Metrolink111: Shaking Hands With The Engineer
Shelley J Alongi

 

Richard might be handing out candy on the Metrolink607 today but I get one better! I get to shake hands with its engineer.

Metrolink 607, after its share of yellow and red signals between Fullerton and Los Angeles pulls into L.A. Union station at 8:40 AM, right on time, giving me 23 minutes to catch the Metrolink403 to San Bernardino. The blue and white engine with its dirt streaks and glass window, its soft, welcoming bell tucked neatly under its frame inches its way in, the three passenger cars falling obediently in line on track 7. It must be my lucky number.

It has been an eventful morning already. I arrive at Fullerton station to wait for my morning ride on Glen�s train, talk to some fans I know, Pat who carries a walking cane, another who has a small dog, all of whom are cold, and all of whom have opinions about the passengers carrying multi-colored and multiple bags through the station, across the bridge and through the woods to catch the Amtrak Pacific Surf liner to San Diego.

I sit, enjoying my three egg breakfast, complete with sausage, potatoes and sour dough toast, topped off by orange spiced hot tea. I won�t touch the station�s coffee. It is bad on any day of the week and so I stick with something I know and love: hot tea. Today the tea compliments the crisp fall chill that touches all of us with its cool fingers. This early on a southern California morning at a train station tucked quietly into an industrial and residential section of Orange County and that has seen the rise of fall of Fullerton packing houses since the turn of the century, the sun still sleeps, rising slowly in the distance only as the morning progresses, its shadows creeping across the sky, marking the passage of time. I will, in about one hour, make my way to the first passenger car of Metrolink607 to sit with Richard the conductor and listen to Glen, my favorite Metrolink engineer, call out signals, blow that horn at railroad crossings, and inch us ever closer to our hectic day. Mine will not be hectic. Mine will be full of promise. Today is the day for a meeting with my very own train engineer, a trip to a station I�ve never seen, and a meeting with a woman who owns a sandwich shop out there.

�If anyone wants candy and a sugar buzz before work,� says Richard the conductor, holding a bag out t me, �please feel free to stop by the front of the train.�

I take my share of candy, a Hershey�s bar, a Mounds Almond Joy and tuck it into my bright yellow railroad bag snuggled neatly at my feet.

Back on track 7 as passengers quickly exit and Richard tells us all where our trains await, I hang back in the first row of seats, biding my time. Quietly I approach the man who first handed Glen my letter so many weeks ago and in somewhat of a frantic, calm tone inform him that I need to ask him a question. �what was that?� he asks as he finishes directing another passenger somewhere in the vast confines of L.A. Union station.

�I was talking to Glen last night,� I tell him, �and I think he said I could meet him. But I�m not sure.�
�Well have a seat he�ll be down here in a minute.�
Meekly I tuck myself into the seat by the exit, the seat I will not take in transit because I�d rather be much more comfortable with a tray table and a conversation partner. Today I don�t desire conversation. I don�t feel particularly ambivalent toward anyone trying to help me. I just feel like sitting here and waiting. The train grows quiet. I�m not as nervous as I expected I would be. Of course I�ve never thought I�d be sitting in the hallway of a passenger car waiting for a locomotive engineer. Struck into silence, amazingly calm for someone who has wanted to meet a locomotive engineer for a year I indulge myself in the quiet refuge of a train at the busiest depot for miles. . My nicely manicured, red polished hands rest quietly in my lap, confident in their readiness for such a royal occasion.

�Good morning.�
A pleasantly gruff voice breaks into my meditations, my anticipation, drawing me back with its power to the side of an engine at fullerton. Its cheerful timbre evokes memories of that first utterance when it shoed away a helpful passenger: �she likes trains!� Ah yes! Ah it is my Glen, my very own locomotive engineer. The vocal inflection when he calls approach clear or red or yellow or Hobart, etc on the radio doesn�t have that same rough-edge quality, but they�re both glen, and I�ll take them. I sit there for a moment not quite sure how to respond, only conscious that he stands here right in front of me.

�There you are,� I say, after all that time, nothing profound, just a simple acknowledgement of his presence.

