She Likes Trains: Private Railroad
Shelley J Alongi

 

The engineer sounds the horn on the big freight now and departs on a green, I make my way to the taxi stand, laughing. It has been one eventful night, if a strange one. Teasing, threatened with my own bells, missing my engineer, meeting my regular extra, and not using the switch key. Even standing by the locomotive all by myself in private communion is all a part of Shelley’s private railroad. How much better can it get than this? I don’t’ know, but I bet it will.

Sunday and Monday have seen me typing a transcript, and so today, Tuesday, April 24, I’ve decided that it’s time for a break. I have to go to Fullerton to sign a vendor contract for Cal State for a series of interviews I’ll be working on this year, and I also need to make a trip to my bank. April has seen me shed three bills, and May is lining up to be a bit challenging, no more than usual, I think, but sometimes it just gets old. Maybe I could do things differently, maybe not, but for today, it’s all pushed aside because there’s still time to work things out. They always work out, somehow.

Today, after signing papers and talking about getting even more transcript work and explaining my financial goals for this year, I head off to breakfast at Del Taco, go to the bank, update my manicure in red, get a shake from Burger King and head off to Fullerton. Arriving around 2:00 pm I sit myself down on one of the newly redesigned benches and pick up my book. I’m still reading “Stealing the General” the story of the attempt to take a locomotive from under the noses of the Confederate railroaders with the intent of cutting off the supply line for the southern armies. It seems I keep falling asleep at key parts and so I play catchup, reading here and there, filling in this part of the story, getting the answer to some other question. Around 4:00 pm I head over to Knowlwood. I’ve made this my new hangout. The Santa Fe Café requires now that you spend $10.00 on your debit card before bein charged, and besides they don’t have free refills on their soda fountain. If I owned that place things would be a lot different. Eddie the conductor on 642 and 645 says he tried the food there once and didn’t like it. It really depends on who the cook is these days. I think Jose is probably the best cook. Since my scheduled has changed I don’t see him there and I think his schedule may have changed. I don’t’ mind spending $10 not to get charged I rarely carry cash, but somedays I don’t want to spend $10.00 there. I’m going to spend it anyway, so I might as well go, I think, where at least the refills on soda are free. Besides, I like Knowlwood’s food. It’s passable and I’m getting to know the people who work there. So, why is it that I always get to know the people who work in restaurants? That’s another story, I suppose. Back to this one.
Sitting from my vantage point at Knowlwood, I see a ittle boy who keeps telling his mother he wants to see trains. There have been a few trains today, Tuesday is usually busy in that department. I sit there and slowly digest my French fries and hot pastrami. I know what I’m having the next time I show up for the train group meeting. I have’t been to the Monday night gathering for a few months, not because I don’t want to go, but because I’ve been working on transcripts. It’s good to be working. So, tonight, Tuesday, sitting here, I decide that I will take the last trip to Laguna Niguel for this month, courtesy of Cheryl. Leaving the restaurant, I stand waiting for a train to give me an orientation point, and smile as I get it. Walking through the parking lot I pass the Old Spaghetti Factory, skirting its manicured lawn, walk up the ramp that leads to the plaatform, there are no bicycles parked there tonight, blocking the progress of people wishing to use that ramp for transport. I hope, in the sweep they’ve done to remove the homelss from their regular camping spots, that they’ve solved the bicycle issue that seems to have cropped up here. The rail on that ramp serves as a place to park bicycles, something I hope ends. They are safety hazards for anyone, and tonight they are not present. Thank God, I think as I make my way back toward the east end of the platform, stoping by the café to check out the scenery, respond to text messages, and end up at the Metrolink machine.

I purchase a one way ticket. There is one trip left on my trip ticket, and I have this thing about riding trains and paying my fare. So, in order to complete the trip I purchase the ticket and make my way across the bridge. Bruce sits in the café, people milla bout, it seems the evening goes on as usual. 708 is late, and ultimately I think 606 is late or I miss it because I think 708 is 606. but, walking down to the car marker I at least get to wave at the 708 engineer. The 606, I miss for the second time in two weeks. Oh, well. I’ll have to try again next time. Hey, at least my short nails are polished today. That pays off later.

