FICTION (maybe)...Somewhere West of Laramie...

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Casey Jones

Casey Jones

Train left the station...
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I thought I'd dig up some Christmas fiction I wrote about eight years ago. Unedited since that time...pre-Covid...enjoy, or not.

Comments welcome. Also, banning and thread-pulling, acceptable. I'm pushing the limits, here, I get it.
 
t was the sudden stillness that woke me.


The cessation of rocking. The stillness. A change in the baseline.
I forced myself awake...turned, and looked out the coach window. SPOKANE read a sign. A major stop. So we’d be here awhile...fuel; trash, new riders.

A wet snow was falling in the background.
My head was beginning to throb. My mouth was dry as the Mojave. The wages of sin...I considered going down to the lower level, to the baggage rack, to fish out more of my hooch...and then thought better of it. I had two more days to reach Chicago. It wouldn’t do to have an alcocol incident - get thrown off the train.

In the seatback in front of me, I had my hiker’s canteen. Two quarts. I could refill it at the water cooler by the steps to the lower level – but the water was delivered out as if from a squirt gun.

I hadn’t needed the water all afternoon – but I knew the time was coming. This wasn’t my first rodeo.

A heavy thump-thump-thump up the steps. New passenger, I guessed – boarding, on these bi-level cars, was at the center. In the stillness, every snore, every rustle, stood out.

Female, it seemed. Wandered the length of the coach. The one empty seat was next to me...over my head, was the sign STAFF. It wasn’t true; I was traveling on a courtesy pass; I was one row in front of the seats kept for car staff. But fictions must be maintained.

The new passenger met the assistant conductor. Some whispering. Some strident whispering. A finger pointing forward. The passenger’s body-language suggested extreme rolling of the eyes.
The next car up was the Cafe/Lounge. The more bohemian passengers tended to try to find spots to sleep on the floor of those cars, nights – stretch out, under the attached seats, with makeshift bedrolls.

All right...off the hook, for the moment. I fished in my pocket for the Benadryl I had dug out – it’s great for sinuses, better for sleeping. Pop one, drain the canteen, hope I don’t wet myself.

The train started rolling again in the snowy shadow-light.
 
Dawn. How much time passed, I didn’t know. We were somewhere between Kalispell and Glacier – I recognized the land. Many times I had hiked, motorcycled, camped up this way. This was the east side of the Bitterroots.


My head was ringing as if demons were performing the Anvil Chorus from within. Again, I thought about my stash. Then I thought about getting jailed in Podunk, North Dakota. Nope...coffee it is.

Grabbing my coffee mug out of my shoulder bag, I made the trip forward one car, down the steps of the Cafe-Lounge, to the snack bar, with my coffee cup. Back up...the lights still off; prone forms still sprawled on the floor. Wishing I had the forethought to buy No-Doze.
It didn’t matter. Most of this didn’t matter. I had little time to plan this trip – 24 hours earlier, I’d received a phone call. Of the nature that we all get, sooner or later.

“You can’t be a man until your father has died.” Who the hell said that? Sigmund Freud? Benjamin Spock? George Carlin, maybe. It doesn’t matter. The work ahead, that matters.

He was gone. He was not a poor man. He was a miserable, brutal, miserly man, an electrical engineer who became a slumlord after having become unemployable for his temper. He alienated my mother; he threw me out, he bought a double-wide on scrub land in Indiana, and collected rent on properties he owned in Chicago and Buffalo.

And what he had, was, apparently, now, mine. My mother had died some years earlier – I learned of this just yesterday, from the attorney.
Twenty-five years ago, I’d walked. The violence, the drama, the fake IDs I had in my pocket. I worked gigs for a while, and then enlisted in the Army. From there, the life of the well-paid drifter, in Texas, Arizona and the West Coast. I’d killed a man in Houston; lived with a woman in Portland; founded a small business in Seattle. I was free. Except, of course, I was not.

Which was why, when I should have been flogging my ancient Jeep Cherokee over the mountain pass right now, singing Bob Rivers Christmas carols, counting the dollars...instead, I was here on a borrowed Amtrak pass, throbbing hangover, rancid coffee, full of dread.

The lounge-car attendant switched on the lights. The PA announced first call for breakfast. The dining car was two cars forward. I had no intention of breakfast – I had Atkins meal-bars; and I had my stash.

The foot-traffic and car lighting blotted out the snow and trees in the early-morning light. I made it back to my seat in the next car.
 
I didn’t know the coach attendant, of course. I didn’t know anyone on this train. I did contract work, and Amtrak was a sometimes customer. One of the perks was, a train pass. I’d asked for it when I negotiated the contract. Amtrak didn’t have passes for employees, but I was given a contact who could arrange travel should I want it.

I wanted. It took an hour of calling, but I got a ticket. The train, the Empire Builder, was sold to capacity. All up and down, to the station superintendant briefing the conductor on this train, rules had to be bent.
The coach attendant looked at me and gave a shrug. Apparently I was not the only one involved in rule-flex. A young woman was seated in my seat, against the window.

