She Likes Trains: Riding The Slow And Poky (1)
Shelley J Alongi

 

It is a nail biting, hand clenching ride on the slow and poky to Lancaster. Naps, cats, bells, a very friendly conductor, a cooperative subject, and adventure. I’ve waited three years for this moment and as usual, it was worth the wait. The only problem is I’ve left more passionately interested than I ever was before. I guess that’s what getting the right connection will do for you. Glenn, you still are the absolute best! I can’t wait to add more stories to that book!

Confident, cool hands hold one of modern technology’s most prevalent inventions: an iPhone. Tapping fingers open the camera, the patient engineer in his blue and white uniform, his sun glasses, stands before me, his back to one railroad track, track 8, one track to our left. Cool confident hands wipe away oil and turn the camera to face him.

“Can you look at the camera for me?”

“Sure,” he says. He waits, the shudder clicks.

“Now,” I say confidently. “I need you to help me.”

He approaches, looking down at the screen in my left hand.

“I can’t see it.”

Around us, the wide open space, the concrete platform between the tracks, stretches out, the temperature cool, easy, a light summer day.

“Hold on.”

I’ve forgotten something. I tap the screen, lifting the curtain so he can see my handiwork, or Apple’s.

“There it is! It’s centered and everything and high enough so they can’t see I’m fat.”

My subject is not fat. If he is, not any more than anyone else who eats regularly and enjoys it. It’s an American figure this veteran of the railroad.

Today, Friday June 14, I stand here between these tracks just having been led from Lancaster’s returning train 214 by its engineer. Today I learn vital information unavailable to me from six months of conversation out of the cab and three years of phone conversation. I would guess him to be about five feet eleven inches. I wouldn’t say he’s over weight. I’d say comfortable. He’s definitely here, three years and two months after seeing him on track three in Fullerton making his last trip to Riverside, my tears being interrupted by the sudden appearance of a friend I haven’t seen in twelve years, according my journal entry on that fateful, tearful April 2009 day. Now, ere we are, standing by track 8 at Los Angeles Union station, snapping pictures before he takes his train or alternate transportation to Taylor, the place where he rests during his afternoon break.

“You’re not shy,” I tell him now or earlier. “Can you help me? If you don’t’ mind, can we find someone to take our picture?”

Glenn hands back my iPhone. I will never trade it in again, it has priceless engineer prints. I hold it lovingly.

“I feel like I’m at Disneyland,” I say, “grabbing someone to take our picture.”

Indeed it has reminded me of the day before when I posed with my nieces for pictures and someone else snapped picture of all of us at the new entrance to California Adventure park. Now, here I am with my number 1 engineer, and we’ve just done the same thing.

“I’d rather be at Disneyland,” he now says, a combination of the experienced railroader and the person just perhaps wanting to be done. It’s a terribly human response.

“Your line is Disneyland. And, it’s cheaper.”

He doesn’t say anything. I understand not wanting to be somewhere. And, today, really, is better than Disneyland. I got to spend time with him. I still say he’s the best.

The whole idea today has been to get the picture I’ve been wanting for over two years. It is rare that our schedules actually allow me to meet him. This would be the first time since April 16, 2010 that I could come to this place for this purpose. I was only hoping as I rose at 4:00 AM with one hour’s sleep, my hands by no means steady just for this picture. I’ve gotten much more than I asked for. I have learned over three years and two months that things always go better with Glenn than I’ve ever expected.

Now, we go our separate ways. He turns to go back to his routine, but not before leaving me with hope of a future meeting.

“Can I have a hug?”

I’m the one barely able to carry on a coherent conversation, though it’s gotten easier, and today is no exception. We’ve had several good conversations, not always about trains.

This day starts at 4:00 AM, for me, and has a bit of a history. I’ve texted Glenn to tell him that I’ll come on Wednesday. But, that doesn’t work out, mainly because when I woke up at 7:30 on Wednesday, I knew I would not be at train 205’s track for it’s 9:27 departure. I text my friend. “Sorry I missed you,” is the essence of the text. “Overslept. Won’t make it today, see you Friday if you’re there.” An hour later there is a response. Overslept? You must be tired that’s what vacations are all about. Have a great day see you Friday, sleepy.”

Why are his messages so adorable? Is he talking to his daughter again? Or is he just being a tease? A delightful tease.

