She Likes Trains: Slow Engineer “Well I must go” I now tell Dave as I gather up my belongings. He is game for leaving, too, the cold getting to him. I leave on this Friday night because I work on Saturday and I want to get home and ready for my day. I’ve seen my loves, all of them, and had my double cheese burger, too. I am satiated. All we have to do now is wonder what will happen to the slow engineer. Tonight, love calls and comforts, trains unite young and old, the cat takes the jacket. Only one thing, please, please don’t wake my sleeping engineer. “Guess what!” Wendy practically capers behind the counter, the counter that now holds one of those plastic fake cookie jars full of Tootsie rolls, three spigots of draft beer, definitely not my thing, either of them. There is a plastic holder for pennies, and maybe you can reach your money over the top of all the clutter and hand it to her, tonight it’s the credit card, well, the debit card, really, it’s rarely cash, but I worked hard for it anyway. “You are getting married to the guy from the orange trains!” Well, close. “He came!” She’s all excited. Who came? Was I right? The man from the orange trains? The orange trains is code for BNSF as we now know it with their painted orange schemes, and the man from the orange trains is the engineer months ago who put down his credit card for a bread bowl. You can read all about him in “Not Looking for Trouble.” “did he come in here?” o, he came by really slowly on the train and waved and smiled at me.” “Did you get his number? O, he didn’t come in here. He missed his chance.” “Well I don’t have a boyfriend anymore,” she says. And the thing is she’s quitting her job here at the Santa Fe café, tired of getting exploited, I guess by rich people who treat their employees like nothing more than slaves, it seems, never enough people to work when you need them and not paying her parents to pull the chairs from the patio at night when we’ve all vacated them for the east end of the platform down by the blinking signals, or no I guess they’re solid state relays now, so they don’t really blink do they? They were replaced about a year ago and speaking of things being replaced, high railers and pieces of equipment whose names I don’t know, maintenance of way vehicles have finally appeared, replacing old rail. “Put a piece of that in your bag,” says someone to me, once, probably Dave, talking about my railroad grip of course, yeah let’s put a thirty pound piece of rail there, we won’t notice the difference at all, only when I can’t get it off my shoulder or get it up the stairs to my apartment. Okay well, maybe not, but they have appeared here finally late nights, kicking up hot sparks and hot metal, melting steel and reforming it, fascinating. Finally the hell bent and Barstow bound freights come through here at really break neck speeds, well, at least for anyone sitting here, anyway, unlike the ones who would not obey speed restrictions, not sure if there were any, but probably. Now, no, they’re all flying through here, except the slow engineer, of course, probably on a flashing yellow, getting ready to stop at his red, forgot the name of the signal now, I’d make a good train crewmember wouldn’t’ I? In any case, Wendy is leaving, so I guess her engineer from the orange trains will have to find someone else. “He missed his chance,” I tell her as strains of Christmas music now drift through the air that soon will carry the fragrance of cooking hamburgers turned into a double cheese burger, “he was slow!” I laugh a little thinking well, I think I just found the name for my next essay, and so here it is. Before I find out all this information, the Riverside train, 708, pulls to its three car marker as I cross the parking lot a little more car infested tonight, not sure for what reason, and start to pass the entrance into the station. “Do you want to go inside, ma’m?” A woman I recognize but whose name I don’t know, carrying her own wheel bag, or maybe it’s the cart for the community service crew, that might be it, hails me. “No, thank you,” I say, passing by. I have two destinations, not sure which one I’ll make first. I pass the wrought iron fence on the patio and look in. The door is closed to the café, s I pass it and head to the bridge, over to the south side of paradise. Two people want to hold the elevator for me. I trek down the stairs, looking, nervous as a cat, only a very sure cat, sure footed but not having marked out my territory for a while. I trace the six car marker with my right foot, there it is! The loud P.A. system, echoing off the walls of the surrounding buildings, tells us that Amtrak’s 785 with service to Los angeles is on its way. I ignore it. I always ignore 785. As of yetI’m not looking to interact with those guys, maybe some other time, they’re here longer, I could probably go talk to their engineers, but by the time I get here, it’s time for 606 and 608. 