Conversations With Glenn: Relaxed Engineer Tonight, March 1, in the pleasant balmy evening, I tap my phone, disconnecting my connection to the rails. I cross the street and catch my bus home. I am happy. “I got Glen for an hour,” I enthusiastically gush to my FaceBook friends. The longest conversation, ever. Stories and no stress. It was definitely the right choice. And, as usual, well worth the wait. There’s a theme to this conversation, and I think rather than trains, or maybe because of them, the theme is that I’m not so nervous. Usually, I am a mess when I call this engineer. But, only for the first few seconds, I think. Tonight is particularly comfortable. Deciding to make the call, that gives me a little trouble. But, paying my dinner bill, pulling my fancy phone out of my railroad grip, I make my decision. I won’t go to the train station. I need to be home fairly early. So, I’ll do the next best thing. I’m calling the engineer of my dreams. It’s a strange night to call, Friday night. But, earlier, when sending him a text about the Amtrak detour over Tehachapi to occur in March and April of this year if all dates are observed, he responds quickly, telling me he’s on vacation. I know my chances of getting him are slightly increased. I’m prepared if I don’t’ get him. But, I do get him. What has it been like waiting since August to talk to him? Work, work, and more work has kept me finding a reason not to talk to my number 1 engineer. But, I have wanted to talk to him. And, sometimes, during my day off, between bouts of typing and amusing cats, but mostly typing, I’ve thought, no, I won’t call because I’m not done yet. And, besides, what am I asking? And, it’s not a good time. It’s the afternoon. He says he rests at Taylor, the old name for the Metrolink housing and maintenance facilities in Los Angeles. He calls it Taylor. That’s what he says on Friday march 1, the first time I’ve had a phone conversation since August 26, 2012. several text messages, a few responses, holiday wishes, and now Tehachapi, again. Weren’t we just here? Tehachapi, I mean? Last year they did this and last year he spent 2000.00 dollars on a trip to Portland. “My son got spoiled,” he explains this year. “He had to go in a sleeper.” “Make him pay,” I say, no nonsense. “You know how it goes,” he says. I’m pacing the cobblestones on this balmy evening in March. I have left the restaurant, walked past Vons, past the Starbucks, crossed Oak Street and am standing by the public utilities and housing building. Tonight, it is not so stiffly cold as it has been. Tonight, holding my fancy iPhone, wondering if this will be the day when I can hear him, I pace the fconcrete. “I don’t know how that goes” I say. “That’s personal. Stay the hell out of my business, Shelly,” I mimick. That’s personal. We’re not going to talk about how much money he gives his kids. I have this thing about money. I go to my parent for money. I think parents have the right to say no. If he wants to pay for his son, fine. But, he has a choice. I don’t want to talk about that subject. Maybe in a year. Maybe not. But, now, after the inchiladas and the bean and cheese burrito, I hold my phone, my lifeline to my first working connection to the rails. And, yes, I can hear him. His voice is clear. At first, walking diagonally through the planters, the curving concrete blocks on Lincon that hold the small leaf bushes, and where homeless, and transients most of whom make this their regular beats, lounge on the planters, holding bottles of beer, or cans, all their possessions held in bicycles or not. There are no bicycles or people here tonight. It is 7:07 my phone says when I look in my favorites and tap on his name. The phone rings and rings. No voicemail? I’m crossing the street, just having navigated the planters. Around me, silence is pleasant punctuated by the occasional car traveling down Anaheim Boulevard. “What’s up,” comes the familiar greeting. It’s classic Glenn. I love this man. All he has to do is talk to me. I’m not ever sure I would want him to be mad at me. But, tonight, he laughs at me. It’s rare that I hear him laugh. I think I’m nervous for all of three seconds. Maybe he notices. Maybe he’s used to me by now. More power to him if he is. I’m not used to me, sometimes. But right now, standing by the glass windows, pacing, I listen. I hear a click, a hesitation, maybe he’s looking at my name on the phone? Then, the familiar greeting. “Hey. It’s so quiet over there. Is everything okay?” Is that how I greet the man who takes time to talk to me out of the cab, offline, on the phone? I’ve talked to other people who operate locomotives. But, there’s just something vibrant, or should I say electric about this one? Charming in a casual kind of way. “Enjoying my time off,” he says. “Only one week?” “Two,” he says. Not enough time to run his errands. Welcome to the club, dear. We’re all there aren’t we? I know I am. If I had six weeks off like Carey, I wouldn’t get everything done. I’m already behind this week, writing this entry and needing to work on another book review just because I can. There’s laundry to do and here I am writing late listening to archived spring trainin baseball. On