She Likes Trains: Riding The Slow And Poky (2) There is a fifteen minute lay over between train 205 and train 214. Poking our way along as we do, there are ten minutes. I exit the train at Lancaster. So, this empty sun-strewn platform, sometimes active I’m sure, greets us. This is the first leg of our trip. It has been quiet. It’s the return trip that is eventful. On this trip, security checks for tickets. I dig for mine in the grip’s front pocket. For a ticket that was supposed to be in easy reach, it sure wasn’t. I’m passed by. On the return trip I do have my ticket in my hand. I’m also looking at my phone, still, playing with bells. I’m sorting through my many bells not because I’m looking for something to do with my hands, but because I’m on another mission. It helps with keeping my restless hands occupied, I suppose. I don’t see the engineer or the student, though I do hear Glenn say something to the affect of do some praying we have a student today. I laugh. “No praying allowed,” I say as we get under way. The cramped uncomfortable Metrolink seats, no tray tables attached, not much room for placing a large grip under the seat in front of you, the phone charging to the left, the people begin to fill the car. Glenn says there’s precious little room in the cab car now with the door closed and two people inside. Someone explains to someone traveling on a different trip to Palmdale last week, that Metrolink trains are uncomfortable. They’re pretty much accurate about that. But, then, we’re not doing over night trips here. I sit back as best as I can. I’m not sure how it all starts. A man sitting to my right talks to someone on a cell phone about how his client wants to leave his hotel and go get food because he’s ready for the show he’s giving tonight. Can someone do this? He knew he could count on that person. Another person rode the bus from Ridgecrest to L.A. or wants to go to Ridgecrest by way of Los Angeles, Lancaster, Mojave desert on and on it goes. I get confused just trying to recount it. I get the idea the guy hadn’t done this before. Then, there’s the guy who started talking to the musician, saying something about he was in the business and he lived in a place that raised the rent, his cat died on September 11 2001, he’s been grieving the cat since then, and they’re building a dog park. He goes on about having a surgery for some kind of prostate ailment. A woman in a wheelchair talks about how there aren’t many plugs for batteries and someone wouldn’t’ give up her spot charging her phone for the wheelchair, and someone else tries to have the conversation with the guy who didn’t want to go to the dog park because he didn’t like dogs, he was still grieving his cat who had a massive heart attack and a stroke on 911 and fell out of bed. The woman says that the person on the phone probably just wanted to talk about how you’re my baby’s daddy or this or that. It was a circus. But the excitement really starts when toward the back of the car, a sheriff deputy saw a girl and a guy who apparently didn’t pay and had done some other illegal thing that sounded like identity theft. I couldn’t really hear the entire conversation, but I got the idea that they got taken off the train. “You know they were taken off in handcuffs, right?” says Glenn later as he escorts me in the fashion of a gentleman escorting a lady to an evening dinner, arm in arm with his best station girl, his friend from Fullerton. “I knew they were taken off the train, I didn’t know they were in handcuffs. But,” I explain, “I’m not surprised.” “They took them off at,” I pause, not remembering all the stations, but having some idea, “at Vincent Grade Akton?” “They took them off at Santa Clarita, I think,” he corrects as we approach track 8. It is hear that I get a real sense of his height and experience one of the things up close and personal that I’ve only glimpsed over the last four years. Turning and looking right at me, establishing electrical eye contact, he says, “They took them off to jail!” It’ the classic Glenn flare and maybe you can only understand it if you experience it for yourself. I realized later that I exhibit the same tendencies, sometimes. Maybe that’s why I understand the Glenn flare. It’s just awesome in its Glennness. Meanwhile, back on 214, the security guard comes through, someone tries to flirt with her or talks about Father’s day. “My father is in heaven,” says the security guard. Many of the faces on this train are black. Someone keeps going to the restroom and someone else keeps saying come back here you don’t need to do that. All of these are in deep California accents, who knows what their proper names are now, double syllable, dropped consonants. Cell phone conversations take place in all of this activity. A woman keeps telling someone on her phone that she has a taxi waiting for her. I have a feeling when all is said and done that this trip is a light one: this train today gets of easy. Train 223 is nicknamed the felony Flyer, Jared says. No wonder Glenn took these trains. Smart man. Somehow we approach Los Angeles. I’ve started to relax despite all the hubbub. I laugh at something that has nothing to do with the conversation going on around me. “I got a good laugh from the lady with the bells, ma’m,” says the guy with the stricken cat. I don’t’ say anything. Any attempt at conversation with him results in a rant on something uninteresting. Only God knows what it will be next. The train comes to a halt, smoothly. The student has done well. I stand up, sorting through my bells, awaiting the next move. The bag is heavy today. I am tired. I pack the thermos, something I don’t usually take. I pack extra food and drinks and decide to eat at Fullerton. But, I had to bring the grip, known as the baby. “Was that fun?” It’s the signall calling Glenn, talking to me from the front of the car where he’s been