785 comes and goes, people leave me in peace on this side. There it is, both headlights dimmed, mingling with the whining or some kind of sound, can’t realy describe it, like wind on rails, maybe, metal on metal but not so intensely dissatisfying, the strident bel of the MP36, I sigh. Not that one! But it’s not Carey. I think there really is a way to tell these guys by the bell, maybe it’s subtle and maybe I’m just over confident but I’m sure it’s not Carey. Nameless pulls the locomotive to its spot, the air breaks hiss, I stand back, waiting. I always stand back initially I make no sudden movements I don’t want anyone to get any wrong ideas about my intensions. I wave, I stand confidently, no verbal response, though I imagine because I always do, that Nameless waves back. Maybe he doesn’t. Okay now I know this isn’t Carey. I don’t fully expect Carey to be here, it seems last year the day after Thanksgiving he took that day off, the only engineer who hasn’t taken a day off after Thanksgiving is Glenn, he is the very best with all his complications and still undiscovered surprises, and best of all, the number 1 engineer for Metrolink, the lead engineer on my rr dance card, still talks to me. Carey, however, tonight, doesn’t talk to me. He doesn’t call me young lady, he doesn’t askme how my shoulder is, he’s off doing something else. I approach the safety striping, and wave. I’m not so nervous now, but I haven’t gotten as close to the train as I did with Glenn’s train, sometimes I’ll reach up and caress the grill plating, but mainly these days I just stand there knowing I’m seen now. The distinct feature for me about this locomotive brand besides its horrible bell, is the click of the cab window as it opens. Now I know I’m seen, I imagine Nameless puts his head out that window, curious, at least. “Are you looking for Metrolink?” This is definitely an extra, I’m going to guess his age at 50, because in my experience most Metrolink engineers, at least the weekday ones shine with experience, and this one, unlike Chad, Rob, and John, hasn’t seen me before. He doesn’t ask like John if I’ll be there tomorrow. No I definitely wont’ be there tomorrow, tomorrow is Saturday. “No,” I project over the clattering engine that sounds like a rhythmic rattling machine, “I come here to talk to Carey.” Mr. Nameless, Shelley’s twentieth or twenty-first conquest doesn’t know I’ll talk to any engineer who will give me the time of day. He doesn’t kno I haven’t been there in two or three weeks. “He’s off today,” he says unnecessarily. So why is it that extras are always enclined to tell me that the men they are replacing that day are off? I know that. Well, maybe they’re qualifying or in block training, I suppose that could be, but today is the day after Thanksgiving and with Carey, he’s probably off. I’ll have to ask him when I see him on Monday, if he’s there, wher he was and who his extra was. The radio crackles, he gets the high ball. “I’ve got to go,” he says now. I know that, sweet engineer, I’ve been standing here two years, I know now when you get your signal. I wave. “Have a good night,” he now commands, pulling his train away. Okay so they must teach you this in engineer school. Two standard utterances from engineers sitting up high looking down at their humble suplicants, “did you work today?” and “Have a good night.” Yes my love I will. I promise and I didn’t learn your name, but I will. Dont’ worry. He pulls off into the dark, silent train night, another Thanksgiving holiday in the books of Sheley’s Fullerton memory, last thanksgiving I think I was there, two Thanksgivings ago Glenn was there that Friday, and now here is another one. Next year, Friday after Thanksgiving will probably find me there, too, standing by track 3, just waiting, wondering, and Carey will probably still be there and will take that day off, too. He’s been on this line for two years at least, maybe longer. Why should anything change? And you know it will. I make my way back through the elevator pillars, no one takes it over the tracks tonight, and make my way to the other side. A man appears at the top of the stairs and asks me if I want the elevator. “No, thank you,” I reply, I’m making progress in the politeness department. “Are you sure?” Okay there are two things you don’t do to me, you don’t invade my personal space, and you don’t ask me if what I said is the truth. “If I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t have told you no,” I say heading down the stairs, erasing all the good I’ve done in the politeness department. No matter, I make my way down the stairs and pass behind the large brick wall that faces the tracks, turning into the patio and enering the Santa Fe café. “Hello everybody!” I’m buoyant as my black bag ring swith all its bells and old switch keys. Dan gives me a seat, Janice an Bob sit at the table, Diesel Dave, the trucker, all discuss something. I’m intent on food so I go over to Wendy and this is when I learn about the man from the orange trains. “Give me your phone number again, I lost it.” I triumph where the slow engineer fails. He should have asked her the first time. There’s going to be a broken hearted engineer through Fullerton, maybe there already is one or two,or three, but not by my hands, and this one by the hands of the deserting server on her way to a better life. I want to stay in touch. The conversation at the little table where I called Glenn on New Year’s day, 2010, is full tonight. The overarching musical theme this early evening is holiday flavored leftovers from last year, as Diesel Dave talks about his wife in a wheelchair with health trouble, Janice asks me if I worked today, just like the engineer does. Yes, I worked today, it was double time, holiday pay plus my usual wage, and it was a good day. I have been busy, too. My visits to