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

[Casey Jones]

Doug turned his attention to the brakeman. “You see that Jeepster parked at the dorm?” The crew room and terminal were called “the dormatory” even though crews had been using off-site motels for rest stops for 15 years. “Looks like new. They haven’t made them for 20 years, and it looks brand new. Wonder who owns THAT.” Smitty was an old-car buff.

“That’s Allen’s, ain’t it?” Smitty asked.

“That thing yours, Allen?” Doug turned to him.

“Yeah, it’s mine.” A lie.

“That must have cost you.”

“Yeah, it did.” Another lie. It cost, but not Allen. Not money. It cost him time and inventiveness. It cost a dead man a lot of money. And now it’s costing him multiples in worry and hassle. The Wages of Sin.

“You still got Texas plates on it,” Smitty said. “If the Buffalo cops don’t get you, the state troopers will. You need to get them changed.”

“Yeah. I’m still got some problems with the title.”

And that, at least, was the truth. The title, with a forged signature on it, made out as a sale to Allen Richmond, resident of Aldine, Texas. Now trying to be retitled to Allen Richmond, resident of Cheektowaga, New York.

Jumping something there, aren’t you, young man? Take it back to Texas and have the title issued to you, and then we can see about re-titling it here.

Meantime, there’s the little matter of a new JOB, one he was unbelievably lucky to land. Time off work to un-snarl this mess...if he could even find a way to...would cost him that.

And in New York he couldn’t even drive it legally without insurance. Something ELSE he could scarcely think about – and now, as a newly-respectable new resident, couldn’t afford not to think about. For two months he’d been commuting the three miles from his rooming-house to the yard by bicycle – but rain and a “short call” had him driving the Jeepster in.

But, realistically, he’d probably have to either buy a junker locally or start taking a taxi in.

Around a curve, the “distance signal” to East Batavia came into view. “Approach,Medium” Allen announced.

“What are we doing?” Doug asked.

“Crossing over. Gonna hold at West Batavia.”

“Correct. What’s your speed gonna be?”

“Track 3, 25 mph by Timetable Special Instructions. By the signal, though, we’re legal to 30 mph through the plant.”

“Correct again. Bring it down to 25 by the time we hit the plant. Use your dynamic. Remember, we’re a TV train – LIGHT.” Trail-Van unit trains were a relatively-new concept. About half the weight per foot of a conventional freight train, TV trains were fast, light, and easy to pop off the rails with sudden brake applications.

That damned car.

 

[Casey Jones]

* * *

Oh, how he’d wanted it. It represented the last link – a key to freedom. He had schemed his escape, from the time his mother died...his drunken Irish father becoming intolerable. School, work – his mother taught him to play piano, and no doubt never imagined he’d use the skill in a brothel. But it was good money. Lying to his father about working as a soda jerk and busboy...saving, scrimping, dreaming...freedom, over the horizon.

To work at Frannie’s, an underground sporting-house on Aldine Mail Route, he had to ride his motorized bicycle an hour each way – rush hour traffic coming in, and then the midnight drinker traffic going home. It was good money, though – better money than many full-time jobs.

Allen Richmond was 17 and a senior in high school.

The Jeepster was for sale on Arline Drive, near Little York Road. Sitting out front of a house...typical oldster’s house, preserved but not kept up. A 1967 – the first year. Price $1700. JUST what he wanted. He wanted a Jeep, and this was a Jeep in a tuxedo. A roadster body on a Jeep CJ-6 frame, and this one with a steel bolt-on hardtop.

The old man, Ferris was his name...would not budge on the price. Nor hold it – you come by when you got the money, boy. Otherwise don’t waste my time.

A week later, he’d come by on his bicycle, with the Chicken-Power auxiliary motor helping him...when he saw an ambulance in front of Ferris’ home. Coming out with a gurney. Didn’t seem to be in a hurry.

Coming home at 1 AM, he saw lights on in the house. The garage door was still opened. A daring, stupid plan unfolded…

He put his Chicken-Power in a drainage ditch. He went in...aside from some disorder in the kitchen, everything looked normal. The television was still on, though the station had signed off for the night.

He was looking for papers. If he could get the papers on that Jeepster…

In a second bedroom was a rolltop desk and some file cabinets. Looking in the fourth cabinet, he found the folder. It had insurance papers, title, the newest registration, three months old...and a spare set of keys.

He grabbed it. He had to get out of there, and secure things.

The Jeepster started right up – no drama, no noise. He fired it up, loaded up the bicycle, drove it a mile away, and parked at a closed gas station. He rode the powered bicycle back, hid it, and went back inside.

There had to be money about. The old man was a miser – this was obvious. Somewhere, there was money.

He found it. In, of all places, a file cabinet. In a file, was paper money – hundreds, paper-clipped together in bundles of 20, four bundles in all. He grabbed those, put them in a paper grocery sack...locked up the house, turned out the lights, pulled down the garage door.

There was doubtless more money in there. But he wasn’t greedy. He wasn’t a thief; this was money from heaven, to make an escape with.

Three days later – and he was watching – he saw the DEATH NOTICES listing of one Samuel Jefferson Ferris.

There was no mention of a robbery. By then, the Jeepster was in long-term parking at Houston Intercontinental Airport, awaiting Allen’s high-school graduation. The house had some official-looking activity going on about, but not police activity. Seemingly, Mister Ferris didn’t have any immediate relatives.

 

[Casey Jones]

Around a bend, the crew of TV-7 could see the East Batavia home signal, a mile away.

“Medium Approach,” Allen announced. “Guess we’re holding.” The train speed was 27. The consist – two new SD-40s and an old GP-9 in Pennsylvania Railroad livery – at was slowing on light dynamic braking.

The light of the opposing train was aimed at them. It wasn’t dimmed, as it would be if the train were stationary.

The East Batavia signal changed. “Limited Clear” Allen announced.

“Guess they’re gonna keep us rolling. Block operator’s on the ball. That must be Amtrak – it’s gotta be a short train.”

Just then, the signal changed again. Two reds, one over the other.

“Light dropped,” Allen announced. It was not an uncommon event – the fail-safe nature of railroad signalling was, any problem or temporary break in circuitry would “drop the signal” – make it go red. A false green was impossible, but any conceivable fault or issue could cause a false red. And there were a lot of issues with Penn Central Transportation.

“Bring it to a nice, safe stop,” Doug said. “We don’t want to buckle this train. Are you bunched or stretched?”

“Bunched. I was in dynamic.”

“Full service, then. Hope Murph and the Rat have a good place to hang on.” The conductor and rear brakeman were in the “cabin” or caboose.