 “Give me a call and we’ll add some more stories to that book!” he now says, giving me a side hug, leaving me standing there, almost, as some friends of mine might say, like a deer in the headlights, only because I’m still not sure this is real. I stand there now between the two tracks, alone, holding my phone, perhaps like the first time I made a phone call from the Santa Fe café and held my phone not believing I had called him. I poke through the pictures on my phone, labeling them, posting them, getting a little confused about which one is which, but sorting it out.

The culmination of this event, the pictures, does not arrive without anxious, happy nervous thoughts, two bus waits, a helpful dose of iced tea straight out of bed, rubbing my eyes, making sure my keys are on my necklace, sorting and resorting the bells, feeding the cats, making sure I have my ATM card, and a few deep breaths. I’m on a mission today to see the first locomotive engineer to take time to educate me, and hop his two trains, a four hour adventure, get tickets, not miss the train to Los Angeles, and not do anything really silly. The silly part comes at the end, but at 4:50 in the morning, with my plan all in order, a heavy railroad grip, and a double triple check through the apartment, I insert my keys into the lock and carefully descend the stairs. The warm breeze meets me, I’ve checked the bus stop times, and felt my hands being restless, no sweating, just restless. My eyes feel like they have sand paper in them, but I’m okay, really.

Another contrast strikes me later. Today, my nails are broken and not manicured, unlike the first time I met this man off 607, the same train I’ll be taking today. Another engineer I know guides this Train, but as luck has it, for the second time in my railroad riding career, I’ve missed that engineer. He’s off on medical. Today’s engineer is Rob Smith, and he’s a nice guy, according to the conductor on 607. Carey will be gone for a month.

Before we reach that part of the journey, I make my way carefully to the station. There is a lot of traffic this morning. A woman who has been on the 26 with me, her entire time spent on a cell phone, tries to guide me away from the corner, fearing I’ll be hit by the 43. No, I’ve done this a million times, I’m okay. Have a good day, hon., I say, not focusing on her. I wait patiently for cars to pass. No sense in getting hit by a car on the way to take four trains and get an engineer’s picture.

The mission, should I accept it on this already warm breezy day is to get to L.A., then get to the right track and not miss train 205.

The first stop is to the ATM in the station to get cash. I don’t trust Metrolink card readers. The decision now is to take Metrolink all the way. No business class for me. The cost is really the same, but this just makes it easier and so after the helpful agent assists me with the ATM, I do my business, organize my money still with restless hands and approach the ticket machine. The machine is another adventure. It seems the Braille labels are missing and there are people waiting for the machines. It is commuter time. The first angel of my morning appears. He helps me with the tickets, I organize my cash, and make my way to the café. I might actually be hungry. High-heels, people carrying briefcases, people in the café, I order a breakfast sandwich an slip quietly closer to the bridge to call Metrolink, get the train departure times, and decide which one to take. I decide not to take the Amtrak because it leaves Fullerton at 8:16 and I just don’t want to leave that late.

I decide on Metrolink train 607, watching as 605, 683, 703, and then Southwest 3 show up. 703 brings back memories.

Surprisingly calm, I eat my sandwich, talk to Steve one of the homeless guys who frequents the station, and wait.

“I don’t usually see you this time of the morning,” he says.

I’m on vacation, I explain, I’m taking a trip and most likely I’ll see you tonight. I do see him that night.

607 shows up.

“Are you going with us?” asks the conductor. I know who he is, but I can’t remember his name. I’ve seen him before. I’m on the train, my second restroom trip, in my seat, holding my bag, most of whose items go unused today. But, I’ve got the railroad grip with me, just in case.

“It’s Friday,” says the conductor when someone remarks that traffic is light. My hands are still restless. I probably play with my bells, clutch the D rings on my bag. My ticket is within easy reach. Someone remarks that it’s flag day.

“Is Carey on this train?”

No, explains the conductor, he’s on medical. Well, at least I had a common knowledge, that makes me feel less nervous. It’s not a bad nervous, really. It’s anticipation. I think if there wasn’t this intense interest and this infatuation with whatever it is I’m infatuated with, combined with the interest, I wouldn’t make the effort to get up at 4:00 to wait for two busses and four trains today. I sit back.

Then, my second angel appears. We make our crossings, pull into Los Angeles. Ok, this is kind of it. Mike, a man who rides a scooter or carries a cane, is heading to the 205 train, he’ll go with me there. The awaited train is on track 4. We make our way, Mike solicitously offering to get me something to drink or eat. NO, that would not be a good idea. The butterflies are flying, but probably not in formation. It’s an old Toastmasters saying, you still get nervous even after all your training, you just control the butterflies.

We approach track 4. I stand and wait. A train bell. It’ sour train. I know that engineer sees me.