I return across the bridge and use the facilities in the café, having interrupted my wait in line to visit the south side of paradise. Around the tables at the café the patrons watch live footage of a tow truck being chased by police. Curt says that he got a speeding ticket, Dan says he got a ticket for traveling three miles an hour, an unsafe speed ticket, not a speeding ticket.

“Okay, children I’ll leave you to argue about speeding tickets,” I say, gravving my much lighter carry-on and heading over to meet yet another train.

Around us the evening is cool, the promise of rain somewhere lingers, the day hours having been full of sunshine and perfect breezes and temperatures. Now, I stand at the track waiting for Bobby.

“Hello,” says a man who has pulled up, steps closer to the railroad tracks than I am.

I answer him in kind.

“You know you’re close to the tracks?”

“not as close as you are.”

This generates laughter. I’m not going to explain to this one how long I’ve been doing this.
“If you’re catching this train, don’t’ stand here, you’ll miss it.”

It’s obvious that he hasn’t heard or paid attention to my warning in a later exchange. The lights of 608 now wink in the distance. Is it Bobby?

“He’s crossing the bridge now,” he says. He’s almost to the switch and then to the platform. Finally, theres’ his bell, it’s my despised MPI. I prepare to meet the train.

“If you’re going to meet the train, you’re going the wrong way,” the guy says as I ignore him and walk up to the marker.

“Shelley!”

I walk up to the line.

“You hav one of these things.”

“All week. It’s all we ever get.”

“I know.”

“More horse power,” he says.

“I know,” I nod. “You like these engines better.”

It seems this is the end of the conversation, the train is preparing for departure and I am heading to 642, the presence of the other guy now unknown. Apparently he wasn’t looking to catch the train.

I notice as I head over to track 4 that there is no engineer sitting on the bench catching a few moments of a baseball game, if there is one on tonight. The benches along track 3 are deserted. I walk to the train still humming, and empty of crew, awaiting the time. As I’ve gone over the bridge tonight, taking the stairs, I encounter Eddie on his cell phone.

“Talk to you, soon,” he says, and then addresses me. Where am I going? To see bobby?

“You’re early, too,” he says. I don’t notice people on the bridge tonight just me and Eddie, heading in two directions with one goal in mind: eventually to make it to the same train.

Now, here I am on the platform for track 4. Earlier at the Metrolink machine a man asks me if I need help and so we purchase the ticket. I am informed that the Laguna train is on the other platform. I know, I tell him, and so now, here I am, inspecting the train. What I’m interested in at the moment is whether or not arm rests have been installed on these benches. I walk to the front of the train, noticing that yes they are indeed here, that means no blankets under benches. It’s kind of a relief not to have people sleeping on the benches. Why should they sleep on the benches when I worry about rent each month? No matter tonight, I am interested in the train itself. I walk toward the front now, an dpas it, intensionally. It’s always kind of fun for me to stand just forward of a locomotive. I don’t know why that is, it just is. Perhaps some explanation will come to light later down my railroad journey. Tonight, I stand in front of it on the platform remembering the day when I touched the locomotive for the first time; not the car, but the actual engine. Now I approach, knowing the external housing and length and specifications of my engine even if it is an MPI. There is no one around and if there is they leave me to myself. I’m always glad of that. It’s part of my private communion with a locomotive. It’s like an oversized truck, really, I have experience with those, but I’m still enthralled with its presence. I understand why people are interested in steam, it’s not so much the steam itself, but the machinery, the valves, the domes, the smoke stack, the gray color, the power. There’s just something huge about a fifty thousand pound locomotive. I made my connection with diesels and I don’t mind them. Now here I stand just looking. I make my way back to the bench and wait, placing my bag on my lap.