The approaching headlight and surrounding bulk, grew to blotting out the home signal on the right. “Jesus H. Christ, they’ve run the plant!” Doug yelled. “DUMP IT!”

Smitty was already on the floor, under the center window. Doug was scrambling for a place to brace himself. Allen looked, and shrugged. No room for me, I guess. Here goes nuffin.

Speed dropped...slowly, then with gaining momentum. Twenty...15….ten...seven….the ugly profile of an Amtrak EMD E-9 streamliner grew in the windshield.

“God-D@MN, that was close!” Smitty said. He got up, just in time for impact, at six miles an hour. His nose and front tooth were broken on the glass of the center windshield. Allen, about to go out the back door to jump, was launched forward over his own seat, to hit his head on the heater cabinet box in front of the engineer’s windshield.

 

[Casey Jones]

* * *
The air in the waiting hallway was hot, stifling. The disciplinary hearing was being held in company offices above the Buffalo Central Terminal.

Railroad discipline proceedings take the form of a court inquiry, with a company official presiding. Employees in question are entitled to, and presumed to have, union representation to defend. Other defense representatives are allowed only at company discretion.

The obvious problem is, the union is often in a conflict of interest. One union member’s story may contradict another’s. And the Union Local Chairman may have his own belief, or friendships. Moreover, new employees are not granted union membership until the 90-day probationary period is up.

The Amtrak engineer was one Lisa DiNardi, hired with fanfare a year earlier. It was celebrated as a breakthrough for women – and proof that the new government-owned passenger-railway service was enlightened and forward-thinking. Advancement that quickly was unheard of, but not when there’s PR at stake.

The Block Operator had stated in deposition that Amtrak 58 had been lined through West Batavia, but at East Batavia, TV-7 had been lined to divert onto Track 3 from Main 1. The switching equipment, untouched after the event, supported that.

Amtrak’s Engineer DiNardi had given a statement that she had passed West Batavia with an Approach signal, but at East Batavia the signal showed Clear. She had said that TV-7 was around the bend and not visible.

Amtrak engineers worked alone – the conductor would be in the passenger coaches; the fireman’s position had been abolished.

The weather had been clear, with bright early-evening sunshine. There was the question of cleanliness of the signal lenses and equipment. Neither the Union Local Chairman from the P-Company, nor Amtrak, were interested in bringing up Ms. DeNardi’s training or work record.

Allen Richmond began to smell a rat.

The crews were out of service until preliminary inquiries were completed. Doug, Allen’s trainer, had been un-reachable by phone. The union local chairman said he’d relay a request to call, but the call never came. Doug was not here, this afternoon – although he was supposed to be giving his version of events.

Smitty was. He was distant, cold. The injuries, Allen rationalized...but then, Smitty grabbed his shoulder.

“I gotta do what I gotta do,” he said. “We all do. Doug, too...he’s got kids, he’s got a mortgage. I got my responsibilities. Good luck, kid.” Smitty went in, the door closing behind him.

Every railroad event has to be pinned to a fall guy. It’s almost fortunate if there’s a death involved, because things can be worked around to blame the event on the deceased. Lacking that...if there’s a new hire or probationary employee involved, he’s found to be in some sort of violation – and terminated.

Allen was about to learn this.

Smitty came out, at a trot – a man on a mission. He avoided eye contact as he made a beeline to the elevator.

Allen was called in.

* * * *
Two hours later, Allen was in the trainmaster’s office, turning his equipment in – switch keys, timetables, which were considered proprietary. His final check and Notice of Termination were being prepared. He was to sign receipt of the Decision of Inquiry.

“You done with him, Ed?” It was the Road Foreman of Engines, sticking his head in.

“Just about. Another minute.”

“Richmond. Could you stick your head in my office before you go?” Allen had no idea what business they could have. No need to pretend to respect, to honor status. They’d sacked him. Because they didn’t have the guts to sack that Amtrak...engineer.

Grabbing his check and bundle of documents, Allen went down the corridor to the RFE’s office. He didn’t knock.

“Allen. This is all off the record, okay? I’m sorry. I’m not the only one who’s sorry. There’s bigger forces at work here.”

“You did good here. It’s not on paper; it can’t be on paper; but Doug told me how it really went down. You were right and you did good. So maybe I can help you...there’s a short line, up in the Adirondack Preserve...they need crews. I can make some calls...”

 

[Casey Jones]

Moar to come

 

[Unca Walt]

Great start. Must be edited, spell-checked. And I know (from 'sperience) that posting a story here really needs the PITA step to remove the automatic double-spacing twixt paragraphs -- saves a blue ton of posting bandwidth.

 

[searcher]

double-spacing twixt paragraphs

Got it.

 

[Someone_else]

Must be edited, spell-checked.

I did not notice any awkward grammar or spelling problems. And I know... my mind comes to a screeching halt; it's like stepping on a Lego.

The Block Operator had stated

This paragraph slowed me down, because I don't know the railroad term "lined" and the details of the accident. Am I supposed to learn it as I read on? If not, maybe this could be fleshed out a bit so everyone understands.

 

[Casey Jones]

I did not notice any awkward grammar or spelling problems. And I know... my mind comes to a screeching halt; it's like stepping on a Lego.

This paragraph slowed me down, because I don't know the railroad term "lined" and the details of the accident. Am I supposed to learn it as I read on? If not, maybe this could be fleshed out a bit so everyone understands.

It's not really relevant to the story at this point. "Lined" means the switch is set up for the desired movement. That can be facing - you can go one of two ways - or trailing - you come behind a switch, it better be lined your way. Else you break it, maybe derail, definitely some time off on suspension.

Where it goes from here, in a disjointed manner, is how this kid, a few years later, becomes an alcoholic young engineer on a tourist steam railroad...working with a bunch of characters, college kids, townies. He's neither flesh nor fowl; he doesn't fit in. And it all comes to a head.

And then his silent departure to Houston...where his past follows him. He takes a humble job driving a cab, Travis-Bickle style...and someone from this backwoods town, now rich and smug, winds up in his cab. In the company of a stripper, out of Caligula 21.

Old-time Houston residents might recognize that name. Notorious flesh den.

Anyway, the die is cast. Murder is done - someone killed someone. And now it's time to finish things off.

I haven't even gotten to my misfit FBI man. Not sure I'll write him in - now that the Feebs are the bad guys...back a generation ago, they actually did pursue such crimes as Interstate Flight associated with Homicide.

 

[Casey Jones]

Details of the accident? The Amtrak engineer ran a red signal.

