Metrolink111: The Place Of Escape
Shelley J Alongi

 

The significance of a Smile

There is one thing that stands out to me on Rob Sanchez’s memorial page and that is his smile. You know I’m on a one woman crusade to hang a memorial plaque for him, somewhere. A smile is usually something that someone remembers, I think sometimes because we don’t’ see a lot of them or sometimes the only thing we might see in passing is someone’s face, especially if it’s looking at you from behind a window in the cab of a locomotive. There aren’t a lot of opportunities it seems to jump down and say hello if you’re so inclined to do so when you’re on a tight Metrolink schedule, so you might remember a smile. Rob seems to have smiled a lot, but he also seems to have smiled outside the cab, too, and I think, at least on the memorial page, that is what people remember about him. When I was on my trip to Santa Barbara and I picked Dennis’s brain about locomotive specifications I thought that perhaps Rob Sanchez may have fallen into that category, someone who might really share that kind of information about trains with someone who was interested. I deduce this particular assumption from one of the writers on the memorial page who said that Rob taught him a lot about trains during one particular trip on the coast Starlight. The person who mentions the trip said that he met Rob nine years ago, and if that was the only time he met him it leaves a powerful impression. We don’t’ know if the relationship continued or not, but we are told that Rob shared information about trains.

You might wonder what a smile and information about trains might have to do with my weekend at the fullerton train station, but if you did wonder that, it probably means you haven’t been following my story, which is in itself, just fine. It presents to you the opportunity of going back and reading about my journey to railfanhood if you’re so inclined. Discovering the roots of my fascination with trains is something you may enjoy doing, but for here and for now, you’re reading this essay and I’m about to explain what all of that has to do with the fullerton train station.

It may be that the only real connection that Rob Sanchez’s smile has with any of it this weekend at least is that I smiled a great deal of the time I was at the station on Friday and Saturday.

I spent a lot of time waving, walking up and down the platform to get a different perspective on the passing of the trains, and a lot of time on the patio chatting it up with the fans. The weekend fans were dominated by one man talking about a Big Boy, a Union Pacific engine, a one man conversation which I could hear all the way on the other side of the platform directly facing track 3. On Saturday I met my sister and the girls, Steve, and Millie just to see them get on the train and to say hello to my nieces. We sat in one of the little awnings protecting ourselves from the sun which beat fiercely that morning. We took pictures of the girls sitting on the benches, standing by the sign, and waved as they got on the train for San Juan Capistrano. As they left, I pulled out my book and my sun block and got to work preparing for a morning at the station. Breakfast, ice-cream, bottled water, I ate and drank in silence, in sunshine, and then went on my journey for a better place to watch trains.

My usual spot by the railroad tracks was bathed in warm sunshine, a light breeze caressed our faces and hands, bags, books, cell phones, the wrought iron bench occupied by two college girls, one texting, the other looking through the pages of a book, both of them talking about taking a child development class and how much reading they have to complete. I remember those days, days of reading books that were of no interest to me, some that were, and mainly just getting through all that information, days, that, surprisingly, I don’t miss at all. Weeks before the Chatsworth accident that now is demanding all my academic prowess, I decided to give up my own pursuit of a Masters degree, simply because I didn’t want to spend any more time reading things that I had finally decided weren’t interesting to me. Lilian, in July, at our meeting at Starbucks, told me I could get a Masters in train wrecks. I’m sure I could, but for here and for now, there is only one train wreck that interests me, and only one person’s story that I want to remember, and only one person’s face I want to imagine seconds before that fateful collision, whatever its’ cause. I’ve discussed before that to concentrate on any of the other stories would simply be too overwhelming. I suppose, as I told Denis and Jill on the Wine Lovers Daylight train last weekend, I am drawn to controversial subjects. This one currently is still too fresh for anyone to remember the engineer with any degree of kindness. I’ll take it. Bring it on. This is my kind of story. And it’s all because of a roast beef sandwich with no tomato, and a smile.

An announcement comes over the public address system informing us that the Amtrak train headed for Santa Barbara is running approximately twenty-five minutes late. The two college girls get up and we say goodbye, I wish them luck getting to Moor Park. Moor Park has a lot of interesting architecture I tell them, something I picked up from some observations from the Wine Lovers train. They respond that they’ve never been to Moor Park but the conversation does not proceed any further.