the railroad station have been few lately, first because I worked all summer, and now because it is an hour and a half bus journey home, most of that time waiting for a connection. I wouldn’t mind it so much except that I get up at 4:00 in the morning and so I decide to use my time more efficiently. If I had later shifts I’d go more often, but I really do prefer my morning shifts, so I’ll come to the station less often. The best part about going to the station for me is going and making contact with the people in those cabs, it’s kind of like my pictures. Whenever I tell a new engineer I come to talk to them there’s always an element of surprise. I’m the one who does this, but I don’t do it very often these days because of my schedule. I have my two guys at the station, I’m sure I’ll meet more. I’m getting ready to plan for a trip to meet even more, and I’m sure I’ll meet more than engineers, I may meet something I’m not ready for yet. But more about that later. For here and for now, we’re on the platform on the north side of paradise, parallel to track 1, and now there is action right here. A group of kids watches trains, applauding as a long string of double stack containers passes through. Sometimes when the freights get their red signals here the crews come out and make contact, some of them give out ear plugs or candy, this would be mainly from the BNSF trains, yes, those are the orange ones, and then some do not, just simply choosing to do paperwork or some other such thing and not interact with the happy balls of energy on the platform. Tonight there is no such interaction, but there are a couple of balls of energy. “Are you applauding the train?” Here I stand with them, one of whom, a three year old called Ithan, I remember. His father is there, I can’t remember his name, but now a freight comes through and we get some mighty blasts from the horn, the kids seized with peroxcisms of excitement, jumping up anddown, waving. I laugh in the bakground, it’s really quite cute! It feels good to laugh; it feels good to just simply be here, even if I did just miss boby my 608, that is if he was working tonight. As 608 pulls to its spot, 4 sits on track 1 and I am buried in my double cheese burger with French fries and my assortment of diet pepsis. Tonight there is no ice-cream; the diet pepsi is enough. I’ll simply have to wait till Monday to see him, the train travel group meets that night and I always try to make it there, despite my early morning scheduled. Usually I just cheat and call a cab, make cuts somewhere and pay the fare home, or sometimes I get a ride from one of the guys there; all these guys probably all over 60 and me in my middle aged childhood. We’re all here, young, middle-aged, advanced, all sharing one thing: trains and whatever they represent to any one of us. It’s a good place to be. This group breaks up and it’s on down to the foamers, Brett plays a song for me from his favorite band “They Might be Giants”, Scott is home sick, he says. Last weekend when 844 came through town, Brett and Scott went to Albuquerque to buy Indian rugs, and I wondered if Glenn chased the steam train. He didn’t. He worked, he said, when I find out as I wake him on Monday afternoon, wake my sleeping engineer from his serene contemplation of diesel locomotives or 22 cats, or maybe just gets some shut-eye so he can go run his train which is turned back at newhall due to mechanical issues. No, my sweet engineer, the one who answers all my questions, doesn’t make his run to Lancaster that night. I’ll have to ask him more about it, but it’s been my experience with him this week to get two text messages asking where the steam train is and then me breaking my number 1 rule: don’t wake the sleeping engineer. Well at least he’s not slow; we exchanged phone numbers. He’s a guy who loves trains and doesn’t mind answering questions even if he deals with Metrolink and its foibles. OnMonday he deals with his best station girl waking him, though the conversation is short and sweet. “What’s up?” it’s the Glenn question. “Did you chase the train?” I know he knows what I’m talking about because I tell him that it’s noisy and I’ll find out where the train is going and tell him. I cant’ believe I’ve gotten two text messages from him in one day. I feel special. “No,” he now says, quietly, it doesn’t occur to me that he’s sleeping. “I was working.” Now it occurs to me that he’s been asleep because the answer is short; not unkind, just short. Glenn doesn’t talk in short sentences. I woke my sleeping engineer! “Are you sleeping?” I don’t know why I always ask him that. I ask him that on New Year’s day 2010, I ask him that the last time I talk to him about Mo’s memorial, he says he’s alright, and today, he says “I was.” Oh goodness! He actually sounded pretty good for someone I just woke, I’d be sitting there rubbing my eyes wondering what day it was. He knew what train I was talking about. Sharp guy, my love on the rails and now I broke my rule. “Well,” I say, “Don’t let me stop you. I don’t want to distract the engineer.” I should have said something like ok well go back to sleep, but I always say the strangest things. He always just takes it in stride. “I’ll have to talk to you later,” he says. He always says that and we always do. How does he do that? He always just amazes me. But you knew that. Have a good night, I implore