And lied about it. Those lies are easy to check back on. Today, it's all on a computer event notation - switches are lined by computer radio-control, from the dispatch center. With CSX, today (which runs that line, now) it's Jacksonville, Florida. With BNSF, it's Fort Worth, Texas. With UP, it's Omaha, Nebraska.

Back in the late 1970s, interlockings - that is, sets of switches to cross trains over or into sidings - were controlled by Block Operators. They'd sit in towers, but as time went on, block operators would control more than one block. Back then, the Penn Central had no radios - they were broke. Some crewmen used Radio Shack walkie-talkies to switch trains. Other railroads had radios, but it wasn't until 1977 that Conrail got all radio'ed up.

The Block Operator would have lined the cross-over movement. Run on Signal Indication - that's how you knew it was okay to go. In Dark Territory, where there were no signals, you ran on Track Warrants. A Block Operator or Road Foreman would make one out for you - in person or by phone.

Anyway. And, that actually happened to a friend of mine, only twenty years after the setting of this story...this Amtrak engineer ran a red signal. Because the sun was shining bright on the face of the signal; the signal lens was dirty, and she, not being experienced, couldn't make out what it was.

When you cannot read a signal, because it's burned out, pulled down or otherwise dark...YOU STOP. Now, you call it in to Dispatch. Back then, you'd have just continued, after the stop - at Restricted Speed, meaning able to stop within half your sight distance, no more than 15 mph. Stopping short of switches or obstacles.

An inexperienced "engineer" without ready knowledge how to proceed, with no one to tell her...she just went sailing along, until she saw there was a problem.

It's what happened in real life, too. My friend and his partner jumped out, at 25 mph. Wound up in the hospital. Amtrak stopped a car-length short of impact.

 

[Unca Walt]

I did not notice any awkward grammar or spelling problems. And I know... my mind comes to a screeching halt; it's like stepping on a Lego.

Trust yer Unca, Someone. Us editor types like to call most of them "typos". Without getting too granular, in the first third of the first page: "...some preliminary news had ceom down".

CJ is superliterate. A clear step up. That don't make... a writer is pretty blind to his own stuff as he writes in a creative, flowing river of words. An editor is needed. A reader is not necessairly an editor.

I had the most brutal editor. And he was indispensable. The last novel I edited, I received (in a wood/glass case) the First Copy of the author's work.

 

[Casey Jones]

Incomplete, Prologue II

TIme to show those who doubt, that I'm working. Although this, unlike the other, is a work unfolding.

 

[Casey Jones]

PROLOGUE I

There was a merchant in Baghdad who sent his servant to market to buy provisions and in a little while the servant came back, white and trembling, and said, Master, just now when I was in the marketplace I was jostled by a woman in the crowd and when I turned I saw it was Death that jostled me. She looked at me and made a threatening gesture, now, lend me your horse, and I will ride away from this city and avoid my fate. I will go to Samarra and there Death will not find me. The merchant lent him his horse, and the servant mounted it, and he dug his spurs in its flanks and as fast as the horse could gallop he went. Then the merchant went down to the marketplace and he saw me standing in the crowd and he came to me and said, Why did you make a threatening gesture to my servant when you saw him this morning? That was not a threatening gesture, I said, it was only a start of surprise. I was astonished to see him in Baghdad, for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.
--W. Somerset Maugham

A winter’s day
In a deep and dark December
I am alone.
Gazing out my window
Unto the streets below
On a freshly fallen, silent shroud of snow…
--Simon & Garfunkel

Boxing Day, it’s called, in Britain – December 26. So named, originally, because the loyal servants and staff received cartons of what was gifted but not wanted. It remains, the day more plebian celebrants box up what’s not wanted, with an eye for returns for credit.

In the States, it’s the second-busiest shopping day of the Christmas season – where much of the commerce is backflow, from car trunks, to shoppers’ arms, and then to the EXCHANGES windows.

It’s an official unofficial holiday, with many non-retail businesses remaining closed. You want a mechanic, or a dentist, or, perchance, an attorney? Forget it.

Nonetheless there was one such, in his firm’s conference room in ______ in Cleveland’s Terminal Tower...not receiving clients, but cleaning up paperwork. On the clock, of course. He was not a partner – that would come later, he was told. How much later? It was a question never answered; it was poor form to ask. The partnership remained the carrot on the stick...as the hours required, grew, the work stretched, the billings kept multiplying in tandem with dissatisfaction.

The office was of course closed – there would be no corporate consultations, no high-powered civil litigants bringing in matters on such a day – but there were a handful of junior attorneys, employees, essentially, doing the same as one John Walters – originally Johann Van der Waalt.

A few steps away, in his cubicle office, on a wall, were his diploma, from Cornell University School of Law, made out, likewise to John D. Walters. It was a forgery, done by a skilled engraver. His true diploma lay in a trunk at home, with his given Dutch name.

The law license was likewise a second copy, after his legal name-change was probated. John, Johann, wanted to appear as nothing but one more WASP-ish member of the bar.

Outside the windows of the conference room, the fat flakes of a Lake Erie snow squall fell silently by. It was a long way down, to Public Square.

The work commenced. Drudge-work, mostly. He edited in margins; he noted paragraphs. He did it by rote – his mind was elsewhere. A troublesome day with proletariat nuisances; with a high-maintenance wife. His trip to work was of the most inglorious imaginable: he took the Rapid.

His Scirocco wouldn’t start. Renee had “shopping” that she “had” to do today – so there was nothing left to do but have her run him from Berea to the Brook Park Rapid stop, like a janitor hustling to work at the Sheraton.

It wasn’t even convenient. If he’d listened to co-workers, and looked for a home in Beachwood or Cleveland Heights, he’d have had the Shaker Rapid nearly at his door. But he chose Berea – with the college, Baldwin-Wallace; the Metroparks; the edge of the suburban belt. Screw status – Berea’s trendy enough.

The snow fell. The sun, obscured by snow and clouds, dipped.

Marry in haste, repent at leisure. Who had said that? Didn’t matter – it was said a hundred years before he was born, and with all his education, Ithaca College, Cornell Law...he’d done it.

Cohabitation, he was told, put forth the wrong image. We want you with our firm; but we have standards within that we have to hold up. Dewey, Niccum & Howe has prominent clients, with conservative standards. We have to think of their standards; and our staff and partners need respect those standards.

Yeah, okay. Well, it would be a chance to maybe smooth things over with Renee’s father. They had been at loggerheads since before they even met. Renee was rebellious; she moved in with him at least partly to spite her father. It was a chance to be rebellious while glomming on to a man on the move up.