The Accident connection

Shortly after the two college girls leave I get up in search of another spot, determined to finish the seventh volume of my Braille edition of Santa Fe: The Railroad that Built an Empire. Ultimately, I don’t achieve that goal today but I do have fun and that’s the most important thing to occur this weekend, the overwhelming sense of fun. I go further down to the east end of the tracks where the benches are and find a spot that at first seems shady but then becomes sunny as the sun moves position. A guy sitting on the next bench asks me if I want to get out of the sun and so he tells me that there is an awning over that bench. I recognize the location of this bench and sit there now, protected from the sun, enjoying the warm day, waiting for the trains, and reading.

Soon a freight approaches, long, impressive, deadly, and I jump up, excited, inspired by my recent bouts of waving. This week has been my final journey into waving at engineers, or at least getting over the aching shyness of my journey, and so I jump up an wave and employ the gesture that I’ve been taught signals the engineer to blow the horn. This information, the raising of the arm, the pulling of your hand into a fist and the motion downward as if pulling on a cord signals the engineer or trucker that you would like it if they would blow the horn. This is not something that I’ve thought about, and my father teaches me this gesture when I ask him if people wave at truckers like they wave at trains. I decide, smiling, to use this gesture and am overwhelmed with joy when I get a response. I jump up and smile again, thanking the obliging engineer from the bottom of my heart. It sounds silly, but that’s fine, because I’ve been a bit reluctant to do that particular gesture, though I’ve certainly been waving at the last Orange county Metrolink train that passes through Fullerton at 7:04 in the evening.

I’ve discovered something lately about trains. You might remember that at the beginning of my journey I would go to the patio, order my double cheese burger, something I still do on occasion, and sit, wondering about engineers and their names, their stories, just wanting to be with trains. I didn’t need to interact with them; I only needed to be with them. I did this to deal with my grief about the death of Rob Sanchez that engineer. As time progressed I found myself in the group of fans on the patio talking to them about trains, sometimes the accident, sometimes train television shows, trips, or anything else.

Lately, however, my experience with trains has been different. Perhaps it is because I have begun to meet people who knew Rob Sanchez, so my focus is on letting them tell me Rob’s story. Perhaps since I’m making the human connection I can concentrate my intellectual skills on learning more about the trains. It may just be that the people I’ve met during my journey to railfanhood are interesting and willing to indulge my conversations about Chatsworth and also to discuss train specs with me. My experience with trains may also be different because when I’m interested in something I like to be where the action is, I like to meet people who run the trains because they are the ones who know the most about how to operate them. The fan can be an armchair strategist. An administrator can have experience with running trains. The administrator is making thee rules and dealing with paper work and hopefully on the side of those who operate the trains. It’s like the difference that sometimes exists between leadership and management and the ones doing the work. Leadership wants something, managers try to enforce it and the laborers say hey this will or won’t work. It’s probably the same thing. Since I’m interested in trains I want to know from the people who run the trains how it is, I want t knew people who run the locomotives. Some say I’m just obsessed with the engineers. Maybe I’m interested in the engineers now, or at least interacting with them because it was an engineer that got me interested in trains. Maybe it was the image of that engineer’s eyes that got me interested in trains. I’d had other opportunities to be interested in them but it wasn’t till two trains collided that I sat up and paid attention. The awful twist to this is that if a man had not missed a red light and hit another train we might not be having this conversation, but then, again, who’s to say. If it hadn’t been that accident that started the whole experience, it may very well have been something else.

Today sitting on the bench and then jumping up and waving animatedly makes me know that I’ve entered the second phase of my interest: the interaction stage. Yes I still think of Rob Sanchez, yes, absolutely. But now I go to the station and am less shy about waving at the engineers or train crews as a whole. Heck, until they change his schedule, I know the name of one Metrolink engineer.