I recognized the denim coat – it was the eye-roller of last night. Scruffy...and young. This wasn’t a woman, but a child. Mid to late teens. Worn logger shirt; worn generic jeans. Thick red hair and a dusting of freckles. Rawboned. Where were her people?

“You know, these seats are reserved.”

She turned. Her eyes shot daggers. “He” - she hooked a thumb “said one of these was empty.”

“Well, it is, kinda. I wasn’t expecting company...but...yeah, I guess it’s okay.”

“Do you want me to sit by the aisle?”

“No...that’s fine. I’ll be up and down. And...tell ya the truth, I’ve seen this before.”

She turned away.

“Do you have anyone else needing a seat?”

“No.” Angry. Guarded. Of course, to her, I was just one more dirty old man – that she had to be sitting with. Sure, I get that. Well, once the breakfast rush is over, and once it gets light, I’d be going back to the lounge car.

We sat in silence.
 
Past Essex, we came across a herd of mule deer...their comical way of “stotting” when moving fast. It always amused me...I had to lean over her head to get a look; and I pointed it out.

“Just like the Looney Tunes.”

“Yeah. It’s funny – when you’re a kid, you see that stuff, and think, well, it’s just funny. But so often it resembles real life, so many ways.”

She looked at me blankly.

“I grew up in the Midwest. No mule deer. None of those sheer cliffs you’d see on Road Runner, either.”

“Oh. Are you going home, then?”

“Sort of. But I’ve lived in Washington and Oregon for a long time.” I paused. “How about you?”

“I’m going home, sure. Home to someplace I’ve never been. My grandparents threw me out. I’m going to live with my mother in Chicago.”

I wasn’t sure how deeply I wanted to explore this one.

“But...this is an odd way to do it. Amtrak isn’t cheap.”

“My grandparents had some vouchers, and so they got me this ticket. Better than flying, they said. Sure – better because it’s free.”

“It’s a pleasant trip, though,” I said. “And it gives you some time to adjust – to a new time zone, a new life. And lots of people like living in Chicago.”

“Yeah, sure. With my mother. I barely know her.”
 
The silence hanged, ominously. I was craving a drink. My seat-mate hadn’t gone forward since the food-service opened – I hoped she had money to at least eat something. I had packed a Kindle, but with the hangover, I couldn’t focus.

She felt it, too, I guess. Or maybe she thought she could warm me up for a free meal, I don’t know.

“So, you’re going home? To Chicago?”

“Terre Haute. It’s not my home, never was. My father died; he lived there. But I have business in Chicago.”

“Oh. Do you like, know Chicago at all?”

“Sorry. I’m as much a stranger as you. I have an attorney’s address – I don’t even know where I’ll be staying once I get there.” I hesitated; but let’s
name the elephant in the room. “Your mother can help you get settled once you’re there.”

“If I even see her.”

“Doesn’t she have time? What kind of work does she do?”

She turned to me, her face scowled with rage.

“My mother..,” she hissed, “is...a...WHORE.”

Ohmigawd. I sure know how to hit the ten-ring.

“Look, I’m sorry I said anything.”

By now she was apologetic. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you. I’m just so mad...I don’t want to be going there; I don’t want to live with her. I tried to get along with my grandparents, and I’ve lived with them for ten years. But they told me they couldn’t do it anymore.”

“It happens. They’re getting older, too – we all are.”

“No, it was...something else. They didn’t approve of a boy I liked. It was none of their BUSINESS, and when I told them, they said, you have to go.”

“Your mother has a place, right?”

“Yeah, she’s got an apartment. She works as an escort, she calls it. It pays her well, even though she’s getting older.”
What the hell. “How old is that?”

“Thirty-five.”

“Well. I’ll tell you something, young lady. As we grow up, settle in, get old...we all do things we’re not proud of. Sometimes the choices we make aren’t the best. For example, I don’t think I want to go back to Houston, not in this life.”

She looked at me.

“So, cut your mother some slack. Keep an open mind – maybe it won’t be so bad.”

She looked down.

“I don’t even have enough money to run away with.”
 
Time on a train can hang, much more than on an airplane. There are no seatbelts or any other than very-loose limits on space. There’s the lounge car. There’s the diner. There’s restrooms on the lower level of every car.

Like it or not, I had to pretend I was human. That meant a wash and shave. I folded myself into the lavatory, which was about half-again smaller than the average household pantry or broom closet. There is supposed to be hot water in there. Rumor has it. I have traveled by train four times and I have yet to find it.

Shave and deodorant – the clothes were fresh yesterday afternoon. Now I looked only disheveled – not derelict; that would be tomorrow’s fashion. I checked my watch: 10:30, 11:30 Mountain Time. Still too early for today’s session with the distilled spirits.