Then this first coersion, at the first crossroads. Johann expected it in the legal field. Okay...it is what it is. A weekend discussion with Renee; and the decision was made: Get married, but not with the silly Establishment folderol. Fly to Vegas; find the tackiest wedding chapel they could; and do it. Then spend a week in the Grand Canyon.

It was so done. Johann wore a black tee-shirt with a white silk-screen of a bow tie. Renee was in white jeans and blouse. Running shoes on both.

They were respectable.

Except, even in their irrepressible way, it chafed.

Renee’s father was a tool-and-die man for the Ford engine plant...he had aspired for a better life for his daughter. He helped her to enter SUNY Geneseo, far away from the family’s working-class environment in Parma...and instead, she apparently chose to major in Alcohol Abuse. Field research led him to this apparently-Dutch nobody from Albany.

Aspirations led to a field with close-to-no satisfaction; with little renumeration – but always the promise of that pot of gold, if he just tried just a little bit harder.

The snow fell, outside. The time was long past sunset, yet the outside was brilliant, in the way of winter landscapes with diffused lighting. The snow was orange, with the glare of sodium street lamps...the traffic on Euclid Avenue, light.

Time to pack it in, Johnny-boy, he thought. I’d showed I’m a good company boy – coming in on an off day, clocking billable hours...yes, massah, I doon juss like you want.

Johann thought of the irony. It was the Dutch, fresh off the boats, who were frequently put to work by Southern planters to oversee the field slaves. They were scarcely more than slaves themselves, and knew little more of English than the Africans they were to drive.

Here it is, 150 years later. Lincoln freed the <redacted - see forum guidelines on epithets>s, but we Dutch still face the lash.

He gathered up his stack of file folders, and set them in the cabinet in his office. No reason to take a satchel home – it promised to be a lively weekend ahead. Renee needed attention – he was going to fight with her or love her senseless, and either way there’d be no time for fooling with what should be left at the desk, anyway.

The other wage-slaves had already left. John turned on the security alarms, set the lock, and headed for the elevators.
...

 

[Casey Jones]

Okay. I interrupt this ten-month absence, to give a status report.

I had an adventurous spring; and then...all set to spend two weeks camping out in the Pacific Northwest...a dirt-bike marathon; I figured while the others would be drinking themselves silly around the campfire, I'd be in my rolling studio, writing.

We saw how that worked. Ye Olde Vaxxident. Fighting legal, physical, insurance issues. Well, that's 90-percent done.

This would be my silly season - a time of good spirits, typically off the bottom shelf of Grizzly Liquors. Not now - I've turned up to have a propensity to GOUT. That rules out a few activities, starting with, alcohol.

Nothing left to do but get going.

But I was thinking of another Christmas short-story. It's mostly true - like all my fiction. Not a happy ending...

Not sure if I should put it here, or where da sun don't shine...

 

[Unca Walt]

Okay. I interrupt this ten-month absence, to give a status report.

I had an adventurous spring; and then...all set to spend two weeks camping out in the Pacific Northwest...a dirt-bike marathon; I figured while the others would be drinking themselves silly around the campfire, I'd be in my rolling studio, writing.

We saw how that worked. Ye Olde Vaxxident. Fighting legal, physical, insurance issues. Well, that's 90-percent done.

This would be my silly season - a time of good spirits, typically off the bottom shelf of Grizzly Liquors. Not now - I've turned up to have a propensity to GOUT. That rules out a few activities, starting with, alcohol.

Nothing left to do but get going.

But I was thinking of another Christmas short-story. It's mostly true - like all my fiction. Not a happy ending...

Not sure if I should put it here, or where da sun don't shine...

Put it here.

 

[Casey Jones]

Oh, what the deuce. I'll start it now...

I was just gonna dump it next week. But I'll make it a serial.

 

[Casey Jones]

Oh, Little Town of Madison



True Fiction - a story of Christmas.

Even during the of Christmas cheer, even in a smaller exurban area, the paths taken tend to depersonalize. Wrapped up in our own world, we don’t notice, sometimes, what maybe we should.

In a Walmart in Willoughby, Ohio, a buyer selects a battery-powered Sony Walkman CD player with earbuds. It’s a marvelous piece of hardware – made to top standards, at the tail end of that market. Walmart received them at a low wholesale cost, but even with a reduced retail price, not many are selling.

The one sold this afternoon was the only one of the day at that store.

At Record Rendezvous inside the Mentor Mall, a young woman selects a CD – George Strait, Greatest Hits. Unusual choice for someone of her demographic. Had the clerk been less busy, he might have noticed she was alone, and a bit down in the mouth. Odd – but the line is getting longer, let’s move.

On the streets of North Perry and North Madison, far into the exurbs, no one notices a black Dodge Charger moving about – the village park, the high school, Madison’s historic downtown strip. The plates and county tabs showed it was local. Some recognized the car – oh, that’s Dale’s kid. Must have something going on.

Life goes on. Sometimes. Depending.

 

[Casey Jones]

It was the perfect night for it – cloudless, calm, winds, four inches of snow on the ground No matter if your mind would wander to Christmas carolers, to Christmas Eve hymn services, or to stories of corpulent St. Nicholas with his reindeer piloting the skies...the night fit the legends of the season.

I had no time for that. I had a train to drive.

We were stopped on the Fast Freight tracks at Collinwood’s Station E – the eastbound fueling pad for through freights. Trains from Albany and from Willard would fuel in Collinwood Yard, right on the mainline that followed the south side of the yard. The stop was a needed rest on trains from Buffalo, but in-opportune, for eastbound freights, too close to Willard. We’d been on duty about four hours - railroad standards we were fresh.

Certainly I was, although not in good humor. The cards hadn’t gone quite my way. “I can’t complain, but sometimes I still do” – so sang Joe Walsh, long ago. Two crews behind me were ordered deadheaded – and assigned to ride my train, instead of a contract shuttle-bus. They were camping out in the cabs of the second and third locomotives in my consist.

The fuel stop would take about ten minutes. For crews headed west, the fuel pad, Station W was right next to the yard crews’ break room – complete with coffeemaker and vending machines. Here was only the fueling crews’ office – they had a coffeepot but weren’t happy about sharing it. But...it was a chance to step off and stretch, and that’s rare. On the railroad, crews don’t get rest breaks.

Nonetheless, there we were...bathed in the radiant orange glare of low-pressure sodium floodlighting. Sipping some still-warm coffee off my still-full Thermos, I watched as the fueling crews removed the hoses and swung the arms away, and pulled off the “blue flag” hung by the mirror of the lead loco, an EMD SD-40-2.

“You guys clear?” It was obvious, but I had to ask. Rules. Eighteen months ago, at Station W, someone pulled away with fuel arms still attached. Now we had rigid conversations, required, by the rulebook.