�Where are you going today?� Glen asks almost in a continuation of our cab to ground exchanges.
�I�m going out to San Bernardino to meet a lady who called at work and she owns a restaurant and she told me if I was ever out this way to come and see her so I did.�

�That�s cool,� says the fifty-something engineer, not a phrase I would expect from him, but then I didn�t expect �right on� either when I told him it was nice to see him. He may say a lot of things I don�t� expect him to say. He�s my glen full of surprises. I�m sure he has a lifetime of surprises. For now, the surprise is a locomotive engineer and a star-struck middle-aged adolescent infatuated with the power of the train standing here in arms length of each other. It would be inappropriate to stare, but I think if I could I would. And who knows. Maybe, despite what social etiquette says about it, I am staring.

I turn toward the door not really wanting to go.

�That�s a nice ride,� says Glen, standing there, engaging me from behind those glasses.

Well I�ve been up since 3:30 this morning Mr. Train Engineer, maybe as early as you�ve been, and I think that part of that nice ride is going to be spent getting some shut-eye.

A quick assessment of his height says he�s probably about five feet nine or ten inches tall doesn�t seem any taller than that. But I�m not standing right next to him so it�s not easy to really tell. Somehow I�m standing by the door. I guess I don�t know what to say. What do you say to someone you admire?

�Don�t you need to wait for Richard?� he asks me.

Richard has mercifully, conveniently, or just out of necessity, disappeared, leaving me alone with my first out of cab experience with this engineer.

Glen�s question surprises me. I told you glen was full of surprises. He cant� even say ten words and he�s surprising me.

�For what??
To put down the ramp.�

I�m a little bit confused. The ramp? We are in the first passenger car tucked behind the cab car where Glen has been sitting controlling the train. The wheelchair ramp is lowered here in case one requires it. I don�t need it but I want to sit with Richard the conductor to hear Glen call the signals. This is where Andy the metrolink agent tells me last night I should sit and it turns out to be a good place because here�s glen.
I stand on the first step, I take my cane and gage the depth between the second stair and the concrete pathway. . I don�t� think there�s a big difference but maybe we�re on a level that isn�t quite flush with the train and there�s a steeper step and so it wouldn�t do to fall into an empty space when the person you�ve been trying to talk to is standing there watching. My Lord, not after he rescued me from helpful passengers, we don�t� need that. I gage the distance as the usual and position myself for the detrain.
�It�s not that far,� I say.
�There�re two steps.�
I know that, Glen, I�ve only been jumping off trains for a year, well, maybe longer if you count all my other trips but in the last year they�ve just become more emotional.
Glen is smart, though. He doesn�t ruin my high god-like opinion of him by reaching out to help me down the stairs. The engineer unlike everyone else seems to respect my personal space. He�s just endeared himself to me, forever; as if he hadn�t already done that anyway.
�It�s nice to meet you,� I say, standing there, once again looking up at him. This is more comfortable. I�m used to looking up and smiling like a starry-eyed girl. I extend my manicured hand to him, its red nails cheerful on this happy occasion.
�It�s been a pleasure,� says my latest human connection with the power of the trains. His handshake is brief and powerful.
It�s been a pleasure? Oh no, sir, the pleasure has been all mine. Crossing the bridge everyday I can make it to stand shyly in the distance and wave and hope you see me, take the merciless teasing from the people on the patio, climb across the bridge again, stand near the track, look down, spring into action like a cat at the approach of the bell, following the bell, bringing Janice over and her showing me where you are, tracing the safety line, fending off helpful passengers, and then that glorious moment when you rescue me from one and understate my attachment to trains; fulfilling my desire to meet an engineer. As it turns out, you�re not just any engineer. Twice now I�ve heard your conductor mention that you�re a smart engineer. I had to meet one that has years of vast experience? No, Glen, if you have had the pleasure of watching the antics of a completely fascinated middle-aged adolescent, then I�m right behind you and the pleasure is all mine. Indeed! It means much more to me than you�ll ever be able to comprehend and it�s not over yet. Don�t change a thing, sweet engineer. This is perfect! The pleasure is all mine.

