Conversations With Glenn: Engineer Responsibility “Don’t stress. Just deal with it.” This man who has communicated with me out of his locomotive cab window, it does take effort to do that, gives me good advice and tells me not to stress. “I will,” I say. “I will absolutely deal with it. Glenn you’re awesome.” I laugh. “You’re the best.” Do I sound egotistical if I say I think he likes it? Who tells him he’s the best at anything? I don’t’ know. “I’ll be talking to you again,” he says now, reminiscent of that day in January when he said “we’ll talk again.” We have talked again, sometimes he has given me time and sometimes he hasn’t. “Absolutely,” I say. “thank you. You take care of those people out there,” I say. I know he will. “Bye, Glenn.” “Bye,” he says and it’s over. It’s been the thing I’ve needed amid the concern about the court case, the attorney, the money. None of these problems have been solved but I will deal with them, not only because I have to, but because glen told me to. He is the best. He’s responsible. He wants me to be the same way. I will, my sweet magical Glenn, promise to be responsible, and I’ll promise to deal with it. Today, Saturday August 21, has been a bit of a rocky morning if only in my head. Sitting and looking at my computer screen, reading an email from the attorney who, it seems, after a few days of discussion and going over some hard, cold options, will help me, I am paralyzed as much as I ever am by thinking. Analysis gets me into trouble, and maybe if I didn’t’ analyze so much I would spend less time stressing about things. No matter. What will be will be and so I finally decide, sitting there in the warm apartment with Rob Sanchez’s picture hanging over my computer, that it’s time to talk to Glenn. I’ve texted him earlier to say I would call him because I had another question to prepare for my speech on Saturday August 28. As of this writing I Haven’t written a single word. I will, probably between phone calls this week if we are slow, and if not, I’ll be burning the midnight oil. Robert the attorney told us once sitting by the tracks that he was going to burn the midnight oil. Now it may be my turn. But for here and for now I’m not burning anything. The only thing burning is this quest to talk to my favorite engineer. Today, time is my friend, Glenn, whose name by the way I finally learn is spelled with two ns, is home. “Hello,” I say very surprised right in the middle of telling myself I won’t be nervous. He answers the phone with his usual “yeah” I never quite know what he’s thinking when he says that. It’s just glen. I can’t even remember my response, I was so surprised. Here he is, and things sound calm. “What’s up,” it’s his rough, gravelly, quiet voice, I don’t hear any frantic females arguing. I do hear birds chirping. Today I don’t ask him where he is. He’s not brushing his teeth. Maybe he’s just sitting in a chair, talking. I do my usual when I’m on the phone, when I[m on the phone with an important person, like Timothy McVeigh federal prosecutor Joseph Hartzler three years ago, or glen when I’m trying to sort out misunderstandings, or just listen to him, I pace back and forth, probably wearing a hole in the carpet of my living room. He has asked his usual question. “Well, I’m stressed,” I start. “I’m going to court next week over money and in the middle of all that I have to give a speech, that’s what’s really up.” glen is quiet for a moment, his usual response when he’s thinking. “I don’t know if that’s a good combo or not,” he finally says, it’s classic extroverted Glenn. I don’t really want to tell him the story. If I did I might cry and besides I want to ask him about the train. I call him to talk about the train not to tell him my troubles although sometimes I’m tempted. “Well,” I explain, “I’m less stressed about going to court than I am about talking to the engineers but I am stressed but it’s all good.” I want him to know that I’m okay. “Yeah?” he says. “My 608 left,” I say. “He’s probably going somewhere else but I don’t know. I haven’t been to the station in a while because I’m working later shifts.” He waits. He doesn’t seem in a hurry to go. I ask him if he has time. He seems to have time. He doesn’t say no. It seems like he does because he will usually let me know if he doesn’t have time. I almost don’t know how to take this reaction. He is so quiet, so calm, not sleepy as if I’ve awakened my sweet engineer, just quiet, just relaxed. Maybe for once my magical petulant Glenn has somewhat of a relaxing day. He’s not taking safety classes for Amtrak, he’s not arguing with his wife, he’s not half asleep on a holiday, he’s just here, with me, with the sound of two birds in the background, here to comfort a train ravaged engineer girl. “Well I do have a question for my speech,” I refresh his memory. “It’s something I’ve been curious about. I have other questions about signals,” I explain, “but that’s for later. What I’m curious about is what engineers do on their shifts. I know I called you once ad you had just climbed up into the engine and it was an hour before the train left L.A.” “Well,” he starts his explanation. I find Pearl sitting by the Christmas tree (yes it’s still up) and I sit down on the floor. The cat comes to me. I am comfortable. I am relaxed. I have my engineer and my cat. What’s missing is the ice-cream and the cookie but Glenn is better than all of that. Pearl wants to know what engineers do on their shifts, too. She curls up for the ride. Outside the light, summer air gentle with humidity wafts its way through the open window, warming to about 85 degrees. Someone wheels a laundry cart down the concrete path outside my window. “Well sometimes we have to move equipment if it’s five miles from the station,” he says. “We have to spot the train.” Spotting the train means putting it in position as much as I can gather from his conversation. “Andy the Metrolink agent told me once that