“Yes sir, we’re CLEAR!” smirked the fuel man. A new hire. He had reasons, pay reasons, to hold hostility – CSX’s two-tiered pay structure. Morale wasn’t the greatest, now three years into the merger.

“Brad!” I yelled at the conductor, just coming out of the fueling office. He was carrying a couple packs of bottled water. “Check on those deadheads – make sure they haven’t wandered off.”

Brad set the water on the nose platform, and went back. I climbed up, grabbed the water, ducked inside and keyed up the dispatcher.

“CSX Cleveland Terminal , over,” announced the dispatcher. Relief man – I didn’t know his name. Could be a supervisor. He was working out of the old Conrail Indianapolis dispatch center – it would be a few years before we’d adopt CSX’s operating rules and dispatching procedures. I wasn’t looking forward to it.

“Q158, dispatch. Ready to depart Station E east, over.”

“Roger, 158, ready to depart. You have two deadhead crews with you, correct?”

“Last time I checked.”

A moment’s silence. Years later, breaches in radio discipline would be cause for discipline; but when Conrail was Conrail, we had a lot of leeway. We’d tell jokes or pass football scores over the radio.

“Roger, 158, two deadheads onboard. Signal coming at you, One Fast, crossing over to 2 Main eastbound. I’ll let Erie West know you’re coming.” CP 152, just east of Collinwood, was the limits of the subdivision.

“Roger. ” I kicked off the train brakes, watching for a signal from rear EOT that air pressure was coming up, releasing the brakes.

Brad showed up in my mirror, on the catwalk, aiming for the door behind me. He was chewing on something.

“Those guys on board?”

“Yeapf,” he mumbled through his mouthful. He held whatever it was in a paper towel.

“What you do, steal someone’s lunch in there?”

“No,” he said. “Chet and John (one of the deadheads). The staff put some sort of buffet up at the motel, just as they were going out. They grabbed a lot – put it in plastic containers. Some bread, some turkey. One of them gave me stuff for a sandwich.”

“Bon apetite,” I said, dryly. I hadn’t stayed at the hotel – my aged mother lived in Cleveland, 60 miles from Willard Terminal. I kept a second car at Willard and went to her home instead of the hotel.

My own lunch was a couple of Atkins bars. Easier to pack, anyway.

 

[Casey Jones]

The dwarf signal to the right of the Fast Freight track we were on – so named because, fifty years ago, it was used for rapid pickups and dropping of cars, back when trains ran to schedules – the dwarf, or “pot” signal, as the new-to-us CSX rulebook called them...came up Slow Clear. Slow Speed – 15 mph – through the interlocking, and then clear beyond.

No matter – the current speed on the “Fast” Freight tracks was, by instruction, 10 mph. That was the speed to hold until we were all out on the mainline.

Check the air gauges. Air flow down below 60...check. Air at the rear telemetry...86 pounds. Tight train. It aught to be...it was a “Stack” train, all five-bay double-stacks. Length 7655 feet.

I hit the alert bell that would ring through every locomotive cab in the consist. I got two rings back – one from each cab, each crew. Good to go.

Headlight on...bell...notch it out. First notch, not enough. Station E was on an incline...the one side of the “bowl” that Collinwood Yard was made into. Second notch...third...we start to creep. Slack is what you have to watch, but a train with multi-bay stack articulated cars, has about one-fifth the slack run-in as a general freight. So, I could play a little loose with the throttle.

We started to move.

You get into a routine, as you will on any job. Seat was set high – I preferred the seating position on these old SD-40s to the newer “widebody” cabs on newer locomotives. The seat height was adjustable, and I’d set it to where the window sill was at my hips. Slide the window open – even in cold weather, I liked hearing what the engine was doing. Shooter’s earmuffs for general noise, in that older cab – my partners were surprised that I could hear the radio fine with them on, but in fact they helped. And, watch...not idly, but for any abnormalities or surprises.

We pulled out, past the east signal of the interlocking….time to start the counter. It was the only way to know, approximately, when the rear of the train was out of the speed restriction. Start it, and settle in for about ten minutes, getting the train, well over a mile long, out onto the main.

Traffic was light. We knew this; those of us at our away-from-home terminals would watch the computer lists, carefully. The motel had a computer room with dedicated links, to do various company tasks. There was a way to see it via the crude Internet of the time, so I could have followed it. I’d gotten off late last night, driven to Cleveland, and slept in – comes a time, you just can’t care. If I missed a call or was late, tough toenails.

But it didn’t happen. I’d slept well, took care of business, and got back to Willard...and ours was the last train out the gate. Now...what we had, was a whole lot of radio silence. A clear signal at 162. A clear night...quiet, with homes visible from the tracks, bedecked with Christmas lighting.

An Approach Limited came into view. Okay...what’s this?

“CSX Erie West, Q158.”

“Q158, over.”

“You’re gonna cross over to Track 1 at Eastlake, and avoid that slow order at Painesville, over.” The slow board, on the downgrade into Painesville, was 25 mph. Soft spot on the roadbed – it caused a bit of bouncing. I was surprised it wasn’t a top priority, getting it fixed.

“Roger that. Gonna cross us back over?”

“I don’t know. It’s pretty lonely out there...maybe Lakeshore might move you back.” Our directional rules had us in what the rulebook called 261 Territory – two main tracks, both bi-directional. As opposed to 251 Rules, which would have traffic moving forward on the right-hand track, except for unusual circumstances. Just the same, some dispatchers, and some supervisors, liked to keep traffic to the right, passing left-to-left.

“Roger that – ready for anything.” The only way it mattered, really, was that the speed in turnouts – crossing over from one track to another – was 40 mph. We were, on this line, a 60 mph train. As opposed to general freight, which had a speed limit of 50. So we’d have to slow down to cross...but it was still better than going through the slow order.

So. Passing the signal, throttle off, set up Dynamic...ease into it. We had three big new locomotives in the consist, and for some reason, had this historical artifact of an SD-40 as the leader. The guys in back would be comfortable. Well, anyway, it made for easy running...lower throttle. And plenty of power. Once clear of the turnout and back at track speed, I might just isolate the lead unit at the panel – making it a quiet ride.

Presently, the counter showing us clear of the turnout, I reached back, turned the control knob to ISOLATE...the diesel behind us dropped down to an idle. Setting back in the seat, I notched from 4 to 6...the Company didn’t like to see engineers ripping on the throttle, they liked it one notch at a time. And they’d often see it, if an Event Recorder had to be downloaded. The lead unit did nothing; but the three trailing units were connected to the throttle via MU cables

Up to Notch 7. We were gaining speed satisfactorily. Nope, didn’t need four units online. In years ahead, the Company would become anal-retentive about how much power was online, how much throttle was used. But for now, Conrail was still mostly Conrail. The easternmost Cowboy Line.