coaching the student. The words out of my mouth make him give me what has to be the inquisitive look behind those glasses. “Do you live on Excedrin, dear?” “Huh?” Here we are again, it’s sweet engineer confusion. He’s suddenly standing across from me. Here he is, suddenly sounding like the person I woke up or maybe roused from relaxing contemplation on New Year’s 2010. Sometimes I really wish I could see that veteran of the railroad’s eyes. I wonder if he thinks I’ve been doing this a long time and I’ve never heard that one before! I don’ know. I just wonder, sometimes. I don’t want to say I’m different or anything but sometimes I get those I don’t understand kind of responses. “If I worked this line I’d have a headache,” I tell him. “No,” he answers the question. I’m kind of teasing him but I don’t know if he understands. he gets it now. He just takes everything in stride. No wonder he can be on the same property with a woman who has twenty-three cats. That’s the other piece of information I learn earlier. His wife has twenty-three cats now as opposed to nineteen at last count. He has one bird, “the little guy” died. He has nine dogs. Yeah, I think he can handle this line. “There might be some changes,” he tells me about that line. He may be back in Ocean Side one of these days. “No,” says Tammy the conductor on 684, the train I take back to Fullerton. “Glenn makes too much money. And, he’ll never retire.” Now, the cab car on 214 empties. I still stand there readjusting the bag so I can handle it. “Take a rap, Shelley. Meet me outside,” says Glenn, suddenly somewhere else toward the front. Or, at least, that’s what I think he says. The thing I do know for sure is he remembered my name. “On the platform?” “Behind you,” he says. I don’t think he quite heard me, I meant did he want me to meet him on the platform. I guess he thought I asked him where it was? I don’t know. It’s that freight thing, all that time spent in the delightful hum of engines. And, then, I wonder if he said take a wrap? No, I decide later, after much contemplation, he said “take your bag.” Ok, so the engineer and the star struck lovesick middle-aged teenaged railfan gets things confused. It’s a match made in railroad heaven and I’ll take it. I wonder later if he senses that I’m nervous? He has things well under control from here on out. Somehow, I like that. He has a schedule to keep, he can’t be late for his transportation. My goal is to be organized, too. I put the bat over my shoulder and make sure I know where my phone is. I say goodbye to Jesse. Earlier in Lancaster he asks me if I’m alright. “Yes. And, I’ll have my tickets next time.” “You’re okay.” “You’re coming back with us, right?” “Yes. Finish my nap. Don’t tell the engineer that.” “I’ll tell Glenn you’ve been sleeping.” “Don’t do that,” I think I say. He’ll just tease me about it, later. Now, I go down the ramp, back on whatever track we’ve been assigned. As I exit I remember that the conductor always seemed to hesitate on the number of the train, as if he couldn’t remember it. He says goodbye. “Orange county on track 8?” says the engineer to the conductor. Yes, track 8 is where I’ll be leaving from. Now, I make to follow my primary teacher of all things rails. He comes back to me, and wanting to make sure I keep up with him, taking my arm, tucks it through his, our hands touching briefly. This time I am sure. It is a work hardened hand, muscles near the wrist. He pushes my hand so that it rests easily on his arm. It is as if he escorts me to a grand feast. It is a feast, in some respects. It is at this moment when he takes my arm with a strong, sure grip, confidently guides me next to him that I finally become completely relaxed. For now, this is the place I need to be. The girl with the great grandfather who ran steam for the Santa Fe and took her first trip on the coast Starlight in 1978 now walks easily with the number 1 engineer in this Metrolink system. In my own personal story, I never would have imagined it. “Where is your friend?” he now asks, my hand in the right place and calm. “What friend;?” “The one who was with you on the train?” “Oh, he just helped me find the train. He takes this train every day.” “I thought he was one of the fullerton rail nuts?” I laugh. “Who?” “The rail nuts. You don’t mind if I call them rail nuts do you?” “No,” I say, thinking of all the characters there. “Some of them are crazy.” But, some say later, he’s a pretty big rail nut, too. I remind him of this. He’s the best rail nut. “Have you seen Mel?” He’s talking about Mel Miller, the departed Mo Miller’s husband. She’s the one who says Glenn has railroading in his blood. “No.” “I called him,” he says, as we make our jaunty way toward the assigned track. He’s a fast walker either out of necessity or just a high energy level. I like that. He doesn’t ask me if I can keep up he just expects me to keep up. I can do that. “He has a girlfriend,” he tells me as we get in position. “I knew that. Dave told us.” “Dave on number 4?” He’s talking about Dave Arthur, a conductor on Southwest Chief, usually number 4. No, Dave at the station, the one I tried to have him meet two years ago at Mo’s funeral in October of 2011. I haven’t seen Dave Arthur. I don’t even think I’ve officially met him though I might know who he is. “You know,” I say, the subject shifting again, “there have been a lot of changes at fullerton. People changes. The woman along with her husband, the one who showed me where you were that one time in the cab have both died.” Soemhow I think he needs to know this. It’s nice just walking with him not having to communicate over the sweet purr of the Emd or hiss of the MPI. He stands about shoulder height over me, listening. “Were they old?” Sometimes. I think he’s fighting the age thing. “Seventy plus,” I say. I don’t think I’m getting brownie points. He does his customary laugh plus