Another cup of coffee, this time after working my way through the snack-bar line, and back to my seat. My new young friend was intently staring out the window. Yes, I get it – embarrassment. She had spilled her guts to a stranger and now she wanted just to disappear.

The timber, outside, had disappeared, replaced by rolling grassland. Central Montana.

We rolled into Shelby. Apparently this was a service stop, as it was a ten-minute layover. Apparently, too, the service wasn’t in coming. The friendly, oval-toned voice of the conductor rolled through the cars on the PA:

“We’ve got some minor service items to attend to, and some traffic ahead, so we’re going to be stopped at Shelby for about 30 minutes. Anyone who would like to step outside for a smoke can do so. We’d advise you not wander too far away, as we WILL be leaving in 30 minutes. Thank you for traveling Amtrak.”

I turned to my seatmate. “Have you eaten anything?”

“No...I’ve got some stuff in my backpack. Not much.”

There was a Town Pump quick-stop, across the road from the station. “We can get a donut or something out of there. Come on, Red – it’s on me.”
She hesitated.

“You gotta eat.”

We walked across. Shelby is a very-small town. Inside the quick-stop – incongruously – the radio or sound system was running a Golden Oldies feed, playing a Steve Winwood number. Odd, on Christmas Eve...not thinking, I found myself mouthing the lyrics as I perused the posted menu.
Memories...of long ago...a Portland dance-club...

She’d shed the bitch-face. “That’s my name. Valerie.”

I stared.

“You were singing along.”

Was I? “Oh...memories. That was a different time...more upbeat. Coming out of a ten-year recession...all of a sudden, everything seemed possible.”

“I know. My mother used to tell me that. I was born in 1988. She told me my dad liked that song”

A warning pop-up window rose in my brain’s OS. I clicked it aside. “Come one. What do you want? Tomorrow’s a good enough time to start going hungry.”

“How about you? You got a name...blondie?” She smirked, like she was teasing a younger sibling.

“Ernie.” It’s my name, but not the one I use. To give your name is to put yourself in a stranger’s power...so wrote Least Heat Moon, in Blue Highways. Chief Seattle allegedly chose a new name once the white man named their encampment for him, against his wishes. Nonsense, of course...but for now, discretion seemed to offer better odds of survival.
 
We made our purchases – Valerie buying a saran-wrapped styrofoam plate of biscuits and gravy and eggs, nuked to perfection in a greasy microwave mounted under the donut rack – and me with a sausage-and-egg biscuit. Not cheap, but half the cost of the snack-bar-car food. A third the price of a diner-car breakfast.

I bought a liter-bottle of Diet Coke, too. Planning pays.

We resumed our seats. An hour after arrival, and 90 minutes off schedule, in the best Amtrak tradition, we pulled away and headed east. The snow had given way to scudding gray clouds.

Valerie had consumed every bite, every morsel. Sated...she drowsed. It had been a long night, I guessed.

I had moved over to the Cafe-Lounge. With another coffee...this was gonna add up. But it made the tedium tolerable.

Valerie was up. She came towards my cluster of chairs, in that lost-lamb way young women have when they’re in uncertain social settings.

“Want a coffee?”
“
I don’t drink coffee.”

“Ever try it?”
“Sure. I’ve had sips of my mom’s or my grandmother’s coffee. Nasty.”

“Ever try it black?”

She looked at me like I was making a bad joke.

“I’ll tell you a story. I was like you – I couldn’t stand coffee. Loved the smell of the beans, but I couldn’t take the taste of coffee. Not the way I’d tried it, the way everyone around me drank it.

“And then one night...I had a long, long way to drive.” And some legal troubles, one inconvenient corpse, a few Texas Rangers that I figured it best not to know, I didn’t say. “Everywhere was closed – I wanted a Diet Coke SOOO bad. But there was a truck stop open – they didn’t have any Diet Coke, but there was the coffee pot. I bought a big cup, black – and it was a revelation.

“So. Tell ya what. I’ll get some, you can try it, and if you don’t like it, that’s fine. I’ll even spring for a soda. But try the coffee first – it’ll be a life-changing, moneysaving transformation,”

I went back down, came up with a fresh cup. For her. I’d probably be drinking it, and that was okay, too. The party starts later.

“Have a sip.”

She did. She looked off in the distance...considering it. It wasn’t really good coffee; but she had another sip. And another.
“
This IS good. My grandmother only takes it with milk and sugar.”

“It’s nasty that way. To me, anyway...but it must be the trucker in me.”
“
Are you a trucker?”

“I was, for a time. Then I went to work for the railroad and now I have my own business.”

“Sounds kinda like my dad.”

“He’s a trucker?”
“
I don’t know. I’ve never met him.”

She hesitated.
“
My mom said he was an ex-trucker. I don’t know if that means he got a better job, or couldn’t even keep that job.”

Sad story. The world is full of sad stories. The world is full of sad people, thrust together – sometimes even on Christmas Eve. And sometimes you just have to git ‘er done, as Larry the Cable Guy would say.