Train 608

The name of that metrolink engineer or my waving at him brings me to another reason why being at the station is fun. I do like to wave at that engineer on Train 608 Orange county line because one day less than two weeks ago an engineer and conductor made my day by heeding the request of their office employee and holding up a train for me. They could have said no way and left me to take the Amtrak train, but they didn’t. they waited. It gave me a connection with another engineer only if I accidentally learned his name and only if this engineer who could have kicked that train into gear and said no way baby find your own way home said he would wait. I was wanting to wave at an engineer and so now I had the perfect excuse. Every chance I get when I’m at the station that late I go out of my way to walk to that side of the tracks and wave. Friday I stand there and someone asks me if I’m waiting for the train. No, I say, I’m waiting to wave at the engineer. I stand there in my own private world imagining that he sees me. Two days earlier he had asked Curt if we wanted to get on the train so I know he sees me. Now I stand there waiting and here comes the train. I stand a little back from the tracks, not waning to be conspicuous, but at least wanting to be noticed and wave and of course smile. I feel like a child at this point. I could probably make up a story about that engineer. It’s funny he does have the same name as the character in my railroad engineer story, but I know nothing about him, of course. What I do know is that he watches us and smiles from his window, not very vocal, Curt says, but friendly. That will do for now. I’ll take it.

All around me people get off the train, pulling their bags, rushing by to the parking lot which is right behind us, and others get on the train. The engine breathes, air hisses, he might be adjusting the air pressure I don’t’ know how all that works, and I’m still waving. Soon the bell sounds and I wave again. They’re off but not before a man dressed in a suit and tie asks me if I want on the train. No, I explain again, I don’t want on the train, I want to stand here in my own private kind of sanctuary waving at an engineer who cares or doesn’t care, right now it doesn’t matter to me. Apparently that engineer recognized me two days earlier and he probably does now. I imagine he says hi to me but probably not. I’ll just keep waving when I can and see if I ever get any response. If not, it’s find because I’ve started to come out of my shell and interact with engineers.

On Thursday of this week I’m planning to be on train 608 from L.A. to Fullerton because I’m going out to Chatsworth again to talk to two people about rob Sanchez and get some of chris’s coffee. On my way home I’ll hop Glen’s train and see if either of them recognize me. If they don’t that will be fine, I’ll keep waving and saying hello. I’ll tell you of course what happens at chatsworth.

Have Mercy

“We saw you climb up the ladder of that cab,” says one of the fans on the patio. Me? Now I’m too shy for that. Climbing up into the cab of a locomotive would be beyond me and there wouldn’t be enough time. Where did Rob think he was going to get time for someone to climb into the locomotive on a train’s busy schedule? Only he would know that but now I stand on the patio deflecting the teases of the rail fans who say I’m there to hook up with the engineer, make a lifelong connection, or dig for gold. Ha, you’ll have to read another essay about that one. I like being teased about waving at the engineers. ON Friday before I wave at Glen I walk along the platform having arrived early, about 4:45, and try to find the best spot to observe the trains. Part of the reason I explore the station is because I need to learn the location of the elevator and the stairs without someone trying to help me locate them so that I know where they are on Saturday and so I can more easily get to the other side to wave at westbound trains that stop at the bridge. An eastbound metrolink train pulls up, I wave, it goes on its way.

“Shelley” someone calls me. Jose and Dennis set up the chairs for the bands and so I struggle to find the opening to the patio. A woman shows it to me and Larry is sitting there calling me.

“You’re being called to the cab of a metrolink train,” he says over the throbbing of a big freight train that has been sitting there for at least two hours on track two while Amtrak and Metrolink trains come in and out of the station.

“No I’m not,” I say. “I’m not being called to the cab of a metrolink train.”

“Hey baby,” he says on another day as I come back from waving at Glen. “I can’t forget you. I’m a Metrolink engineer.”

Metrolink engineer? Ok what about all the freight engineers or the Amtrak engineers? Maybe it’s just easier to wave at the Metrolink engineers. Who knows. He always just says I’m waving at the Metrolink engineers.

“I can’t forget you,” one of them says in his teasing role. Just like I can’t forget one Metrolink engineer. It’s all fun and I laugh a lot, something I need to do lately because my life is kind of stressful.

I say that my interaction with trains is different now because there is something going on in my life right now that is stressing me out. It’s a problem a long time in the making and it will work itself out but while I think of ways to solve it I find myself escaping to the trains for help. Concentrating on making a plaque for a Metrolink engineer, waving at all of them, talking to railfans, getting lessons on trains, all help me to deal with this one problem. I know god will help me solve the problem but of here and now, the trains the engineers, the teasing, and the specs are my escape. I’ll enjoy them and heck maybe I’ll learn the names of some more engineers. Would I want to know any of these people? Probably. But for now I’ll just wave and learn their names.
 

 

 

Copyright © 2009 Shelley J Alongi
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