sigh thing, as if to say, see, I told you! It’s the great conversation filler. I can make it say whatever I want it to say. We stop at the platform where the cab car on the soon to arrive train 684 will rest. We’re in position now, standing between the two tracks on the platform, the comfortable day around us. I prefer this place over the hustle and craziness inside the station. This is where I belong: among the trains and their crews. “One comes in fifty minutes,” he says cheerily. He’s talking about the train, of course. But, now, it’s on to bigger and better things. “How are we going to do this?” he now asks as we stand near track 8. “Are we going to find someone to take our picture?” I have to admit for the first time in a long time I’m glad someone else is thinking for me. It makes my hands calmer. “I can get your picture,” I say. My phone will talk to me, tell me where the button is for taking the picture. And, now, putting my bag down, I wrestle with my cane and my phone. Seems I always have my hands full. “Do you want me to hold this?” Sometimes I think Glenn is a grown up responsible person all mixed in with this youthful teenager who just wants to help. How does he do that, exactly? It’s endearing. He takes the cane out of my hand and stands across from me. I don’t dare look down. Here I am going from standing shyly at the stairs and not sure how to approach him to snapping his picture at L.A.’s railroad hub. We stand here now, the adventure coming to a close. There is no rail education, only friendly conversation. No drama. No blue tooth. Just two people standing between two railroad tracks, one taking a train, one running one and maybe sleeping. Maybe I’m the one who should be sleeping? I don’t’ know. All I know is now I stand on the platform. He walks away, and I’m distracted by my phone. When I first asked for the picture of Glenn I didn’t have an iPhone. Now, I do, and now I can take my own picture of him. And, it wasn’t a bad picture. As Glenn recedes into the distance, a train approaches to my left. Is this mine? Glen has told me one comes in fifty minutes. Yes, I’ve purchased a round trip ticket on Metrolink, with slightly unsteady hands, in contrast to the hands that held the camera while taking the most desired picture in my recent memory. I’ve asked for this picture a year ago, and gotten three, since the man Glenn commandeered to snap our picture obliged us with two. Standing for that picture just seems right for me, a plan finally come to fruition, a long, eventful three year journey reaching another milestone. And, always, when one meeting with this man ends, the promise of another one shines in my future. NO one miss any signals, I would miss that man! The train that now stands on my left is train 314 with a departure time of 2:20 pm according to the most recent Metrolink schedule. Has that much time passed already? The time stamp on Glenn’s picture says 1:42 and the time stamps on the two combined pictures say 1:43 and 1:44 pm. A half hour has passed without me knowing it. I still stand holding my phone supremely understanding that I have snapped the picture of someone who has run Santa Fe freights, Amtrak passenger trains including the Starlight and Southwest Chiefs 4 and 3, and any other trains I don’t know about yet. “Glenn has worked everywhere,” says the twenty year veteran of the railroad, the conductor on train 684 that carries me back to Fullerton. Her train arrives shortly after 314 and I’m more than happy to get on it. It’s almost a relief to discover that I’m hungry. Starving is more like it! The trip back to Fullerton is made in a relatively empty cab car, both of seats and passengers. It seems that many of the seats have been removed from some of the cab cars to make room for the wheelchair. But, Tammy says, she doesn’t get many people who require this accommodation. This is meant for the Lancaster line. Yes, we’ve had a few of those today. Sitting here, I notice she sits to my left, the scanner gives her away. I ask her if she’ll see Glenn today. “He’s out in Lancaster, I won’t see him today,” she explains helpfully. I smile. I know where he is. I explain that I have something to give him and forgot to do it in the preoccupation with walking with him and getting the pictures. In fact, putting together this small token of gratitude has consumed most of my return trip from Lancaster. I’ve sorted through the bells and keys on my bag and extracted a colorful flexible piece of thread or wire formerly holding a Redoxx dog tag and attached two silver bells on a small key ring and one inch and a half brass bell with gold polish and six points round its smooth circumference. This task has occupied my time through the entire event of this trip. I think I know Glenn well enough now to give him something that comes from my heart even if I’m the one who understands how important it is to me. “Glenn is my hero,” I tell Tammy, extending the object to her. She takes it. “Glenn is everybody’s hero,” she says now, as the radio crackles and someone announces some now unremembered signal or other detail of the railroad journey between Los Angeles and fullerton. She is a very friendly person. She tells me Jerry runs this train and she also tells me where James the other engineer I’ve met on my journey during the last four years, is. I don’t communicate with all of them, though I do have some phone numbers. All in good time. The train approaches the platform and as I get down from my spot I am gratified. Yes, Glenn, I came to L.A. to ride the slow and poky and it was worth every minute. The trip today has been worth every anxious, hand clenching, nail biting moment. I didn’t bite my nails, but my hands were definitely in the right place. 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!
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Copyright © 2013 Shelley J Alongi |