She Likes Trains: Engineer Birthday Wishes The night ends with me calling a cab about forty-five minutes after Dave calls it a night. It’s only been the two of us tonight after Kathy leaves for home. Scooter has been around here, somewhere, but I miss him. No Valerie, no blankets under benches where homeless think they can store them. The smell of wet dog disappears. The trains come through slowly, but surely. Life maintains its rhythm on this July 12, the start of my forty-sixth year of life. I am happy! I have made new friends and seen all my engineers. I walk out to my cab and he remembers me. We get home with no problem and as I walk through my gate and reach for my keys, the only thing I can think is it gets better from here. You could say this trip to the train station started when I left a text for Glenn on Sunday July 8, four days before my birthday. At this writing there are twenty-two minutes left in my forty-sixth birthday. Something in the back of my mind says Rob Sanchez was 46 when he died; maybe it was appropriate that I spent my evening at the station. We didn’t talk about Chatsworth: we talked about everything but trains, it seemed; cats, spiders, physical woes, old geezer issues. I learned of another death within our circle, and saw Bob, the ring leader. And got birthday wishes from everyone, including my engineers. The text message I sent to Glenn reads: Hi! Hope all is well. Working my birthday on Thursday. First job going ok. Second job has me buried. Miss my trains; will probably go see all my rr guys on Thursday, my present. You're still the best one. Take care, stay safe. Ring my favorite bell! :): So, all my engineers, ring my favorite bell. I was wrong about one thing: I wasn’t working Thursday. The week got off to a shaky start when I got a message to call work because my days off were Thursday and Friday, not Monday and Tuesday. I can’t believe it. My future with Disney is uncertain, though I’m certain I’ll be moving on, hopefully on my own volition and so I’m making plans for that. However, my life never goes as I plan it: it usually turns out better than I plan it. Whenever something happens to me that seems frought with peril I like to say: “It gets better from here.” It was great tonight, that’ for sure. Quiet, low key, but time spent among friends, and even met some new ones. So, I wasn’t working Thursday, but I still wanted to get down to see all my rr guys. And, maybe, it all started whenI got this message fromGlenn, two days later. “Well, happy birthday. How old ru gonna be. 25, 26, 27. Silly, Glenn, last year he asked me if I was going to be twenty-eight? Not even close. Well, twenty-six not quite twice. Almost there, just not quite yet. My response: I am 25 26 27 all at once. Thanks, silly. The rest escapes me now, my phone won’t save the messages. Sometimes I email from my computer andhtose I have, but Glenn doesn’t text much, I can count them all on one hand, so I have a couple of them. He might text others, but he doesn’t text me a lot, which is fine, really. In any case, this starts the birthday celebration. Wednesday night, on a whim, not quite sure what I’m going to do, I end up at Stubricks Steak House, across from the station, and order their New York steak. I was impressed with their food the last time I came to the restaurant in early April. So, I figure what the heck? I’m going to start my birthday celebration early. I’ve eaten out most of the week, but tonight is special. Sitting down at the small narrow table I await my New York steak, potatoes, vegetables and salad with glee. It is good. I don’t mind dropping $35.00 and $40 on a meal, that’s a lot less than some other high priced resort restaurants I could mention, and it is my birthday and I don’t eat there often. But, to me their prices are within my personal limit when I have the money. I don’t drive, I don’t own a car, I love to eat. Tonight is no exception. I wonder, though, if the topper was the bananas foster dessert and the two young waitresses who came to my table and sang Happy Birthday. That was so much fun, it’s worth remembering. I smiled. I love my birthdays. As I get older, I appreciate them more. I made it to another year by the grace of God and a lot of support and perseverance, and fun. The meal ended, I walk to the station and take a spot at the east end of the platform. It is quiet. Larry the former oil executive joins us. We discuss