you have to get warrants, like track assignments and where there might be speed restrictions, paper work.” Now I realize sitting on the floor that I am not nervous. I‘m talking to my engineer. How long has it taken to get to this point? I have progressed from the heart in my mouth girl calling the engineer on New Year’s Day and finding him half asleep and being so nervous I can hardly talk, to sitting on the floor with my cat on my lap asking what engineers do on their shifts, my heart calm, mind clear, words coming easily. “We get information like that, the speed restrictions, where track gangs are working, and then we have to confer with the conductor to make sure that we have the same information. We have forty-five minutes and sometimes it’s tight.” “So you have to move the trains and then make sure you have the same information. This brings up another question I have.” Pearl walks away, her sleek black and white body sliding away in the warmth, her interest focused on something else, probably food. “I was reading something and I haven’t found a very good explanation of it something called a familiarization route when you qualify for a run.” Am I saying all these things? Has spending so much time at the train station made me an expert? “what I was told is that when you qualify on a run you’re okay,” he says. “Is the familiarization route made up of things like learning where the signals are, where the stations are, things like that?” “You have to know where it’s flat; where you’re going up or down. You have to know where the signals are and run the train according to the signals.” “Yes that’s something I want to ask about but not today.” I keep expecting him to tell me that he has to go, but he doesn’t. “Okay this brings up something else I’ve wanted to ask you,” I push on bravely. “about when you come into the station. How far back can you see if people are standing on the platform?” This is a question I meant to ask him during our first conversation in January when he talked about Chatsworth. He answered it in a different way. Maybe today I can ask him about approaching the station.” He hesitates, not quite sure how to answer the question I think. “How far back can you see like from the last signal?” now I’m not sure. I rephrase the question. “What can you see? When?” He’s probably, I think, so used to running the train, to seeing what he sees when he sees it that he doesn’t think about this on a regular basis. I suppose it is natural. “What do you mean?” he asks. He’s so nice. Was there ever anyone nicer? How after forty years of dealing with people does he stay so nice. “What about other things,” I ask. “What do you do when you get to the station. I know you’re waiting for the highball but what do you do before that.” “We have to remember that there are people behind us. Some are more responsible than others. Sometimes it looks like we’re just sitting there kicking back,” he says, “but we’re not. You have to make sure you don’t knock them on their ass,” he is very blunt, “or if they’re sitting you don’t want to stand them up. then you have to look for your spot.” He’s talking about the markers he has to locate in order to line up the cab car whether it’s on the back or behind the engine with the wheelchair ramp. “And you’re looking for what’s going on for making sure that people aren’t too close to the train.” “People like me?” I want to know. I’ve been very close to the train; I stand behind the line when it approaches, but then I curl up against that cab. I haven’t done that with Carey’s or Bobby’s train, only with Glenn’s train. I’ve only curled up against that locomotive with him. Sometimes with bobby I’ll dance on the platform but most of the time I stand back. “People like you,” Glenn says. It’s wise, experienced Glenn, low, secure, gentle, maybe smiling, just a little. “Well, that ought to get me through five to seven minutes,” I say. “I’m giving a speech on how I got interested in engineers and what they do and I’ve lost contact with some of my engineers. Mostly because I have later shifts.” There was a railroad shuffle in the last two weeks. I haven’t seen Bobby. John was on the train on Thursday, and Friday I got there just after 608 left the station. “So you are it,” I say. “I hope you give a good speech,” he says. It seems like the tech talk is over. The birds chirp. “It sounds like the birds are in the background,” I say. “I have two of them.” “I know. I remember you told me.” This is gentle conversation. “Someday,” I say in a moment of candor, “I’m going to tell you how many came across the tracks to see you. The one guy who has been watching trains forty years he said he moved there to watch trains, even he came over to see who this engineer was. He used the excuse of seeing how the new construction was going. They have the platform down,” I explain, when he was there, “they haven’t laid the rail yet.” They are getting there, but it hasn’t been laid yet. We keep watching more and more progress, they’re working with the signals, installing them, but no rail. I don’t tell him all this. “So,” I continue, “when I went back over the tracks I said so what did you think and he said “”looks like a nice enough guy.”” All is quiet now. Pearl is long gone. She is most likely down for her afternoon nap. “I said, of course that’s what they look like up there.” “Well I’ve been at it forty years,” he says, not at all it seems bothered by my admission, “it has taken its toll.” “has it?” “Absolutely. You work seven days a week when I was on the Santa Fe.” I know that, of course. I’ve been listening to people tell stories about working freight lines for over a year. “There are some people on the patio,” I Say, “who are huge car buffs who wanted to know who they were looking for. You’re son races for Nascar right?” “He races for ASA,” he says. “Trucks.” Then he gives me the name of his son’s web site. I check it out later and it has Glenn’s email