when the train sits here, says the security guard.

Yeah,I believe him. I stand there. A train comes. You see? I didn’t want to cross those tracks. It Is the train I need that now sits on the other track. So now we’re walking behind two trains. Ok, I’m not paranoid or anything. I just know too many rail crews. That’s my own choice, really. I can cross Harbor Boulevard. I hate railroad tracks. Whatever. And, I love trains. Guess I’ve read too many stories of crews getting killed because they weren’t paying attention. I’m paying attention. I don’t want to do this.

Two bells ring.

“Ask the conductor,” I say. He’s standing outside his train. We’ll blame the conductor.

“It’s ok to cross,” is the word.

Ok, we’ll cross.

Yeah, I just don’t like crossin them. So much drama. So little time to enjoy it all. I just don’t want to end up dead on the same tracks all my friends run their train on. No way.
By the time I’ve gotten across the tracks I’ve decided this is an unsafe station. I know there are stations on the Starlight route where you have to cros the tracks to get the station but, I just prefer not to cross the tracks. I guess I’m just used to our station. And, I should just get over it already.. but, I won’t. Maybe if I crossed them everyday or something.

For now, the moment passes and we prepare to return to Los Angeles.

This has been such a strange journey and really it’s not over.

The trip home is uneventful, really. I try to engage the conductor by asking some questions without a response. My location of the restroom and then my seating goes well, except one guy goes into the bathroom twice and then comes out and says all yours. Now, I sit in the hallway, my bag on my lap.

“Did the incident earlier mess up you day?” asks a passenger. I don’ know what the conductor says. I guess not.

“Where did the guy get hit?” I ask.

On the San Bernardino line, says the passenger.

Oh brother. Several conversations pass. The Metrolink automated announcer whatever its official name, tells us that we’re approaching each station. People get on with their bags and cell phones. A woman speaks loudly in another language on her phone. The switch points shift us to another track. The rails clatter, the radio hisses, we move along.

I hear him tell someone he needs someone to assist someone in Los Angeles going to Fullerton. That’s me.

“What train comes before 606? I ask.

“708.”

“That’s the Riverside train.”

“91 line through Fullerton,” he says.

Like, I should know that. Why didn’t I remember?

“I used to talk to that crew,” I say. NO response.

Today the conductors just seem unresponsive. That’s the word to describe the entire trip today. It’s sunresponsive. I don’t know why. I don’t even know what I was expecting. I just got lucky the first time. Now, I should be able to do this on my own. I guess I will.

We get to the station and pull onto track 9B, I think it was. I’m headed for track 10B.

“Where the Starlight goes,” I say.

“Oh, in the mornings?”

Yes, in the mornings. The Metrolink worker, Gina, walks with me to the right track. I think today with all the energy I’ve put int this trip Im hapy to walk with her. But, then she puts me in the cab car and I remember when we get to Fullerton why I don’t like sitting in the cab car.

“What do you do?”

The bag goes on the floor, a lady sits next to me.

“I work for Disney<” I say.

This is all between a boy about four years old sharing strawberries with another passenger, a couple of cell phone calls, and the conductor mentioning the stationstops and watch your step and anything else I’ve left out.

“What do you do?” I ask the lady.

She’s studying to be a pysical therapist and do you know that doctors are just tol to give you drugs or do an operation and not to pay attention to natural remedies?

Oh, boy.

“Well, there was a lot of information destroyed at Alexandria,” I say. “So, you never know.”

This halts her conversation, for some reason. Something forhwich I am glad. I sit there on 708, observing the busieness, listening to the conversations. It grows quiet. The whistle blows and the rails clatter.

“I’m the conductor,” says a man to me. I swear I recognize him. Was he the one who told me to step away from the locomotive when I was talking to Glenn and I told Glenn he got paid the big bucks to listen to the conductor and I didn’t have to. You can read all about that in “Engineer drama.” Oh, my Lord, so many memories sparked today. I don’t think the man remembers me and, I’m sure Bob at Chatsworth doesn’t remember me. I wonder. I could be wrong about the conductor on 708, but I don’t’ think so.

“Do you need assistance?” he asks me now.

It was nice of him to ask.

“No. Thank you or asking,” I say.

I hop off the train in Fullerton and make the forty mile walk from the cab car to the bridge.

This is when the next disconnect happens. I walk up to the third car marker and wait for 606. I don’t worry about tracks. I know wher the locomotive is. It pulls up a nasty MPI. I walk up to it.

“Carey!”

I know it isn’t Carey because there’s no response. I wave my hand across the window. “Carey!”

Then, the strangest thing happens. In former days I stood shyly by or hesitated. This time, I thought, if he’s not going to talk to me, then, fine. Maybe I was just in a strange funk today. I usually have all the patience with the engineers. Not this one. It’s really ok but I wasn’t going to waste time today. I turned and started to walk away.

That got a response. The window clicked. He said something to me. I turned back.

“I’m looking for Carey<” I said.

“He’ll be back in a couple of weeks.”

I didn’t recognize this one. It’s really ok if they don’t talk to me. I think he asked me if I wanted to ride with them. It’s usually what they ask me. I didn’t’ even ask his name. But, I bet I know who he is next time. I think Iw as just annoyed with the whole trip.

And, now, I have one more chance. I have one more engineer. Forget 608. I’m too tired, I’m not waiting for that one. I walkacross the bridge and down to the place where I’ve met the morning trains. Bobby is on 707. I’ve just gotten off one Riverside train, tried to make contact with the Ocean Side train,and now, here’s another Riverside train.

People pass along the bridge to the new parking structure. A group of men sits down by the Spaghetti Factory talking.

“Where are you going?” one of them asks me as I approach earlier.

“Paradise!”

Laughter floats over the air.

“Aren’t we all!” someone responds.

“I’m going to see if I know this engineer.”

I know him.

“Shelley!” it’s the familiar cadence.

“jared told me where you were!”

“Who?”

I have to repeat the name several times and we’re not even competing with the MPI.

“Oh. Have you been ok?” he asks me. Bobby’s looking after his little girls.

“I just got back from L.A. Working,” I say.

Now, that was nice. I think that one question just made this whole trip worth all of its wrinkles.

I walk away and smnile. Yes, Mr engineer, I’m ok. I’m fine. But, I sure am exhausted!

Today, have I gone to Chatsworth, paradise, or hell? The closest I ever want to get to hell in its purest form is Chatsworth. Maybe that’s just my opinion today. Certainly I’ve had a different one in the past, but today’s trip, strange in its own kind of way, but not really dramatically strange, is just, yes, I said it, strange. I’m not sure what I was expecting today when I started on my journey to Chatsworth, but I certainly got an earful and a lot has changed. It’s just another step on my railroad journey, and perhaps the next trip will be better. There has to be another one because I can’t just leave this one where it left me: shocked and stunned, but mostly annoyed. It has it’s good points. All my railroad journeys do. But, today, just seems to be a non honeymoon kind of a day. But, that’s alright. I’ll take it. It gets better from here.

 

 

Copyright © 2013 Shelley J Alongi
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"