Friday march 1 I’m not doing any of that. I am not at home in my living room, a cat on my lap. I am standing at the intersection I approach everyday, talking to one of the story tellers. I know a lot of them, but this one is my first connection. It has been a good connection. “You’re not taking six weeks off like Carey?” I ask. Carey is the operator of 606, second behind Glenn in terms of seniority, at least in my lineup if not the actual one. “No,” he says. There is something about that, it’s either a trip or surgery or something. But, no, he has two weeks off and he’s running errands. Is one of those errands to fix his broken computer? His daughter broke his computer, he says. Or, maybe it was the cats, he says. Cats? I have two cats, I remind him, though I probably don’t’ need to remind him. I believe it. I guess she lives in the house with all the cats. I don’t say one should be careful. I have two cats and they once knocked a flower vase off my table, but never my computer. “I asked my daughter how many emails did I have? She said 55,” he explains. “And, they’re all from Shelley!” I say. That makes him laugh. But, no, he’s not getting a new computer. He doesn’t tell me what errands he runs. No, he doesn’t tell me about errands. He tells me stories in a way. He tells me the complicated routes that led to Santa Fe going to San Diego and Southern Pacific going to Costa Mesa. He tells me about the first day Amtrak’s cab cars Metroliners, pushed the train to Los Angeles, that someone painted over the headlights. The engineer had no lights, he said, so that didn’t’ happen that day. He tells me about someone called Speckles and George Irvine and Huntington, all names I’m beginning to recognize from v various readings and other people telling me stories. “So, did you hear about that?” His question is earnest. This conversation is relaxed. My mouth isn’t full of peanutbutter. I’m stil pacing and he’s talking about Metrolink. “When they write the book on this,” he says later, “don’t forget who told you.” “I’ll never forget you, dear heart,” I say, and it’s true. And, so what is he talking about? Some complicated thing where Metrolink is missing sixty-six million dollars. Northern County doesn’t deal with Metrolink, SCRA. They run the Coaster. “It sounds like the railroad,” I say. “Adolescent behavior.” There’s always been something about the railroad. I think it’s anywhere but without doing much research it seems that the railroad is particularly plagued with greed, scandal, politics, and penury, or at least complicated money troubles. I know railroaders are opinionated. I’ll listen to this one. He doesn’t’ seem particularly vindictive or angry, he’s just expressing himself. Many times, I listen to a lot of different people. I let them express their opinions without it affecting me, unless the subject is personal space or competence. Most of the time I am content to just listen to people express their opinions. Railroaders aren’t any different in that regard. So, I’ll listen. I asked for stories. I’m more interested in personal stories, but I’ll take the political ones. They build to the personal ones. Besides, I don’t have too many questions tonight. I think my most burning question has nothing to do with the many roads to San Diego, it has to do with the roads to Los Angeles, in a way. “So, do you have time for the burning question?” Silence. “Why is it that all your trains (he runs four of them), are the least delayed of all the Antelope Valley line trains? I see delays, crossing issues, occasionally police activity, but rarely over eleven minutes, twenty minutes, sometimes an hour. But, not so many delays as occur on the other trains running the same track. “We have a half hour before we turna round in L.A. he says. “And, 221, it’s close to rest time, crews being off eight hours, they have a certain amount of time to get to the yard, water it, drain the tanks, spot it. It’s a matter of time. There can’t be too many delays. There usually aren’t. So, that’s the main reason, possibly. No over time for these guys. Too expensive? DOL. Dead on the law. So, those are his explanations about why his trains seem to be the least delayed. Oh, and Metrolink is buying six locomotives at six million each. You can buy a freight locomotive for a million and a half, he says. These new locomotives, and I guess I’ve read my specs, meet four tier emission standards. Do I sound educated? I still have to look that up. But, at least I’ve read about them. The power is so bad on the units now that sometimes in push mode the units will only get about fifty miles an hour. In pulling mode they are okay. Now, that’s my kind of talk. So, the power is really as bad as it seems. It seems that there are so many text messages that say train this or that is delayed because of mechanical issues. I’m sure that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I wonder if the iceberg will sink the Titanic? I don’t ask him that. I just think it later. But, there’s more extraneous conversation. Sometimes on Sunday night he doesn’t want to drive back to Lancaster. Why do I understand that? I understand that. It’s chaotic, sirens all the time, there. “And, another thing