Prologue II - Stranger in a Stranger Land
I am just a poor boy, though my story's seldom told.
I have squandered my resistance
For a pocketful of mumbles; such are promises.
All lies and jest - for a man hears what he wants to hear, and disregards the rest...
--Paul Simon
God, his @ss hurt. @ss, back, neck.
The seatbox, the old-timers called it. Back in the day, they said, it was an actual box – filled with tools. The engineer would perch on it, leaning forward, on the overhead throttle – which worked on linkages to feed steam into the twin cylinders out front.
All gone, now. This was a diesel, a new one – an SD-40. Painted, like most engines, in Penn Central flat black; but at least it was CLEAN flat back. Unlike the roster of older units, with dirty flat black and yellowed off-white stenciling. Or the even older colors of predecessor railroads, or lines that had sold surplus locomotives to the bankrupted failed mega Eastern company.
Seat aside, this one was relatively nice. Clean inside; everything worked. Noisy, but they all were. Shooter’s muffs helped with that. His instructors and the old-time brakemen and conductors looked askance; but they were mostly deaf as posts. It surprised them that he could hear the radio, hear conversation, with the muffs on, easier than they.
He was a “fireman.” A fireman, in railroad history, was the crewman assigned to stoking the locomotive firebox; tending the water level, controlling boiler pressure. That was gone over 20 years ago, but the job remained. A fireman was an engineer trainee.
He was out here to learn. Learn, how to keep the trains moving, in an era of battered track, broken equipment, angry employees and now a looming government takeover.
“...gonna get a Federal pension out of this?” Smitty was the “Head Man,” the brakeman riding the head end. Doug, the engineer, had been at a Brotherhood meeting two days earlier, and some preliminary news had ceom down from the regional union people.
“That’s not what they’re sayin’,” Doug answered. “It’s gonna be a private company, just like the P-company. Just with a new name – and owned by the government. Like Amtrak.”
That was not encouraging. Amtrak, in its five years, had become a circus of mismatched, obsolete, worn and damaged equipment and failures, of equipment, training and rules.
“So it’s gonna be the worst of the Post Office, the P Company, and government employment. All the dumb-ass rules and poor pay, and no security. All named Con-Rail. It fits – they’re gonna con us in a way the P-Company managers never even thought of.”
“Maybe.” Doug stared ahead, vacantly, for a moment, then remembered himself. His eyes went to the speedometer. 40 mph...this area was under a Permanent Speed Restriction, due to track conditions. Which were continually deteriorating.
“Allen. What was our last signal?” Doug asked. He knew. He knew his trainee probably knew. But there was a rule broken – and a lesson.
“Advance Approach.”
“Why didn’t you call it out, d@mmit.”
“You two were talking.”
“You know the rules, godd@mmit. A negative signal, YOU CALL IT OUT. And everyone has to repeat it.”
“Sorry.”
“What’s it telling us?”
Another lesson. “We’re gonna do something at Batavia.” East Batavia was three miles away. Track Three, used as a running track, and the area between East and West Batavia was a frequent passing location.
“Yes, but what’s the next signal gonna be?”
“Approach, or Approach Limited, or Medium-Approach.”
“Meaning?”
“We hold at East Batavia, or we cross over.”
“Why aren’t you braking?”
“No need, yet.” Passing an Approach signal only necessated a speed reduction to 40. The signals were set up for 60 mph operation. Few areas on the old New York Central mainline were in condition to run at that speed, anymore.