I reflect as I wait for the crew to return that though I have lived out of two Redoxx bags for the last week, I realy do prefer my railroad bag. It allows me the most flexibility of movement, and its weight can be managed. Just like anything, I shouldn’t try to over pack it. I await its return so that I can take it back and show it to my crews. I have to show them the flyer, too, maybe they can put it in the break room. But there’s no railroad grip tonight, only me and the purple gator carry-on. I do like all my bags, but I think I am married to my railroad duffel bag.

“Are you going?” Someone interrupts me, my immediate thought is that it’s the engineer, but it’s not Pat. He’s standing right here near the front of the engine it has to be the engineer. After all, Bob says if you want to meet an engineer you have to go to the engine.

“Is it time?”

I don’t’ remember the man’s response.

“Are you ridin with us?”

Ok, it’s the engineer. And I recognize his voice. The hum of the power unit disguise’s it, but he does a good job of making himself heard. There’s something familiar to his cadence, it’s as if he speaks his words but they’re slurred without being indecipherable. I don’t’ think it’s a speech impediment, but I recognize it. I’ll go for it.
 
 “Are you John?”

It’s a shot in the dark, but at least if it’s not John then I can learn the engineer’s name. I have this thing about engineers and their names.

“I’m John,” he says.

Ah, it is my extra, the one who always asks me if I’ll be here tomorrow. I put out my hand, a manicured hand. Thank God I’ve taken the time today to refresh my nails. There are things I try not to give up even when finances are tight and income is uncertain. Those two things are nails and food. I won’t go hungry and since the price of a manicure is reasonable if you don’t go overboard I do try to keep up with those. I’m not the most regular customer, but I certainly am a frequent one.

The man takes my hand, it is a quick, friendly clasp of fingers, not as warm as Carey’s, and definitely not as dominant as Glenn’s, but they’re all different. No one lines up to Glen, that man is in a class all by himself. Never mind that tonight, I’ll take this one.

“Where are you riding to?” he now asks. I’ve told him, yes, I’m indeed riding this train. I am overjoyed at our first real meeting out of the cab. Finally, one by one, I’m meeting all my railroad men out of the cab. It lends even more humanness to the railroad Dave insists is becoming less human. The personalities are there and shining, undaunted by Amtrak’s attempt to tame it’s engineers. Maybe Amtrak just wants to tame interaction so there’s no more trouble like Chatsworth.

Chatsworth and its aftermath is far from my mind tonight. I’m sitting here, three and a half years later, and here is John.

“Laguna Niguel,” I now inform him. “I buy a ticket and go there an back, just to relax.”

“Yah,” he says. Ok, now he sounds like Glenn.

“What are you doing here?”

Why do I ask him that? He’s getting ready to run his glorious train, my regular extra.

“I just come early to get rady.”

I want to ask him what he does to get ready. I want to ask him if I can see his rule book. In fact, I think now, when we get back, maybe I’ll ask him if I can see it. Ok, I know what a book looks like. I’ve handled plenty of them in my day, but this is a book specifically dedicated to the railroad. I wonder someday if my rmantic attachment will ever end? They do have a way of doing that, but so far this one hasn’t. I don’t’ ask him to see the rule book.

“How do you get in there?” I point to the front. I know how he gets inside his engine. But now it’s almost time to take the train so I get up, dismissing him to his engine.

“Eddie should be back there,” he says.

“Probably. Playing.”

“See you in Laguna Niguel,” he now says and we part ways. We walk only feet through the cool breeze, the humming of the power unit, all sounds and sights blocked from this vantage point. Sometimes it seems as if track 4 is in a whole different existence from the actual train station. I remember when there were no tracks, no lights, only fencing. Now, there are train crews, and I am starting to recognize them.

The doors pop open. I climb the two steps, the ones Glennso kindly informed me about three years ago now, and make my way into the car. This is the second car behind the locomotive. I always try to sit as close as I can, and tonight I’ve walked passed it and decided just to stay here. I just like being near the engine. I enjoy my private moments with an engine, my conversations with the engineers. Now, I am the only passenger in this car.

“Your own private railroad,” eddie says to me on one of our last trips. Indeed, it is. And I know the engineer’s name.