Somehow I jus stand there, maybe petrified. I know he’s probably busy,

“we’re boarding in ten minutes,” says the conductor and then proceeds to repeat himself to people who just won’t, can’t, or refuse to listen. I still stand there. Mike is gone. I figure I’ll know when it’s time to leave.

“Are you going to ride the slow and pokey?”

It’s my third angel. Glenn is more than an angel, he’s the railroad incarnate, I’ve decided. Mo Miller once told me that Glenn had railroading in his blood. By the end of the day I’ve decided she was right. Here he stands, close enough to touch. Ok, so I’ve seen engineers out of the cab before, but this one is just magical. Before we endow him with too many magical powers, we have to remember the drama side, the times when I probably overwhelmed him, but now, here we are, my dream come true. What I also realize is that over the last four years I’ve learned a lot from a lot of people. I have a lot more to learn.

I don’t remember what started the conversation. Something was said about the engine. I always like to sit behind it.

“Do you want to show me where it is?” I ask him.

He is quiet for a moment.

“It’s probably safer for you back here,” he says quietly. It’s my favorite Glenn, the one whose voices influenced by cigarettes or yelling over freights. “And, we’ll be here on the way back.”

I’ve toll him I want to hear him call signals. But, as it turns out, I don’t hear him call signals. I know I can get a signal chart. There are so many distractions today that it would be impossible to hear him call signals. It’s fine. I know how he does it.

“So, you couldn’t get up?”

I know what he’s talking about.

“I ended up in the recliner and fell asleep at 3:30,” I explaine.

“That’s kind of late.”

The engineer who gets up at 3:20 when he runs 607 tells me that’s late? He is right, of course. I sure give him a lot of leeway, don’t I? He talks me into staying in the cab car and now he says 3:30 is late. I don’t argue with him much, do I? No, he can leave that for his wife. And, besides the last time I argued with him I ended up apologizing. We can’t have that. And, sometimes, it’s not any of those things; sometimes I just feel like putty in his hands. Mine are steadier now. I’ve reached safe ground. I’ve gotten through all the waits and the tickets and haven’t missed a train.

The conversation is easy.

“Well, especially when you get up at 4:00,” I continue.

“That’s hardly a nap.”

This is quiet, midrange Glenn, without the cigarettes and maybe the freights.
He’s got that nap thing right. If I think he hangs the railroad moon and stars then he definitely has the nap thing right. According to the general code of operation rules my half hour REM experience doesn’t constitute legal limits for a forty-five minute railroad nap. He knows his rule book.

I explain that the alarm was in the other room, so today I set two alarms.

Conversation flows. The thing that always amazes me about him is that he always remembers things about me that I don’t expect him to. Maybe it’s the observant railroader or just because I never quite let him forget I exist.

“How about those cats?” he now asks. “Are they behaving?”

Yes, they’re behaving. I guess with forty plus years of railroading under your belt you learn to remember lots of things. I’m always happy he remembers me.

“A guy at the motel I stay at, you know where I stay in Lancaster?” he wants me to know something. Yes, I nod in the afirmative. Go on, my love. Please, do. It seems a guy there shows him a cat toy, one with a tail and a windup mechanism that goes round and round, he says. I stand there, not sure I get the concept, but later, it all falls into place. Ok. It was only twenty bucks, he says. He bought it for his wife. I smile. What a nice guy.

Did he take mason to Disneyland for his third birthday, I ask now. No, he gave his son money for the Marriott, they stayed there on Thursday, in position, he says.

In position? Yeah, he’s got railroading in his blood.

He talks about a scam which really turns out to be the seventeen percent tax on hotels in Anaheim, a parking fee, and the fact that people complain and then pay Disney prices. Haven’t we had this conversation before? Part of it.

And, I explain, we all know Disney prices are high. No one disagrees with that.

“but, they’re busy as hell!” he says in classic Glenn fashion.

Yeah, that’s just about it. And, they’re redone California Adventure Park and they’ve done a nice job. Buena vista Street boasts a replica of the Pacific Electric car that would have been in use when Walt Disney arrived circa 1920 in Los Angeles. Guess, he’ll have to go see it. And pay. Not if he asks me, which he probably won’t.

Now, we’re talking about character dining. Last year they got to wherever it was too late to have breakfast with the characters. They do have quite a drive. So, this year the three of them minus the engineer benefactor stay at the hotel and have breakfast. The only problem was, says the engineer benefactor, Mason started crying. Yeah, I’ve heard that a few times. It’s the nature of the beast, I guess. Wait till the little one grows up and has to support himself and his kids. Maybe then he’ll really cry. Maybe he’ll run the train, too.
“Where did they have breakfast with the characters?”