I settled in...watching the mirror, the track ahead...the lights of the approaching Lubrizol plant in Painesville...any stray red signals to ruin my day. Admiring the clarity of the stars in the black sky, as we left the outdoor-lighting glare of Cleveland’s eastern suburbs behind.

 

[Casey Jones]

Rolling along, straight and mostly flat...out of Painesville and a tangent to Geneva. Nothing much to concern myself with...straight, a few sags in the track...but a stack train is light and long, and I had plenty of power. Mostly it was brain-stem reflexive...watch for the whistle-boards, the big white Ws which indicated a road crossing ahead. Decades earlier, before electronic warning signals were universal, they told crews, behind huge, hot boiler bulkheads, a crossing was ahead, and to blow the whistle. Today, we had full-length windows, less pressing concerns – no worries about water levels or steam pressure – and roadway warning-signals we could see from the cab.

Mostly.

Perry slips behind us. We’re in a lightly-settled area, now...Lane Road has no flashing signals. I’m on the north track – I can see the whistleboards, the speed signs, on the south track, even on our side, but it’s a bit out of routine. Like driving on the wrong side of the road. No real problem, but I’m just not that used to it. Messes up the rhythm.

Madison comes up. I have memories there...my ex was from Madison. More than once, I’d walked from her parents’ house to the convenience store next to the tracks, to buy the family the Sunday paper. Things with us were always awkward, and in the end, didn’t work out. I remember it as a pleasant town I didn’t want to see ever again...except that later, I found myself driving trains right by that same damn store.

Gates and lights on the crossing, there. No speed restriction, so I hit it at 62 or so. This was a stack train; getting a stack train was like winning a small prize on the Lotto. You accepted it and smiled – it meant a short day. In my case, it meant six of us would get home to play Santa Claus. Or get drunk, or both, as the case may be.

Ahead of us was, Bates Road. Madison Township. Just outside the village limits. No gates...no lights.

 

[Casey Jones]

Clear of Main Street in Madison, we had a straight, tangent track to the drop into Geneva. No lights...nothing but the twin greens of the intermediate signals, a bit in the distance. A whistleboard – indication of a crossing ahead. Blow the air horn – two longs, a short, another long. Railroad procedure for a century.

Brad, for some reason, had woken from his tryptophan stupor, and was paying sharp attention. Vibes or psychic sensing? I don’t know. He was suddenly staring hard, forward.

He jerked at me. “Dump it - dump it, dumpitDUMPIT!…” he yelled. I didn’t see it at first...but you don’t question stuff like that. You sort it out later. I put the brake handle into Emergency – dropping the air - while Brad was still flailing for the emergency air-brake dump on his side of the cab.

There it was. A black car, sitting on the crossing. Lights out; stationary. Seemed to be centered on the south track, but the nose of it, far into our path. A small car, the Dodge Omni two-door variant.

Some things happen suddenly; and when you’re running a train, you can’t stop or even quickly react. But worse, is what you see a minute or longer ahead, that you’re powerless to stop. We were gonna hit that car. Why was it there? Stolen car? Prank? No way of knowing.

It was off to my side, the right-hand side. Hitting a car or truck usually didn’t put crews at risk...usually. There were exceptions. A tractor-trailer once ran into the side of a locomotive at a crossing in Erie, tipping it over at speeed. Just a year ago, another crew, working this line, had hit a tree-services’ company truck, full of logs and brush. It was at a diagonal crossing, and a six-inch log went through the windshield, broke the engineer’s seat. Only his good sense in getting up, out of the way, saved him.

Time to make like he did. I got up, on the other side of the control stand, which stood like a cubicle partition across part of the open cab, and into the center.

The wreckage was epic. A white-noise bang, and then twisted sheet metal flying all along the right side of the cab. Ditch lights caught a wheel and tire, fastened somehow to a shapeless blob, bouncing down Track 2. More noise behind us – the ground lights on the three trailing locomotives showed some sort of violent activity about.

We were slowing. Even a light train takes a fair amount of distance to stop. We were maybe forty car-lengths past impact when we came to a stop.

Brad was on the radio – good kid, knew his job. “Emergency-emergency-emergency,” he got on, using our procedure. “Q158 in Emergency. Milepost 147, hit a car on the Bates Road crossing, over.”

“CSX Erie West, roger, Q158 in Emergency. You struck a car, Bates Road, correct?”

“Correct, dispatch.”

“Roger, hit a car. Do you need EMS and fire, over?”

“It’s not clear. Seems the car was parked on the tracks. We’ll be going back to look, over.”

“Roger that. We’ll get police and EMS out there, just in case.”

 

[Unca Walt]

OUT-fargin-STANDING!!!

NOTE TO FOLKS: Can you see why I have been after this sumbitch for, what, 15? 18? YEARS! to sit down and WRITE.

NOTE TO JPT/Casey Jones: Go real. Not some dumbass Internet Chat thing. Write the whole story as a unit... or even as a sort of serial (quite popular with the reading public now) and publish on e-Books.

Either as as series of standalone stories that are connected, or simply the whole as a novel, but formally publish.

The first time you read an anonymous review pronouncing your work as something interesting and wonderful...

That is when you finally get through your thick skull what I have been telling you for decades. It is worth it, in so many ways.

 

[Casey Jones]

Painfully slow, the stop seemed – until that mechanical harsh jerk as everything stops. On a car or truck you don’t notice – you ease off on the brakes. There’s no doing that with a train with an emergency-brake application.

Brad was outfitted – radio, trainman’s lantern. I saw him grab his second radio battery to jam in his jacket pocket. No need for him to bother with a first-aid kit

“Lemme know, when you know. I’ll see to these guys up here,” I said. I’d have to give the deadhead crews a briefing, in case they hadn’t been listening on the radio.

Watching his light disappear behind me, I figured it best to go back right away – in a few minutes Brad or Erie West would be calling. I could answer from a radio in another cab, but as an engineer, I didn’t have a portable radio. Grabbing my surplus-Army overcoat – those were the years before we were all required to wear reflective lime-green – and donning a new-style LED headlight, highly illegal since it wasn’t Company issued – I walked to the second unit.

John and Chet were there, were awake – had been listening to the radio. The second unit was in the consist, nose forward; and John had been in the engineer’s seat. He’d seen the debris – said it looked like the car’s engine was yanked out, bounced down the track alongside.