I choose a forward facing seat. These cars have no tray tables. These new cars, the stainless steel ones with the sea green band painted near its top is designed with post Chatsworth details, like the lack of tray tables. There were some serious injuries resulting from the sudden cessation of movement on that train, thrusting bodies into extended tables, causing aggregious internal injuries. I notice these seats have no reclining positions. They are uncomfortable, and would only be best served on short commutes. This is the intent of a Metrolink train, it is not meant to be a long distance run. Sometimes it can turn into one, but usually it is a short hop between stations, not requiring any extended comfort.

All goes well. Eddie informs me that I need to wear my seat belt and locate my flotation device, in case it starts raining in the train. He is so silly! Does he do this to everyone? I notice he doesn’t say things like that when there are other passengers aboard, so I think I am the only person on this train, at least for now. IT is, once again, my private railroad.

I settle back as best I can and pick up my book. Suddenly, we are on the way.

Eddie appears in my car.

“I see you have two canes. Do you have your flotation device on? I’m going to use one of those canes to keep you in line. If you don’t behave I’m going to take all those bells away from you.”

I am wearing my assortment of rr logos and bells and a couple of switch keys. Really, they’re for locks. But they’re noisy and heavy and now he’s threatening me with them. Silly conductor.

Anaheim is reached, Orange, and then, Eddie comes through the car. I hear something about switches.

“Stop here. Sorry about that.”

Ah, the joys of railroading. I think we have a switch issue, or it could be a train meet, but Idid hear something about switches. Sometimes they go bad, they have to be reset. There are any number of things that can go wrong with switches. I remember twice when trains have been significantly delaid because of their malfunctions. Tonight, we now sit between Orange and Santa Ana. I read my book. Time passes. We move, finally, very slowly.

Eddie comes through the car again, apologizing to someone in the car behind me, probably for the delay. He would never apologize to me. I signed up for this.

“What’s going on!” I ask.

“Switch is acting up. You should be out ther throwing switches.”

He is gone again.

We move along, now twenty minutes late. This means there will be no break for the crew in laguna Niguel. Maybe they’ll have just enough time to stretch, and walk to the cab car to run the train in the other direction.

We reach laguna Niguel without further incident. Eddie comes into the car.

“When we get toLaguna nIguel do not move,” he says. He’s not saying I can’t move he’s just telling me not to move. He’s always telling me to do something; tell james to pick up some trophy from his house. Tell Bobby he wants his equipment back; tell bobby this or that. Tonight he has some sage advice about Glenn.

The train gets under way and soon he’s talking to me. I don’t know how the subject of Glenn comes up, but it usually does. John asks me at one point if I’m still riding with Glenn.

“No. he’s in Lancaster.”

Now, Eddie is here, if only briefly. I mention Glenn.

“He made his bed. He’s lying in it,” I say, talking about his long hours.

“You can fluff it up,” Eddie now says.

I laugh.

“In Lancaster? Hardly. Then I’d be late for work.”

I think these guys tease me just to see me turn red, I must be blushing the deepest red, ever. This reminds me of the teasing I take on the platform about wanting the key to the Super8 in Lancaster.

The whole idea makes me blush. I never know what these guys are going to say. Silly.

Somehow the conversation ends, I don’t remember how, and he’s gone and I’m reading my book. We return to Fullerton.

I get out of the car, and head toward the cab car.

“That’s why I told the dispatcher,” I hear John say. I approach.

“He wouldn’t let me use my switch key,” I complain.

“I was going to send you out there,’ John says. And then we’re talking about Disneyland, I get his number, he wants to stay in the hotel.

“I can get you in. Who do you want to take with you?”

“Just me and my wife. She’s Chinese. She’s never been. I don’t mind buying aticket. I met her on vacation.”

We’re discussing ticket discounts for southern California residents. Now he puts paper in my hand. I’ve gotten another engineer’s number.

“I have three engineer’s numbers,” I say to Eddie.

“But only one is good for you,” he says. “Glenn.”

I don’ say anything.

“Look at that smile,” he says. I’m laughing. He knows.