jobs and honesty, benefits, and someone comes and shows him some pictures. Dave shows up, we discuss the floaters in his eye, Robert joins us, and the discussion turns to Victorville and who lives where. We watch a few trains, and I leave to take a bus home. The morning has seen me at Starbucks, being sung to by all the baristas and everyone in the house. Pretty amazing when all the coffee shop people sing to you, starts the day out right and it’s not even Thursday. But, it is fun. So, I’ve gotten two birthday treats today. Now, I return to jacks doughnuts, get doughnuts, yes, after ice-cream, and Diet Pepsi, and wait, reading the paper, catching the bus home and then working on a project I have to finish. All day, Thursday, I’ve wondered, just how am I going to do this? I decide to hop the bus, show up at the station by 5:00 and enjoy my evening. It’s an interesting day to say the least, the weather is muggy and cool, summer rain, large drops coming in five or ten minute intervals, allowing respite in order to dry, and get ready for the next wave. In the midst of all this, Bruce worries that Bob isn’t here. The clock has stopped, he thinks it’s 6:00. But, it’s only 5:00 and Bob, true to habit, arrives between 5:00 and 5:30. Between bites of a luscious double bacon cheese burger so bit I can hardly hold it, French fries, and a free fountain drink, I catch the phrases of conversation. A guy has been busy at the ford dealership, everyone is fixing their air conditioners. Bruce gives the run down on who’s late, who died on the law, and something about Esperanza. It is a relaxing evening, a nice continuance of a low key day. I’ve slept and read and fed the cats. Now, I am here, enjoying the comfortable weather. The struggle seems to be not getting my back wet, keeping under the umbrella that sits over the wrought iron table. I am accompanied tonight by the purple Gator bag from Redoxx. I think sometimes my train journey is as much about the bag as it is the trains. Finishing my meal and making my final greetings I head across the bridge. I remember standing here in the rain two years ago, texting. Then, the rain was colder, harder, coming to us from the north. Tonight, the rain is warmer, the breeze cool and muggy, the freights and the passenger trains arriving. A boy and a man stand on the bridge watching the trains. I make my way over to my first engineer, Carey. Standing at the line of poles that hold the lights for the station, not the railroad signals, I make my way to the approaching train. He spots the train with expert hands, I guess after thirty years you can do that successfully. I can’t even remember the last time I saw Carey. It wasn’t the last time I was at the station. I was here three weeks ago on a Saturday night just before starting a project for Cal State. Then I talked to Ed and Barbara, about insurance, jobs, and jokes. The event occurring the night I was last here was Dinner at the Depot for the historical society, the same people that put on railroad days. I remember the keyboard, people talking, bbq, and then everyone packing up and leaving. We sat on the patio, chatting, involved in our own private event. Now, tonight, I stand here, waiting. “It’s my birthday,” I tell Carey. “I came to see you.” “How sweet,” he says with surprise. Guess he liked that. “What are you going to do later on?” “Oh, just hang with trains,” I say. “NO date?” he says, something to that affect. “No. Just ahng with trains.” “Why not,” he wants to know about the date. Who knows. Just here hanging with the engineers and the trains and the rail guys, here on my birthday, drinking my Diet Coke, holding my purple carry-on bag with two more Diet sodas for the evening. The grip is not with me tonight. I would have taken it but this one was packed already and I was trying to get out of the house, so, the grip stayed at home, sleeping. Now, Carey gets the high ball and I’m off to my next train. Cool, breezy, heavy air settles over anyone here, giving you the just slightly showered feeling. It just kind of moves the dirt around, says Dave Noris, later. There is a smell of wet dog around here, who knows what the heavy air mingles with to create such a sensation. It’s not wet enough for an umbrella, not cold enough for a sweater, only wet enough to be noticeable. No engineer asks me tonight if I’m standing in the rain. They all have their windows open and are happy to talk to