He wanted to check it out, while Brad was going back further. It seemed reasonable – between those two, we had a radio and a couple of lanterns.

There was no moon. The odd illumination from the stars on the white snow, gave an otherworldly look. Everything was white but we could barely see. The old-style trainman’s lanterns weren’t bright enough to really help us see more than a few feet.

Behind us, at Bates Road, rotating emergency lights appeared. Red and white – that would be the meat wagon. Forward of the head end, at County Line Road, there was blue and white lights. Law enforcement, whichever variety got called.

There was no easy path to where we were stopped. There was a maintenance drive alongside the tracks, but it wasn’t plowed off. Officials would have a ways to walk – or we’d have to walk to them.

In the third unit, Larry – “Knuckles,” we called him, after an incident coming into Buffalo – and Mitch, were coming down. They hadn’t had the radio on.

“Hit a car, stopped on the tracks,” I said. I was past the adrenaline rush. Probably it was just stolen. “Brad’s going back to check.”

Far behind us, more powerful lights were coming up. Fire or EMS. Maybe another cop.

Several hundred feet to the rear, we saw that black blob – right between the rails of the track. The little car’s motor and apparently part of the frame, separated from the chassis. So...both tracks are impassible, at least for the moment.

“Conductor, Q158, head end,” the radio barked.

Chet handed me his radio. “Head end,” I said. “Whatcha got?”

“Take this number down.” I fumbled with some paper scraps in my pocket. Brad read off a car number.

“The car’s wedged under the railcar. It’s pretty mangled. There’s debris on Track 2, also.”

“Yeah. I’m on the ground; I saw where the engine wound up. What’s the story?”

“Can’t tell. I’ve got fire-rescue looking at it, now. That car is just TRASHED.”

“All right. I’d better get up on the power and call Dispatch.” The dispatcher was on the same radio channel, but the hand-held radios weren’t powerful enough to communicate with the Ashtabula Yard base, twelve miles away.

I walked back, with Chet’s radio. The three of them still had one. But coming at me, was a Lake County Sheriff’s Department deputy.

“So, what happened?” he said, full of false cheer. The kind that cops have when they walk into a scene with possibly difficult actors.

“Hit a parked car.” I gave him the short version.

“Have you notified your people, yet?”

“The dispatcher called you guys; but we’re still figuring out what’s going on. Both tracks are blocked – I have to use the locomotive radio to let him know.”

I was up and in; notified Erie West. Wreckage under the train and also blocking Track 2. Police on the scene.

Coming off the steps, I see Brad coming up at a trot.

“I didn’t want to say it on the radio,” he said – railfans monitored railroad radio frequencies. “But the EMS guys think there was someone in there.”

I looked at him.

“Keys in the ignition. A woman’s purse. A coat on the floor.”

“Nobody inside?”

“There’s no inside. The driver’s door got torn off, along with the front clip. Windshield’s gone, and the dash is twisted way out.”

“They’re looking along the ditch, now, and under the train.. One of the deputies said they might try to get a canine out here.”

The ring of LED lanterns, moved down along the tracks...four of them. I recognized the tactic, from my Navy days of policing a carrier flight deck for FOD. Orderly procession, search three feet to both sides, pacing with the others, in formation.

The procession, nearly to the road crossing, stopped. It circled a spot in the bushes of the drainage ditch. Someone moved back to their ambulance.

Another light started working our way.

 

[Unca Walt]

MOAR

This needs a bigger audience.

 

[Casey Jones]

MOAR

This needs a bigger audience.

Coming up.

This is mostly true. There's a bit of a surprise in the offing - not an O. Henry setup, but more of what you expect this time of year.

HINT: It's amazing who you meet, and who you meet again. I forget who it was, said that no one is more than eight or so friends removed from everyone else.

Last night I had some things going on...

 

[Casey Jones]

I stood on the forward platform of the lead engine. Still an absolutely beautiful night – the Milky Way on full display. No wind.

That was good, because the night just got a lot longer. I sipped another cup of coffee out of my insulated Thermos, no longer so full or so warm.

With the deputy walking back to where his team was staged, I went inside, toned up Erie West.

“CSX Erie West dispatch, over.”

“Q158, dispatch. Status report.”

“Roger, what you got.”

“We need supervision on the scene. There’s an apparent fatality. Deputies want statements. Also, both tracks are blocked with debris. Train appears on the rails, but there’s material under one car, over.”

“Roger, Collinwood’s been notified. Trainmaster is en route. Refer to CSX policy regarding any official statements, over.”

“Roger that.” Policy was, nothing was to be said other than by a Company official or under his approval. I’d already gone around with the deputy – who wanted to get this done, but he understood rules.

We were going nowhere. Before anything could be moved, the Event Recorder had to be downloaded. That meant a supervisor. Meantime, a track crew or Hulcher would have to come and clear the heavy parts off the rails. If it was Hulcher, it wouldn’t happen until tomorrow at the earliest. Meantime, there’d be detailed statements, and a drug test for the crew. Probably we’d have to be taken to Ashtabula Yard for that – I didn’t know how a supervisor’s car would carry all six of us. And then, a contract shuttle cab to take us to Buffalo. Unless they cut the power off, light, and ran us that way. One of the deadhead crews could take over – we’d be out of service until the results of the drug test came through – but that created all kinds of payroll problems. A union issue on top of everything else.

Amtrak was gonna be tied in knots, tonight. We were shutting down regular runs, but Amtrak continued. They would be arriving in Cleveland, right about now – they came through late at night, both directions. Westbound, at Erie – even worse.

Nothing for it, though. Hurry up and wait. I sat back in my seat, alone, wishing I still smoked. Brad...I don’t know where he was. With the deadhead crews, maybe. Or enjoying the gore. He wouldn’t be the only one to take a morbid interest in this.

I closed my eyes.

 

[Casey Jones]

The thump-thump and slight rocking, woke me from a catnap. In my windshield, there was Eric – a young trainmaster from Cleveland. His company 4x4 was parked next to the front step of the power.

Quickly he pulled the door open and flipped on a ceiling light. Eric and I were nominally friends, hired the same time – but his fast promotion and my various eccentricities hadn’t led to a tight relationship.

“How come you didn’t answer me on your radio?”

“Didn’t hear you. I’ve been right here for an hour. Brad’s out with the fire department – he’s got his radio, too.”

Eric frowned. “Okay, give it to me, quick-and-dirty. What happened?”

“We hit a car parked on the tracks. Lights off; stationary. Car came apart and the pieces are behind us. I don’t know what they found back behind us – I didn’t see it, the others did. A fatality – for all I know it could have been a trespasser walking by.”