Then he does something that strengthens my endearment.
�Where�s track 6?� I ask him. Track 6 is the location of train 403.
�To the right,� he says. He thinks about it for a minute. �Behind the train.�
Perfect! An orientation point! I cant� remember the last person who actually gave me something to orient myself with.
�The next track over.�
I can�t remember what I said except the �See you in Fullerton� and then, very quietly, �Bye, Glen.�
�Bye,� is the response, and then I turn and make my way toward the train. He gives me good directions! Behind the train, to the right, someone finds me and directs me to the train but with that direction I could have done it on my own.
Now, meeting the engineer, I�m doubly hooked! It�s the engineer�s fault! It always is!

Once again I stand at the edge of the safety line waiting for Metrolink 608, the return trip for Glen and Richard, the ending of a perfect train day, at least for me.

�It�s coming, Shelley,� one of the fans across the tracks informs me.

The bell sounds quietly, gently, bringing me one step closer to a final moment with my engineer for the day. It is Friday. It is time for both of us to go home and go to bed. It has, probably for both of us, in different ways, been a long and hopefully for Glen, a happy day. My day has been stunningly perfect!

I dance across the platform, following the bell. Today I�ve missed it a little bit and I can imagine the engineer�s eyes seeing me and him thinking �Race you!� as I do a fast two step to the right to line myself up with the bell. Glen has not beaten me today. Here I am, standing right under his window.

�Hello,� calls my sweet train engineer, �did you have fun in San Bernardino?�

�Hello,� I respond, walking confidently up to the train, as if I�ve done this so many times before, quietly coming to him and resting my hand under his door.
�I got back on the 608.�

�You mean the 606?� corrects my engineer.

�yeah, the 606.�
I turn my head from where I imagine his eyes might be taking in my red shirt, no yellow bag, and my laughing face. Of course I meant the 606. That was a quiet trip; a nice conversation with a woman whose boyfriend is sick and won�t admit it or something, a passing mention of attending Cal State fullerton, and the fact that we both worked or work for Disney. Remind me the next time I take any train back from Los Angeles not to sit in the last car of the train, because it is a long walk to the front of the train, and mainly, on a good day, I want to sit behind the engine. But now, the trip on the 606 is over and here I am talking to Glen, the engineer on the 608.

�Yeah,� I say.

My hand caresses that little spot, cleaning off the dirt, blessing Glen�s train with a hand that has undergone preparation for such a ritual. I lightly touch it, feeling this time some sort of engraving, or maybe it is a dirt streak.

�I used to work out of San Bernardino all the time,� he informs me, in a talkative mood. �I worked the Santa Fe for sixteen years.�

�Freight?�

Of course freights, Shelly, I think.

�Yeah.�

�That�s cool, Glen,� I breathe. It is cool. All that power in Glen�s hands, all that mighty machine hurtling across the rails, carrying lumber or fruit, or stockings; televisions, computer chips, and maybe something I can�t even imagine.

Glen falls silent. I can�t have that.

�Are you working tomorrow?� I Ask.

�Maybe.�

�I work tomorrow.�

This is the most personal information I�ve given him.

�Oh they�ve got you working tomorrow?�

�yeah.�

�Where do you work?�

I tell him where I work.

�Oh,� he says. Another moment of silence, or maybe not even a half a second.

�We�ve got a highball we�ve got to go.�

�Okay,� I say. My week with glen has ended, but not before I say �Have a good weekend!� He sounds the bell, and I bless the train, perhaps, says Lilian Rob Sanchez�s friend, giving good luck to both it and the engineer. Another week has ended and I am happy.

Two train enthusiasts, one who runs one and one who wants to know all about one, are together and part again, on their way to separate lives. But today in L.A. and maybe starting back on September 11 a year after the Chatsworth accident, a dream spawned from that accident begins to come true. Today I�ve made another powerful connection. Today Richard might have been handing candy out on the 608, but I got one better. I got to shake hands with its engineer.

 

 

Copyright © 2009 Shelley J Alongi
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"