Can I help it if I met the best first and he patiently answers my questions when he can? Since his schedule changed he hasn’t answered too many, but he does when he can. I really need to talk to him again. All these guys keep making me want to talk to him.

“Glenn, isn’t he gone in January?” John asks me.

The rumor mill? Could he be retiring? It would make sence. It gives me an excuse to call Glenn and try to get him on his break.

“Who’s number 2 in the division?” I ask John.

“Who is number 2,” he asks himself.

I think a lot of engineers want the older ones to go so they can move up the seniority ranks. Hey, these guys worked hard to get where they are, you’ll be there, someday. Let them enjoy it for a while. Your turn will come. I know it’s not easy. I know that. But I met the best first and when he leaves the fleet he’ll still be the best.

We part company now, he’s on his way back to his train, the break is a little shorter because we’re probably fifteen minute slate into Fullerton. I make my way across the bridge, noticing that a freight sits here, waiting. Another freight comes through, I go down the stairs and make a right, walking through the tunnel. I retrace my steps and walk toward the café, and then reach the front of the station.

“Where are you going?” someone asks me, coming up to me.

This is the strangest night, ever. I think, as he approaches, this is not a transient. It’s not one of the regulars. He might be a passenger but Amtrak is a little ways off. Who is this guy?

“I’m going to a bus stop,” Isay, “I’m going to be late.”

Then, I look at my watch.

“No, I guess I’m going to call a cab, it’s 10:10.”

He continues to ask me where I’m going.

“Who are you?” I want to know.

It’s not the ticket agent. They rarely make their way out of the offices. There’s no agent here on the platform this late. Who is this young guy who keeps asking me where I’m going? And why does he care, really?

“I’m on the train.”

What train? The only train here is the freight.

“Conductor?” I ask pointing to the freight.

“Engineer.”

Oh, goodness! My dream come true! The freight engineer comes out of the cab and talks to me? I don’t get it, though. I’m not even near the tracks and he’s asking me where I’m going. I think this one is a little anxious about everything, not just me.

Plenty of engineers see me and don’t ask me that. One says I get around good. Wonder where he is tonight?

“Oh,” I now say, not sure how to respond.

“The only place I want to go is in the cab with you but they won’t let me unless I sign papers,” I now say.

“No,” he says. This guy is really young. “Sorry.” I don’ think he was expecting me to say that. What do these guys expect me to say? I’m lost? Lost without my number 1 engineer, but not lost. I’m always wanting the engineers to come talk to me, now, tonight, in the strangest way, I get my wish.

Now, Bruce interrupts, asking me if Carey was on 608.

“Just a minute, Bruce,” I say.

“I’m just checking to see if everything is alright,” says the nameless engineer. I’m not really overwhelmed, but I’m a little surprised and trying to head off Bruce and ask this guy a question.

“What are you waitin for?” I ask him.

“The signal,” he says, looking toward the track. He is a little anxious.

And then, somehow, gets the green, and walks back to the train. I’m surprised at how young he is, but I shouldn’t be. He has to be in his mid twenties. Wonder if he’ll come through here again. Wonder if he’s the guy Wendy used to see when she came through here? I don’t know. I only know that he physically got out of his train and asked me where I was going. I did get around to telling him I was fine. I don’t quite remember how that got stuck in there.

“Where was she going?” someone asks. I think it was his conductor. It occurs to me later that I think I’ve talked to that conductor before and he asked me the same thing. So, maybe it’s the conductor who wants to know and he sent the engineer to ask. I don’t’ know. I only know I didn’t get the engineer’s name. Maybe next time.

The engineer sounds the horn on the big freight now and departs on a green, I make my way to the taxi stand, laughing. It has been one eventful night, if a strange one. Teasing, threatened with my own bells, missing my engineer, meeting my regular extra, and not using the switch key. Even standing by the locomotive all by myself in private communion is all a part of Shelley’s private railroad. How much better can it get than this? I don’t’ know, but I bet it will.

 

 

Copyright © 2012 Shelley J Alongi
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"