address. This is where I learned that his name is spelled with two ns. “Is there a picture on the web site?” I ask. “I don’t’ know,” he says. I remember now this is when we talk about the people on the patio wanting to come over and see the engineer. He doesn’t seem to mind that. I think he likes having a fan club. I am Glenn’s fan club. Not, I think, because he runs the train, just because he is a nice person. It’s good to know friendly people. He puts up with my curiosity, my text messages, my voicemails. Sunday at Disneyland I text him a question. “On the Disneyland rr who is your engineer friend?” Months ago, when Chris visited the station and Frances stole Glenn’s heart, he told us that he knew an engineer on the Disneyland railroad. I forgot to mention that in my journal and so on Sunday August 22 when Kimberly and I make another trip to Disneyland, I remember this and ask the question. It’s too noisy to call. I don’t think he’ll text me back, but lo and behold, he does! It’s funny, Kimberly can’ get the message to read, I can’t understand the text to speech, and while listening to it in the crowded steam train she figures out his name. Glenn has texted me the answer to my question. He likes me! He’s not afraid of me anymore! He’s not paranoid. He does know-how to text. See, I don’t bite, Mr. Number One Engineer! You are the best. “We are there. Have a good day,” I text. NO response. I don’t expect one but it is enough. Again, he has made my life! His first text wishing me a happy Easter makes my life! This time it’s really made! But that’s all after. Still it is Saturday and I am on the flor, listening, enjoying, relishing, remembering. Finally I’ve met someone who will answer my train questions. This is the first time I’ve ever really pursued my interest in something, the only engineer number that I have. I’m sure I’ll get more, but this is my special one. He is awesome. But before all this happens, we’re still talking about racing. “I remember you were going to convert a dodge to a Chevy or something?” “We didn’t do that,” he said. “I spent money on other stuff.” I laugh. “That’s my problem. I spend money on other stuff.” “Well it costs a lot of money to work on the race truck.” “Are you still racing?” “There are races on Irwindale, Havisu, and Las Vegas. They might go to Las Vegas but I have a new grand son and it’s hot in Las Vegas. They don’t know if he can hang with it.” “Oh you do have a grandson?” I am excited. “How old is he?” “Two months.” “How many does that make?” “Just the one,” he says. So my engineer is a grandfather now. That’s cool. I don’t even ask the baby’s name. I do ask something else. If he’s told me this much maybe he’ll answer some other questions. “What’s your wife’s name, if you don’t mind me asking?” He’s quiet. “Karen,” he says cheerily now. “And I have a daughter, Kara, and two sons, Shawn and Travis.” I’ve known he has three kids, of course. Mo told me this months ago but I wanted to figure out for myself what their names are. “Karen is your wife and Kara is your daughter?” I ask again. “Yeah.” He spells Kara’s name. “really? That’s my best friend’s daughter’s name; the one whose kids I helped raise. Her name is Kara.” “Yeah?” Somehow, it just seems to happen easily, I ask about his route and his schedule. He works Monday through Friday only, he’s still on the Lancaster line, he comes home on Friday night and gets caught up on things and stays at the Townhouse in Lancaster, not the super 8. So there go all the jokes about having a key to the Super 8. Oh well the idea is the same. Glenn, you’ve just ruined the teasing on the patio but when I tell them all this they’ll think of more things to tease me about. “Which one does the racing?” “Shawn.” And then, of course, somehow, we have to talk about the dogs. “We have six of them.” “Six?” He tells me their names. I can only remember two of them, Dutch an bubbles. Somehow I don’t want him to recite all the cats names. And I don’t ask the birds’ names. Oh my. I can’t believe the gold I’ve struck today. “You’re lucky you found Glenn,” my friend Kimberly says on Sunday August 22. I really did find the best, first. “Well, I would love to chat with you for hours,” I say, knowing I could. I probably should but I just think that I should go now. I can’t take all his time. He does have a family. Maybe he’s just relaxing today. Maybe he just has Time to talk. “Yes I should get busy. Good luck on your speech.” “Thanks.” I explain the purpose of the speech. “Our club is having an evaluation contest where you tell one person how they did on the speech and so I volunteered to be the test speaker.” “Good luck on that.” Glenn always wishes me luck. “Don’t stress,” he now says, it’s his way of saying he carrs, I think. “Just deal with it.” This man who has communicated with me out of his locomotive cab window, it does take effort to do that, gives me good advice and tells me not to stress. Is he talking about the speech or the court? I think both. “I will,” I say. “I will absolutely deal with it. Glenn you’re awesome.” I laugh. “You’re the best.” Do I sound egotistical if I say I think he likes it? Who tells him he’s the best at anything? I don’t’ know. “I’ll be talking to you again,” he says now, reminiscent of that day in January when he said “we’ll talk again.” We have talked again, sometimes he has given me time and sometimes he hasn’t. “Absolutely,” I say. “thank you. You take care of those people out there,” I say. I know he will. “Bye, Glenn.” “Bye,” he says and it’s over. It’s been the thing I’ve needed amid the concern about the court case, the attorney, the money. None of these problems have been solved but I will deal with them, not only because I have to, but because glen told me to. He is the best. He’s responsible. He wants me to be the same way. I will, my sweet magical Glenn, promise to be responsible, and I’ll promise to deal with it.
Copyright © 2010 Shelley J Alongi |