That didn’t mean I had a snappy comeback, to ease the pain of an angry kid, no father, rejecting grandparents, mother she was disgusted with. We enjoyed, or endured, the coffee and enjoyed, or endured, the increasingly bleak scenery as we moved through eastern Montana.
 
Afternoon wore on. We were in that otherworldly land, between Havre and Williston...yeah, it’s time. With my new friend half-drowsing, I walked down to the snackbar and bought a Diet Coke.

Can, cupful of ice. Carrying my booty, I went back a car, to the lower level and into my dufflebag. In a shaving-kit bag, I went into the washroom. From there, I produced a hip flask – half-full with Everclear. The rectified spirit – nearly-pure grain alcohol. Put a slug in my can of Diet Coke. I
thought for a moment, and then put the hip flask in my jacket pocket. Save some trips later.

I came back, sat down. Redheaded Valerie was watching.

“What is that?”

“Just a Diet Coke.”

“What’s in it?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar. I can smell it.”

“What does it smell like?”

“I don’t know. Like medicine, or paint thinner. It’s a faint smell.”

I winked at her. “It’s got a shot of Everclear in it.” Her eyes opened.

“Why?”
“
To get buzzed, of course.”

“But why not tequila or Jack Daniels?”

“Those don’t mix well with just-plain soda. Also, they’re weaker. I could buy a drink down there, but they’re expensive. It’s easy to spend a hundred dollars or so on mixed drinks at a bar – or here.” I was speaking quietly. “So...I do my own chemistry. Got some hooch in my duffle.”

What the hell. “You’re old enough. Kinda. Want a splash?” Straight alcohol doesn’t carry on the breath nearly as obviously as whiskey will. So, a little bit wouldn’t likely be obvious.

She grinned widely. I gave her my cup – and went to the lower level to get another Diet Coke. The ice...the ice, and the cup, were the most-important. I could refill the can in the john – bringing your own beverages with you, was against policies. Especially, but not limited, to alcoholic.

I came back, and Val’s eyes were sparkling. “Good?” “Yes.”

“Keep it down. We don’t want to get tossed off. Pace yourself.”

It was easy to see the clouds part, in her mood.

The afternoon passed, pleasantly enough. I alternated between buying my soda and topping off with my warmer purchase earlier; and with an ounce of Everclear. And another ounce. And another. Each shot necessitated a trip to the lavatory. Probably the staff knew what I was up to, but chose to say nothing.

Sunset, and a crude-sort of evening movie – off smallish screens mounted on the car ends. Close to either end, you could see it. Otherwise, not so. My seatmate tried to follow the movie, something seasonal, but the sound was low, the screen too far away. I moved back to my coach seat, and presently Val followed. We ate our dinners – a sandwich for her and a granola bar for me – and the monotony of the trip had us both drift off in our seats. Just as in a bus, coach seating in a train allows little privacy that way; and the lounge would still be open until 0200 local time. Too early to sleep on the floor there.

Just another typical Christmas.
 
Sleep is possible almost anywhere. I’ve slept in diesel locomotive cabs with 90-decibel noise levels. And I’ve been woken up when the engineer notched down to idle. Any change will register, and if you’re in a fitful, light sleep...uncomfortable or unfamiliar surroundings...you’ll wake up.

So, the low rumble of the wheels, the occasional squeal of curves, the clatter of switches, went on, into the night. Santa should have been making the rounds, but – as is always the case – there are unfortunates who have to be out with him.

And one such, was a truck. With a driver – out at three in the morning. Crossing the crossing. Was he legal? Was he half-asleep? Did the lights and gates not work? It doesn’t matter. The Empire Builder wasted his truck.

First, a muffled BANG! and then, sudden power outage. The handful of reading lights were gone, replaced by the soulless emergency lights near stairways. The brakes came on, hard, and then, a jerking stop, almost a crash.

No one seemed hurt, at least in our cars. We were stopped and upright. The power was off.

Valerie was up. My head was throbbing, as I knew it would be. A miserable half-hangover to a half-drunk of earlier. NOW what?

It was cold. The coach heat was off. Presently, one of the assistant conductors told us, the train was immobile. Crash damage. They had located a bus, that would transport us, one load at a time, to the Minot depot five miles away. Please be patient.

Sure.

There was some muffled conversation, some rustling...people going for coats. Presently, the staff told us it was our turn for a bus ride.
The train, this night, was going nowhere. We would be taken to the depot, where it was warm; and we could either wait there until they could arrange chartered buses, or take the following day’s train. We could if we wanted and could, get a motel room. A ticket agent was preparing a list of motels that had rooms. There were a few cabs available.

We shuffled out to the gypsy-bus, with no branding on the side, and the fat female bus driver impatient while we put our carry-ons into the luggage bay. Then off to the depot...the hard chairs, the bright lights. There to enjoy Christmas Morning with the comfort of POWs.
We got on there – my young friend now following me like a lost puppy – and off to the station. A list of hotels. I called one; ten miles out – yes, they had a room. One.