me. Pat rings the bell, approaches and snuggles up to the wall with the cab car. People exit, a surprising amount of them. Yes, ridership is improving, Dave says, later. On the trips to Laguna Niguel, the evening ones, ridership is light. But now, a steady stream of people pass behind me. It’s almost like watching the crowds from the Riverside trains. It’s not like the San Bernardino trains. Last night, July 11, 322, a San Bernardino train, has a fatality. I’ll have to call James, the former engineer on the 642, the one who took me to dinner, ask if he was on that train. If he’s still n the same schedule, that was his train. There were lots of people on buses between Pomona and Covina. But, tonight, no fatalities haunt the station, only a steady stream of people filing to their cars and to their lives, and me to my next train meet. Now, Pat, passes by, maybe he’ll listen to the Angels game later, if there is one. That seems to be his usual thing to do while waiting for his train to leave, or, rather, waiting for the time, when he pulls that train on to its next destination. Now, he’s in a hurry to go somewhere so we don’t talk much. I don’t see Eddie but he shows up later and tells me to leave the passengers alone. “Shelley!” His voice rings out across the station. I turn later standing at the east end of the platform, talking to Dave and Kathy. “Where’s Bobby!” “Going on vacation in Aruba! But he told me happy birthday!” “Oh, it’s your birthday?” Surprisingly, no teasing about that. I think it’s because by the time he says this, his train is about to pull out and make its way to Laguna Niguel. I haven’t ridden this train for a while, but maybe, when I finish my next batch of work, I will do just that. Tonight, he pulls away, and I return to talking to Dave and Kathy. But, before that happens, it’s back to track three to see Bobby. “Careful ma’m,” says the man whose energetic son has been walking the platform looking at all the different details on the trains. “Be careful you might run onto the tracks,” I say. He laughs at me, completely turning the conversation to trains. I know everything about trains he tells his six-year-old son, Samuel. I laugh. No, I don’t know everything. I know what comes in and out of here when I’m here, I tell him. They decide they’ve seen twelve trains, before it’s all over. He asks me about paint schemes and heritage units. His son has an n scale train set, he says. Does his son want to talk to the engineer? He can. But, no, as bobby’s train pulls to its six car marker, the little boy goes down the platform looking at all the cars, so it’s up to me to entertain the engineer. “Where have you been?” the stock broker engineer wants to know. “Working!” I say. I won’t tell him about the suspensions, the number game not in my favor, the new pilot program buying me some time, the schedule mixup, or the fun conversations. It’s been an interesting couple of months. “Like you,” I say. “Working.” “That’s unfortunate,” he says. I don’t remember my response. “It’s my birthday!” I tel him. “Happy birthday.” “Two years ago I was on your train inL.A. on my birthday.” He doesn’t remember. “Why would you, you have a life!” I say. He gives me his bobby laugh. He’s going on vacation, he says, to aruba. “What? You’re not going to Disneyland?” “I’ll pass,” he says. “It’s a hundred dollars to get in. Eighty something for one day.” Don’t I know it. You see, even locomotive engineers won’t pay those prices. Well, at least one didn’t. One I know did. So, locomotive engineer or not, somebody is paying them. Wonder if he will. I laugh and smile. Don’t I know it. “Have fun!” I wave as he gets the high ball. He rings his bell, pulling his train away. “I will,” he calls out. Hope he does. Heading back over the bridge, I see Mike and Samuel. They’re on their way to get a hot dog. “You’re taking the elevator?” I say. He laughs. “Starting bad habits early,” he says. I say, to each his own. Tonight I’ve crossed that bridge four times, getting the sides mixed up, something that happens some times. But, hey, I’m not panting, much. I’m in great shape. I climb stairs every time I leave the house. I used to cross this bridge every day two or three times. Tonight is a great time to climb them; it’s not too hot, not too cold, it’s just right. Across the bridge again I make a trip to the Santa Fe café. Patrick is there again. I buy an ice-cream, something I haven’t done here