In Disneyland, Glenn says. The only problem with that answer is there are five choices. Only one choice in Disneyland, though. He just doesn’t know where they went. On a normal day with anyone else I’d probably just think this was an unacceptable answer. But, there are lots of options and this is Glenn we’re talking to here, so he can get away with it. Disneyland is a crazy place, it could have been anywhere. Last year I recommended the Mickey breakfast, but who knows. One thing is for sure, The price was higher than it should have been.

Around me, people prepare to board, but I’m not paying attention. I can hear him. I don’t have to argue with his blue tooth. I can actually hear him He doesn’t know witch Marriott his son and daughter-in-law stayed at with mason. There are at least five choices. Thinking about it later, my guess is the Marriott Hotel near the convention center.

Then he says, they went to the Sheraton. This is where there used to be a bar with a rock and roll band, where I used to party, he says. Yeah, we know. Wild Glenn. Captivating. Wonder how many times he called out? I smile. Was it the Sheraton by the 5 freeway? What was he doing in Orange county, anyway? I’ll have to ask him that, add it to my growing list of questions.

Then it’s on to 3751. they called dim he said, he didn’t know why. He got to ride in the locomotive.

“It looks like you didn’t run away,” Mike now says coming to join us. We somehow work him into the joke telling about UP. I’ve started that by saying that UP has an engine with the same number. The steam engine, 3751 is built by Santa Fe Glenn has to remind me of that. I knew that!

“Don’t be saying that UP stuff!” he teases. Uto, It’s the old Santa Fe UP war, I guess. I smile. Anything he does makes me smile.

And then, it’s the picture. Can I et your picture? Can I post it on Face Book? Yes. He’s a star. He’s photogenic. I’m not nervous. My hands are calmer now. I can feel myself relaxing though the intenseness is still there. The fact that I hold my cane, clutching it, the grip on my shoulder, helps me feel less nervous. If I didn’t’ have something in my hands, most likely my mother’s mantra to me promising I’d put my hands in the wrong place, might come true, though I hardly know where they would be. Just not in the right place.

The conductor sees us. He approaches with his keys. Here I am talking to his engineer. I feel important. Or, is it that Glenn just makes me feel important? I think it is more that I’m just getting to know who the crews are. Soon, I learn this one’s name.

“Ready to go?” I ask. It seems we are.

I turn to walk to the cab car.
It is time to board. I will be a good girl and stay in the cab car. Glenn puts his hand on my shoulder, putting me into the conductor’s care. His hand is warm, comforting, light, not overwhelming like others who might not be aware of invading space. It is professional and quiet, maybe he’s signaling his conductor. Because of the grip’s position on my shoulder, his fingers touch warm, exposed skin, rough quality, as if those fingers might contact something with friction like engine parts or metal surfaces that make one’s hands dry or hardened from the constant contact. It’s all part of the story, and I have heard him say three years ago he might work on a race truck. Physical evidence only available to me outside the confining heights of the lofty locomotive

“Jesse,” he says. “This is my friend from Fullerton.”

When he says things like that, it makes me feel like I belong. And, it’s cool, too.

“You sure have a lot of bells,” says the conductor. I smile. Glen’s Bell, I think. It’s one of my Disney passwords.

Oh, and there’s a student engineer, Glenn tells me. This answers a question. Yes, he trains people. Make them the best, I text later.

The trip to Lancaster is quiet. I spend most of it looking at my phone, posting my status, answering questions from my baby sitter about who Glen is. Boy friend, she asks. No. Way better than that. Engineer who loves trains if he doesn’t always love his job, or just makes comments that seem to indicate that. I think that’s most of us on some days of the week. I get that. I probably tell him that.

I sleep a little, missing the scenery through Soledad canyon. And, he’s not kidding about the train being slow and poky. I don’t know what the speed limit is anywhere on this trip I’ll have to find out. But, it is definitely slow and poky. And, quiet. Remember that.

I’ve always said something about the trains he runs. They usually don’t get delayed by police activity or congestion or many of the standard railroad ailments. I’ve noticed this consistently and asked him about it during our last conversation in March, 2013. Spotting the train, draining the tanks, ensuring that crews have a proper rest time, these are all reasons, he says, why the later trains should run on time. We don’t’ live in a perfect world, but there are reasons for being in one as often as possible.

 

 

Go to part:2 

 

 

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