him, taking my cues from his own responses and returning him to Dreamland, if only for an hour or so. Now tonight he may run his train if he works the day after Thanksgiving. He is known to do that, and I’ll have to ask him about this week in particular since he does have such a fiendish commute. I think I admire him or maybe some other crews because of their commutes. It just seems like something I would do just because it needed to be done. I’ll have to ask him more about that later. For here and now, Brett is playing me the sleestack song and Crystal is talking to someone about trains. “There is absolutely nothing,” Brett says answering someone’s question about approaching freights, consulting his computer. They all wait and socialize, planning for their yearly trip to the Cajon Pass on Saturday to watch trains and take pictures, of course. Love calls, trains call over all ages. Maybe this is the one thing that unites or disunites America. Railroading is a funny thing: political, scandalous, hard task master, hard hours, no hours, larger than life personalities, too much deferred maintenance, lots of room for opinions, and here on the platform in our experience, the thing that brings us all together. I learned the name of a band I might want to listen to; and then I go on down to my regular place. Dave, Tom, Kathy, and others wander by. There are no trains. There are three things I remember: the talk about purchasing an electronic reader, Robert looks at Kathy’s Nook, and tells us about his new dog, Rockey, a 3 month old shepherd mix, the Australian couple that gets off the Amtrak whose locomotives tonight are the ones generally used on long distance trains, the ones with the throbbing engines, they definitely don’t’ sound cheap, my favorite bells, one of them, now I can’t remember, the Genesis series, are they EMDs? I’ll have to ask the experts. The third thing is me telling Dave that I woke the engineer. “He had his phone on but I still feel bad,” I say, “I think it stems from a childhood tendency for my mother to tell us on Sundays that the first person to wake her up gets in trouble.” I don’t’ think I’m going to get in trouble with Glenn, I think he probably keeps his phone on so he can answer calls from the family or the railroad or maybe someone I don’t’ know about which is always possible. He might even take a two minute call from me and tell me he was working when 844 was in town. He is always kind and I always remind him that I respect his time. I think he likes it. The Australian couple engage Dave in a lively discussion of locomotives, carrying their cameras and wheel bags, maybe wearing their railroad shirts or Disney shirts, clad in all colors tonight, they talk about locomotives in Australia and ones that come through here: SD40s, we see one last Friday on a local and hear its strangled horn, GE, GPs, I’ll have to ask Dave again. The thing about the locomotives is that when one company buys them they change the numbers and we have to start all over again. But that’s what keeps it interesting. There are no more turbines, of course, everything is diesel, guess I just have to keep learning my stuff. Maybe on Monday I can ask again for the overview; I know I have to go online to look them up or talk to people who have run all these glorious machines, machines that according to my Twitter feed, keep breaking down. There’s always that side of it, too; deferred maintenance, tired locomotives with lots of miles. Amtrak is supposed to buy a couple more engines, I fear they may be my despised MPIS when the bidding process starts. Guess we’ll see them in a couple of years. Till then, there’s my purring EMDS. EMD according to Trains magazine just came out with a tier three locomotive that meets emission standards, so things are always changing; just like they do on the platform with the engineers. We have new cab cars that are showing up on the Metrolink trains, and new passenger cars that people don’t’ seem to like, at least the ones who pay attention don’t’ like them, and now we may have some new locomotives. Everyone settles in to watch the last train of our night, it’s after 10:00 now, the lady with her camera, the guy I don’t’ know with what, Dave with his pen, and me with my curiosity. All up and down the platform everyone waits and watches. He doesn’t cross over, maybe he’s on track one. It comes through, I don’t’ get he numbers, but everyone gets a taste of the winds. Tonight they’ve teased me because I’ve left my jacket at home in the care of my cat who wouldn’t let me take it with me. What they don’t’ know is that I have much warmer attire and have just left it in the closet. No worries, the pull over is now in the railroad grip and the cat can have the summer jacket if she likes. I’m told I let the cat rule my house. Haha no, just my jacket. “Well I must go” I now tell Dave as I gather up my belongings. He is game for leaving, too, the cold getting to him. I leave on this Friday night because I work on Saturday and I want to get home and ready for my day. I’ve seen my loves, all of them, and had my double cheese burger, too. I am satiated. All we have to do now is wonder what will happen to the slow engineer. Tonight, love calls and comforts, trains unite young and old, the cat takes the jacket. Only one thing, please, please don’t wake my sleeping engineer.
Copyright © 2011 Shelley J Alongi |