I went back to Val. Probably, this is where I turn her back to the wolves.

“I’m going to get a room and take tomorrow’s train – or a bus tomorrow, we’ll see. Do you have any idea what you want to do?”

She shrugged, looking lost.

I didn’t want to do this, but I didn’t want not to. “If you want, we can share a room. Nothing implied. You can sleep on the floor or something. It’s up to you; no strings.”

“You’re sure? I don’t want to like, have to leave in the middle of the night after you start getting nasty.”

“No, nothing like that. Scout’s Honor.”

She didn’t hesitate. A cab pulled up.

“Val! Hold that cab...here. Give him this card, ask him to wait.” I pulled out a MasterCard and handed it to her. Give a stranger my card? Sure.
What was she going to do, run?

I spoke with the ticket agent, and he assured me, yes, there would be an Amtrak train tomorrow, Christmas. I figured it would be tactless to mention
I was on a courtesy pass to begin with...we’ll deal with tomorrow, tomorrow.

I grabbed my duffle, and headed out. And nearly collided with the redhead.

“You. Is this...she pointed at my credit card...is that, you?”

“Of course it is. Is the cab waiting?”

“You...you knew my mother.” She gave a name. My jaw dropped.

“My mother...said you were my father.”

Words you wouldn’t use in front of a teenaged girl, spilled like drool. I was wobbly. I had to sit.

“You lived with her in Portland. She was right out of high school, right?” I nodded.

“And then you left.”

“Kind of. We had issues. She told me to get out. I never heard from her after that.” I was dizzy, I was freezing. “Look. Let’s get to the motel. Let’s get some sleep. Let’s figure out where we want to take this. Where we want to go, each of us.”

We piled into the cab, the ten-mile ride to whatever motel it was. The Bates Motel, maybe. For the first time, I looked at my watch. It was 2:45 am.

“I guess,” I started, “I guess we each got a big Christmas gift here. A new life, for us both, each. Knocked down, in a box...open it up in the morning and assemble. See how we want to piece it together. You know...fresh starts don’t happen often.”

“No...I guess not. I’m just too tired to think it through….so, Merry Christmas. Daddy.”

She was asleep a minute later.
 
Casey Jones said:
... Also, banning and thread-pulling, acceptable. I'm pushing the limits, here, I get it.
Click to expand...
Huh? After that comment I was expecting some rape or murder fantasy or something equally unwelcome amongst polite company, but your story didn't cross any lines that I noticed while skimming through it.
 
What a great story!! Can't hardly wait for the 2nd chapter!!
 
DO YOU PEOPLE SEE WHY I HAVE BEEN HOUNDING THIS S.O.B. FOR NEARLY TWENTY FARGIN YEARS???!!!

What you (and I for the first time!) just read was UN-edited, free-associating writing that had you on that train.

As written, without rewrites.

I again plead with you CJ. Do it. Your other stuff that I have read is of the same gem quality. Write it. Give your novel.
-----------------------------------------------------------------

An aside here... I had no idea my son was gifted. I found out when my wife and I brought him with us to the home of someone we knew slightly. They had a luxurious place, with a grand piano in the living room.

As we were talking, my five-year old kid walked over to the huge piano and climbed up on the seat. I cringed, and went to get him off -- but our host said to "let the little guy pound on it -- he won't hurt it".

Then the miracle happened.

My little son began to play the piano. Not play ON it. He played the theme from "Dr. Zhivago". His grandma had sung that song to him. "What now, my love?..."

Talk about a frozen tableau. Our host had eyes as big as ours. Slow, deliberate, exact music came from that big instrument with the little kid playing it. He had the whole melody spot on.
--------------------------------------------------------------------

That, folks, is where CJ is. He only needs to DO it; to be exposed to what he is capable of.

A last bit of information: I do not know CJ/Just Passing Through. I do not know his name or what he looks like. But I do know each day he does NOT write is a lost day for Dr. Zhivago to be played.
 
Casey, I really enjoyed that!!! Let us know when you will post the next chapter.
 
Unca Walt said:
Then the miracle happened.

My little son began to play the piano. Not play ON it. He played the theme from "Dr. Zhivago". His grandma had sung that song to him. "What now, my love?..."
Click to expand...
I believe a lot of children are born geniuses - then 'education' beats that silliness right out of them.
 
Yabbut -- CJ needs to write his first novel. I have offered to edit it gratis.

Hey @Casey Jones -- Post the other one about driving the train. Post it here.
 
Gotta dig that one out.

In a few hours.

Given the weather, the season, and yada yada issues...I may just get started with something for you to critique, Walt.

This is something akin to bungee jumping, for me. Had so many various forms of misstepping, in other lines of work/activity, it's hard to get motivated. But, dull hot rage, and boredom, seem to be doing it.
Unca Walt said:
Yabbut -- CJ needs to write his first novel. I have offered to edit it gratis.