for quite some time. Ice-cream and diet soda. Ah, life is good! I make my way outside. Not too many people line the platform tonight. Before, the Chief has come through here ringing its bell on the P-42. I like the bell. The six year-old says it’s an Amtrak train. I mistake it for Metrolink. “Don’t’ question her,” says his father. But, I am wrong, I say, no, he is right. There is the mandatory freight between 607 and 4, then 608. Take a number. Everyone gets there ventually, says the number one engineer. Now, I make my way down to the east end. “Look what the cat dragged in!” “She has a drum stick,” says Dave. Dave and Kathy sit here, waiting. Tonight it’s about the Randolph Shepherd program, something I’m looking into, it’s about going to the doctor and taking pain pills for torn abdominal muscles. It starts out with a discussion about cats. One of mine is acting agitated today. We decide it’s because she’s hot. Maybe. She’s eating and nipping me. She loves her treats. But, it has been hot, lately. It could be that. She’s lying on the bathroom floor, in the hall where the breeze from two windows meets. Arriving home later, I find her in much better spirits. Cats and kids, they’re all the same. We love them equally. Later, between bouts of spitting rain, we discuss Pennys Diner, a railroad crew lodging and food set up. Oak Tree Inn is the company that sets them up, Dave tells me. I have to look into that, too. I’m not really changing directions work wise, I’m doing something I want to do. I’m checking into a different line of work. Wonder if there’s a good place to watch trains in Colorado? Or Montana? Well, we know about that. I tell dave that I must cancel my reservations for Montana. I paid off the property management company and that put me a couple of months behind. But, it’s done, and Montana will be here next year, I say. Wonder where I’ll be? I’ll be watching trains and talking to engineers. I don’t have time for anything else, Kathy says. Serving, cooking, ordering food, typing transcripts, talking to engineers, and doing whatever my hand finds to do. Whenever I’m stressed I just do something, I tell Dave. Do it with all my might. Ask the engineer about how persistent I am. I want all their stories. Tonight, three of them intersect mine and all wish me happy birthday. Now, I must find out Carey’s and bobby’s. I know when Glenn’s birthday is. Soon. It’s about a quiet, low key evening. The traffic dies down after 7:00. there’s a local, lots of empty cars, speed restrictions, and intermitten rain. All night my phone chimes with birthday wishes from FaceBook friends. One of my rail guys sends me happy birthday wishes. One of the rail fans does, too. On the patio earlier, my sister calls and everyone says happy birthday, that would be the two girls! Nothing out of the ordinary happens tonight. It’s about just being comfortable. I talk about possible new jobs, new adventures, and Dave talks about the calf muscle he tore doing nothing. Dave Keller’s wife has died; he’s the trucker, the one who always went and bought food for his wife who was at home in a wheel chair. It has been an eventful three weeks. One death, medical issues, my own adventures working two jobs, amusing cats, but mainly working. Dave’s birthday is July 16. Happy birthday if I don’t see you, I tell him, as he leaves for his truck. I’ll be working my second job. If not, I’ll make it down there. But tonight, I’ve taken time off and enjoyed it. “Your birthday is easy to remember,” says Kathy. Her dad was born July 12, 1918. My grand mother wasn’t even born then. But, I know the railroad engineer in our family, her father, was around then. Wonder when his birthday was? The night ends with me calling a cab about forty-five minutes after Dave calls it a night. It’s only been the two of us tonight after Kathy leaves for home. Scooter has been around here, somewhere, but I miss him. No Valerie, no blankets under benches where homeless think they can store them. The smell of wet dog disappears. The trains come through slowly, but surely. Life maintains its rhythm on this July 12, the start of my forty-sixth year of life. I am happy! I have made new friends and seen all my engineers. I walk out to my cab and he remembers me. We get home with no problem and as I walk through my gate and reach for my keys, the only thing I can think is it gets better from here.
Copyright © 2012 Shelley J Alongi |