you can’t do there is step out of the engine for a cigarette,” he says. They all want one. Lancaster is a strange place. So, he does smoke cigarettes. Chris told me he did but I could never be sure. Hope they aren’t the cheap ones that one finds around here. I’m not a big fan of cigarettes but the ones around here are just gross. He answers another question, one I’ve had for at least three years when he first went back to Lancaster. Remember, the Metrolink agent said why does he do that? It’s hundreds of miles from where he lives. Money, why else? I understand that, too. But, the question he answers is a simple one. When he’s there in Lancaster who pays for the lodging? He doesn’t drive home every night. Metrolink pays, he says. I know they pay for some I wasn’t sure if they covered that part of his stay. He chose that job, and they pay. Ok. So, for three years I’ve wanted to know. Now, I know. I’d say this night has been productive. And, he’s holding out for the paris Valley line. Are they really going to open it before he is done? “Is that enough money for you?” I ask. Interesting question. He said he went to Lancaster for money. So, is it enough? “Maybe by then I won’t be in a position to need so much,” he says. Don’t we all say that? Does it ever end? He lives twenty minutes away from the maintenance facility, he says. He could ride there on his bike. “Pedal bike?” “Yeah,” he says. It occurs to me I haven’t heard that word too much tonight. “Not a motor bike?” No, he says. But, he did have a harley. But, not anymore. “Is an airplane, next?” NO. Not an airplane. A car, a Mustang his younger son drives, he tells me. A truck. A motorcycle. A bike. A train. Anythign missing? A bus? Airplane? Ship? Well, that’s quite an impressive list anyway: car, truck, motorcycle, bike, train. I smile. There’s something about him that’s different, that’s for sure. it’s what struck me the first time I met him, I think. I would classify him as wildly responsible. But, that’s just my own opinion. Tonightk I’m too busy pacing, crossing the street, getting out of the way of a car, pacing, walking across the safety line, listening. I carry my railroad grip on my shoulder, it’s not too heavy tonight. This relationship has come a long way, I think. The nature of the conversations are different, perhaps mostly on my part. I’m always struck by their naturalness. I like talking to him. I think if we ever had to work on a project together it would be a good match. I’ve had the opportunity to work with some great people in my life, I think we could work on a project together. Right now, the project is listening to stories. The conversation rambles. How is Disneyland? People are paying, I say. My daughter-in-law asked about Mason’s third birthday going to Disneyland. It was a five hundred dollar bill, he said about the second birthday. I told you earlier in an essay that even people who make good money don’t want to pay. But, people are paying, I said. “That’s good to hear.” They’re really stressing numbers, I tell him. But, when they’re ready to let me go they can tell me. “I don’t’ think this was Walt’s idea,” he says. He may be right. But, people are paying. Somehow, vacation comes up again. I got my time off in June, I say. I’ll come hop one of your trains. I’ll come and sit behind you. The cab car is crowded now, he says, apparently they’re emphasizing the rule that you have to shut the door. So, when the engineer and anyone else is there, supervisor, whomever, it’s a tight squeeze. Unauthorized passengers are not allowed there. I remember being on 644, the only passenger in the cab car. Pat, the engineer, shut the door,I said. Yes, now they’re emphasizing the rule even more. Shut that door. I’ll sit behind him. They’re pulling, of course. I have to ask him that. I don’t know why, later, but I do. I should know that. And, I’ll show you some of my writing, I say. So, I guess I better get it together. “You can quote me,” he says. Quote him? That’ swhen he makes the comment about the book on Metrolink. “Don’t forget who told you,” he says. I won’t forget. I promise. The conversation drifts back to Tehachapi. “You’re my info, baby,” he says. Me? I think he could find out about when and where and which train is detouring on his own. He’s been around a lot longer than I have. Maybe he just wants me to feel important? Whatever his reasoning, I’ll take it. The conversation draws to a close somewhere between the safety line, Tehachapi, Metrolink, and Disneyland. “I’ve got to git, Shelley,” he says. So, he does kno my name. Do you remember I asked that question so many times when I went to the front of the engine to talk to him. “We’ll do this again,” he says now. “Okay. And I’ll keep my eyes open about the detours. If I find out anything I’ll let you know.” And, I will. Tonight, March 1, in the pleasant balmy evening, I tap my phone, disconnecting my connection to the rails. I cross the street and catch my bus home. I am happy. “I got Glen for an hour,” I enthusiastically gush to my FaceBook friends. The longest conversation, ever. Stories and no stress. It was definitely the right choice. And, as usual, well worth the wait.
Copyright © 2013 Shelley J Alongi |