Hey @Casey Jones -- Post the other one about driving the train. Post it here.
Click to expand...
 
Casey Jones said:
Gotta dig that one out.

In a few hours.

Given the weather, the season, and yada yada issues...I may just get started with something for you to critique, Walt.

This is something akin to bungee jumping, for me. Had so many various forms of misstepping, in other lines of work/activity, it's hard to get motivated. But, dull hot rage, and boredom, seem to be doing it.
Click to expand...
Quit being a pussy. Just do it. Stop overthinking
 
Unca Walt said:
Yabbut -- CJ needs to write his first novel. I have offered to edit it gratis.

Hey @Casey Jones -- Post the other one about driving the train. Post it here.
Click to expand...
Should I post the whole mess? Or just the partial I posted elsewhere.

The whole thing is 16 pages.

The Over-The-Hill-and-Pull-It-Apart bit was only a partial...the present-day part of that flashback.
 
I see, in the end, I did post the full monte, back then.

So, I'll limit it to the vignette that Walt so enjoyed, the first time...


I'D RESET THE BREAKERS on the two units while stopped dead in Erie. Now...I'd try using light dynamic to ease down the hill into Lackawanna. Twelve miles...too easy a hill to use the air brakes, too steep to roll. So...lame dynamics? Ya play the hand yer dealt...

Over the crest at about 25 mph; and TJ is looking at his watch. We're short of time...by Federal law, train crews are limited to twelve hours. And when they say twelve hours, they mean TWELVE HOURS. And not a second more. Even then, computers controlled interlockings, signal settings and wayside detectors...all of which would show exactly the time you passed.

If you were over your hours, there would be discipline from the company and a fine from the government. A PERSONAL fine.

But...it wasn't gonna be slow speed that would mess us up - the glitch would be if I'd have to use air on the hill. With a train with 200 feet of slack, the only way to kick off the air brakes would be to stop to reset. There just wasn't time for that.

Over the knob, top of the hill...the train starts to pick up speed, almost suddenly, as the center of it goes over. It will do this without appreciable changes in the noise in the cab...the alert hogger has to watch his speedometer like a protective parent. But...more than weight is involved; a long train has its own characteristics; its own friction. We were rolling easy...just the way I wanted.

On this particular piece of railroad, the signals don't light up until the track's shunted – not until there's a train on the block circuit, the metal wheels and axles letting current across the low-voltage circuit on the rails. It's how railroad signals have worked for a hundred years.

On long straights, you'd see the signals light as soon as you passed the one you were alongside. But what we saw this moment, gave us no cheer.

“Ho, what's that?” I said to TJ. Yellow over green. Approach Medium, at Mile 11. By the rulebook, bring the train down to 30 mph at the next signal. By the wiring in this district, it meant an approach at 7 and a Stop at 5. We were being held.

I swore. “Get that...get Bridgett on, ask her what she's thinking!” TJ grabbed the handset.

No response. “Lemme tone her up.” I hit the three-key DMTF tone; got a responding tone. Silence.

“Out for a smoke, dammit. She knows we're short...you got her number?” It's illegal now, but in those early cell-phone days your phone was a backup radio. If a dispatcher thought you were okay, he'd even give you his cell number.

TJ was fumbling in his notebook. “All I've got is the direct line to the Lakeshore desk.” He was dialing. No answer.

“Okay...we'll have to hold back. Where can we fit?” We were 9400 feet long...there were few places to park a train that long.

“We should fit – JUST – at Amsdell Road” That was near Milepost 8...coming fast. “Can you stop?” Deja vu all over again...if we overshot it, we couldn't back up blind; there was no time to get TJ on the rear to protect the shove. We'd have to cut the crossing, not even enough time for THAT...and the recrew would have to air-test the string behind the cut.

The key to handling a train is, control of slack action. Sounds simple..,in practice it's not. Here I had a train with two parts going downhill, one part aimed uphill, lots of in-and-out slack – and lame dynamics.

The best way to stop a train like this is to “power brake.” Set the air lightly and pour the coal on. The brakes warm up, the train stays stretched, the slowing controlled with the throttle.

That takes advance distance and time – we had neither. And we were rolling downhill and already hot...over the speed limit.

Next best way, is with the dynamics. Again, not an option.

Then there's the New-Engineer way...set the air, bunch the slack up as best you can with the locomotive independent brakes. Given no time or set-up planning...that's how it would go.

Once you've started on a plan of action, you're committed. I set the air, eight-pound reduction...the telemetry box chirped as the air settled. Just then, the signal at 7 went up from amber, Approach, to green – Clear.

”CSX Lakeshore, Q260. You're lined over the bridge, Buffalo Terminal's going to recrew you at Amtrak.”

Filthy words I learned on playgrounds, spilled from my mouth like drool. “Hang on...maybe I can do this.” What I needed was to get it all bunched while the brakes released through the train. One second a car...that's what it took. When you have fifteen cars, no problem. When you have a 95-car train on a set of ridges...

Put the independent on, HARD. Sixty-two pounds. Kick off the train brakes...no partial release. The power digs in, feel the rapid-fire jolts from behind as the cars run in. Ten seconds...20...the telemetry chirps that air pressure's rising on the rear.

Then a low whump! and an instant later, the telemetry-box explodes in a panic of emergency alerts.

I gambled. I lost. We'd pulled the train apart.
...
 
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Didn't you see the whole essay at GIM2?

"A song of the Harvest Moon." How a beta-male of long ago, became a sigma...the hard way. Recalling bad times while wrecking trains.
 
Casey Jones said:
Didn't you see the whole essay at GIM2?

"A song of the Harvest Moon." How a beta-male of long ago, became a sigma...the hard way. Recalling bad times while wrecking trains.
Click to expand...
Musta misst it...?
 
Goldhedge said:
Musta misst it...?
Click to expand...
Since I was looking, I have the link ready.


Since most people here are from GIM, no point in wasting bandwidth. It's a sixteen-page short-story...two days after it happened, I wrote a more-condensed bit of it for the NewsMax board readers. Got some positive feedback...

Then, ten years ago, expanded it a bit, with the idea of selling it to a magazine somewhere. No interest.

But no point in cluttering up the InterWebZ with the same-old same-old. Walt is right. I have to start draining the sump of my braincase and get crackin' (kraken?) on that novel. Sex, murder, Interstate Flight...dead lawyers; live steam locomotives, the life of a cabdriver in Houston. Think Taxi Driver with an EastTex accent.

Police chase through Hollywood, with a suspended FBI agent, commandeered Los Angeles County deputies, led by some rube from Texas in a clapped-out Datsun pickup. He loses them! On to kill again...

Until he can't anymore. A Pyrric victory at the international border at Ogdensberg...leaving the railroader/taxi driver to the buzzards, the the FBI man, now fired, to contemplate a high dive off a rock ledge.
 
Process got stalled, but I'm starting to move ahead.

I'm forgetting Substack. And it's not going to be saleable. I'm going to open a BBS like this one, with LIMITED posting - persons who "join" can post feedback after each chapter or segment. No charge, at least not initially.

I'm going to do this like the author of Fifty Shades of Grey did. If in the end it gets published, that's good. Kinda - because there's some powerful people behind my experiences. You never know if the frat boy your kid is getting silly-drunk with, is going to wind up owning his own business with millions in annual revenue. Or if the character you parody, because he's such a live wire, has a son or daughter who's got money, and standing, and doesn't like Daddy's memory soiled. Because everyone who knew Daddy could spot him.

Stuff like that.
 
CJ -- I honestly dunno whether to be stunned, amused to the point of giggling, astonished at what this old bastage can recognize as himself forty years younger, or just suddenly anxious to pass on a piece of life changing advice/knowledge for an author.

One thing I will say: I am not in the least sanguine about a blog-novel, co-written by committee of paying guests. It even sounds... off.

There is one crucial concept you must understand: YOU must write the novel. COMPLETE. You must have an editor -- for every human on earth is blind to his own mistakes. YOU must write the novel... the whole novel.

This does not mean you cannot communicate ideas. To the contrary, editing is extremely helpful in building a rapport with your readers.

So here is my writing advice. Read it deep:

You do not have a BB-gun, you have a Ma Deuce.

Feel more than free to build your characters with the exact schit that makes them so important to the scene/chapter/novel. People do not want comic book characters (which is what you will get with a committee-written work). It will be campfire soup, a bit thrown in here and there to please everyone, but instead of being spicy and unique... it is a blender product just barely swallowed.

Let me tell you from years ahead of you: If a reader sees a Snidely Whiplash misanthrope through other characters' eyes, and through those others eyes he recognizes himself -- he hides from the concept and won't/can't go near it.

Do not allow your own mind to censor you. That would be a bad thing.
 
Unca Walt said:
CJ -- I honestly dunno whether to be stunned, amused to the point of giggling, astonished at what this old bastage can recognize as himself forty years younger, or just suddenly anxious to pass on a piece of life changing advice/knowledge for an author.

One thing I will say: I am not in the least sanguine about a blog-novel, co-written by committee of paying guests. It even sounds... off.

There is one crucial concept you must understand: YOU must write the novel. COMPLETE. You must have an editor -- for every human on earth is blind to his own mistakes. YOU must write the novel... the whole novel.

This does not mean you cannot communicate ideas. To the contrary, editing is extremely helpful in building a rapport with your readers.

So here is my writing advice. Read it deep:

You do not have a BB-gun, you have a Ma Deuce.

Feel more than free to build your characters with the exact schit that makes them so important to the scene/chapter/novel. People do not want comic book characters (which is what you will get with a committee-written work). It will be campfire soup, a bit thrown in here and there to please everyone, but instead of being spicy and unique... it is a blender product just barely swallowed.

Let me tell you from years ahead of you: If a reader sees a Snidely Whiplash misanthrope through other characters' eyes, and through those others eyes he recognizes himself -- he hides from the concept and won't/can't go near it.

Do not allow your own mind to censor you. That would be a bad thing.
Click to expand...
Oh, no no no. You misunderstand, @Unca Walt . They won't have the ability to contribute - only read and comment.

Each chapter will be done up as a series of posts, and then AUTHORIZED readers allowed to comment. Not contribute.

Before each chapter is set up for viewing, it will be behind an Admin lock, so no one will be comment between posts.

It's the only way, I think.

Here's the reality: Reading is now out of fashion. Books can't be given away. The only reason kids want books is to burn them in sham outrage for various imagined slights.

Here in a formerly-literate mountain city, older people are BEGGING people to take books. Fiction. History. Religion...philosophy, everything you can imagine.

Younger people have no interest.

I'm not going to sell this. All I'd do is draw Butt-hurt from all the professional victims - because men are men, women are women, they say and do bad things, bad words, bad attitudes. Because it's a big bad world out there, and heroes aren't all Hyphenated-Americans.

In fact, almost none are. And none of them are in this. I don't want it polluted with Political Correctness.

I'll write it and it'll be filed away with my papers, and whoever winds up with my effects, if people are still able to read...maybe a penny-press can sell it. Or maybe an historical-focused publisher...since it'll be Public Domain by that time.
 
Awright. Reset to the reset.

First, we agree on the most MOST important thing (the ONLY thing right now): "I'll write it..."

Second most important thing: You are as unaware of the book publishing field as I am of how to work them big locomotive thingies you know all about.

You do not have to even THINK of hardcopy publishing anymore. There is a new paradigm out there, and books are selling faster than ever in human history. <-- Read that aloud. You didn't read it aloud, so again:

Books are selling faster than ever in human history.

They are e-books. Half the folks here have read even my dismal shit. I know a guy for sure who has.

Moreover, let me inform you of an even newer genre' of book publishing/sales:

Audio books. <-- Sumbody reads a short synopsis, or sees a book with four or five stars. For half the price of a gallon of gasoline, they can download a book and LISTEN to it while they do the dishes, drive the car, take a shit.

A novel that costs about $40 hardcover can be purchased with one click of a mouse for $2.99. Moreover, potential readers can read about five chapters of a book to see if they want to just *click* and own a copy.

Your plan sucks from so many ways, I dunno where to start. I'll just go back to the JPT days and walk into the front end of a train and see a bunch of stuff I know nothing about...

...and decide I have a better way of hauling that load of freight to another city, just as soon as I get it going.

That is a fair comparison.

Now. One more thing: What do you think a person is more likely to do --

1. Pay you continually (at some variable rate) to discuss/suggest/whatever your book.

2. Click a ONE TIME ONLY button and get the finished product (of which they have already reviewed and sampled the first five chapters).

LATE ADDITIONAL SUMPIN' I THOUGHT OF:

WHEN your e-book, and/or your audio-book sells enough to make you comfortable... Put it out there (*gasp*) in hardcover and softcover. <-- There are those out there that will want a permanent hardcopy. Trust me.
 
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Casey Jones said:
Since I was looking, I have the link ready.

https://www.goldismoney2.com/threads/anyone-open-for-some-reading.585747/#post-2541117
Since most people here are from GIM, no point in wasting bandwidth. It's a sixteen-page short-story...two days after it happened, I wrote a more-condensed bit of it for the NewsMax board readers. Got some positive feedback...

Then, ten years ago, expanded it a bit, with the idea of selling it to a magazine somewhere. No interest.

But no point in cluttering up the InterWebZ with the same-old same-old.
Click to expand...
can't find ANY of the old place online

Screenshot 2023-06-03 at 3.44.55 PM.png
 
I have it on the mini-laptop by my recliner.

I just have to finish up the chapter...a very-rough draft of it. Setting the stage...an earlier time (set in the late 1970s) and a tormented young man...about to take a good union screwing, that's going to put him in a completely off-the-beaten-path place. Payton Place in the woods, without any roads out.

I was gonna do my typing earlier, but cut a finger dang near off in the kitchen. So I have a nice fat bandage on it...
 
Okay, here goes. This is one of several prologues I planned, before the action starts. Set the stage, as it is.

The other one, isn't completed - but it starts out with a good old-fashioned American shanking, in the dark, between old frenimies...one of whom traveled 2000 miles for the privilege. But this one, develops the character a bit.
 
Vengeance is Mine

(working title)​

A novel by Anonymous (I have a pen name at the ready, but I'll hold off on it for the moment)

FRONTISPIECE ​
"Vengeance is mine; I will repay. Thus sayeth THE LORD."
--Romans 12:19

"Free will is a myth."
--B. F. Skinner

"If my hands slack, I rob God - for God cannot make Stradivarius violins without Antonio."
--Antonio Stradivari, violinmaker
 
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