“Use the horn?”

“Horn; bell; dumped the air. We were going about 50 mph when we hit.”

“What have you told the investigators?”

“Only that I’d have to have supervision with me. They’re a bit put out.”

“Okay. Pack up your bag. Call Brad, get him up here; tie it all down. You guys have to get a drug test.”

“Collinwood?”

“I’m hoping, Ashtabula. I have to be back here for the cleanup. We have a work crew ordered with a crane, coming up from Cleveland.”

Two sets of lights were coming up – one apparently a not-so-bright trainman’s lantern, and the other, a bright LED flashlight. Presently they came up – Brad and the deputy who’d wanted a statement.

Brad climbed up. I told him to start winding the brakes. I threw my bag down to help – we had to put six brakes on – but the deputy intercepted me.

“We need that statement. Are you ready, now?”

“Sure, with the supervisor. I’m not sure where you want to do this – back of your cruiser, what.”

“Let’s talk with him.” We went down. Eric was doing some sort of paperwork in the company car. He climbed out.

“Okay, can I suggest something?” asked the deputy. “Why don’t we finish this up in the Town Hall, down on Main Street? It’ll be quicker; and the M.E. can do what he needs, also.”

“That’s a bit unusual. Typically the specimen collector comes to a company location.”

“Well,” smirked the deputy, “He might be a little closer. I understand you have a contract tester with an office in Mentor?”

“Yeah.”

“You might call your office and see if the on-call guy is willing to come out here to Madison. I think he might be real happy to do that.”

Eric went back in his rig, and dialed...whoever, Collinwood, or the Dispatch Center, or Jacksonville. This was unusual.

 

[Casey Jones]

Twenty minutes later, we were in the kitchen of the Community Room of the Village Hall. Spread out were papers, report forms, and Eric taking notes. How fast; what did I see. What did my conductor see. What did I do, what time, road conditions. Is this a true statement, made voluntarily. Sign and date.

Then, time for a urine specimen. Brad had been working a Coke. I’d nuked the last cup out of my Thermos, so we were ready. In comes one of the EMS guys – still in his gear, but driving a private car. Carrying a case.

“What – the fire department is doing drug testing, now?” Eric just stared.

“Sort of,” said the paramedic. “I’m with the volunteer fire company. But I own a drug-testing company. We just got a contract with CSX Transportation.”

“So, you were out there at the accident scene. Did you talk to either of these men?”

“No, ” said the drug tester, apparently sensing accusation of collusion. “I saw this man”- pointing at Brad – “looking at the scene, but we didn’t speak.”

“Hey, relax. I’ve been doing this ten years. I’m bonded and DOT certified.” Eric said nothing.

The voice was familiar – but I’d not talked to him; I hadn’t gone back to where the EMS crew was working.

Brad provided ID, filled out forms, and ducked inside the men’s lavatory to supply a specimen. The tester sealed it, had Brad sign papers...all done.

My turn. I dug out the ID, proffered it. The name on his white shirt was, SCHMIDT.

He looked at my ID. A moment longer than he might. Than at me.

“You ever live on Mackenzie Road?”

Okay. I knew this guy. “Sure did. How ya doing, Brian.”

“Pretty damn good, all things considered.” Yeah...better than me, looked like.

Brian and I had been friends and classmates, back in elementary school. What probably brought us together, was, we were both constantly in trouble, and liked it. Stealing and smoking cigarettes or grapevines, throwing snowballs at cars, or in summer, chucking rocks at trains – virtually the same damn railroad line I now worked on. But, adolescence was settling in, and Brian had different interests. He had become very, very interested in becoming a fireman.

Brian’s family had moved out of town, when we were 11. I remember the packing – they rented a U-Haul to move, and it was so out of character for their expensive furnishings for an expensive West Suburban Cleveland home. I’d helped load the truck, the day before they moved – carrying odd stuff out, while fooling around. I didn’t know it would be 35 years before I’d see him again.

I’d heard of his goings-on. The move to West Virginia hadn’t worked out; and – after I had finished high school and moved far away, Brian and his parents returned to Cleveland. Presently, one day, after I had moved back in with my parents, having become unemployed...a local adult-rock radio station had an on-air giveaway. The format at the time, was, the winner had to identify on-air, his name and work. There was Brian, a Cleveland firefighter.

About a year later, I’d heard from mutual friends, Brian had gotten suddenly married. The only thing I’d heard was, she was “very young.” I had a snicker over that...that was one mistake I hadn’t made, by luck or lack, I didn’t know.

And then, radio silence, as it were. Until here I find him, the country squire, small-business principal...doing drug specimen collection on me. In the town my long-gone ex came from.

So, mission – missions – finished, Brian put his gear away. Specimens packed, back in his car. Various uniform and supply items, in the fire-department bay of the Village Hall.

Eric was standing around. “What’s the plan, man? Gonna get a Rentzenberger cab for us?”

“Can’t seem to raise anyone, tonight. Track crew’s coming with a crane truck. They might be able to pull that car out from under the flatcar and get the train rolling.”

“Got a crew called? I’m out of service.”

“Looks like we got a couple of spares - your deadheads. You’ve all been on duty, what, seven hours? That gives you, one of those crews, five hours to make it.”

“So, You gonna cart us back there?”

“Still waiting to hear what the track crew has to say. They’re unpacking right now.”

Brian was fiddling with something on the kitchen counter. “Want some fresh coffee?” he asked. “I’d offer you a holiday toast...but it sounds like you’re still on the clock. And I can’t get lit with specimens in custody.”

“Coffee would be great,” I said. He pulled out a couple of Keurig thimbles. The coffee was ready in an instant, and we wandered out to his car.

“How’d this happen?” I asked him.

“The accident?”

“That, too. But I mean, what in the name of all that’s sacred, are you doing out here, taking my...bodily-fluid specimen...in Madiss-flippin-son Ohio!”

“I retired.”

“What, from the Cleveland Fire Department? I’d heard you were working there.”

“Yeah. It was a dead end, and I was getting older, and I was vested...drug testing was a coming thing, and I had some contacts, so I set up. Lake County seemed a better place to start a new business. Certainly a better place to raise a family. But, I was with the Cleveland paramedics for years; I had the certification; so I volunteered out here – keep in the game, lend a helping hand to the town.”

“How about you. I remember you playing with my train set. And throwing rocks at real trains. Now you’re driving them. I’d never have expected.”

“Me, neither. Came down to, I needed a job, and they had one. There’s more to it, but not that much more. I’m a living monument to lack of planning.” It was another thing that we shared, although I have to admit, his childhood focus was nonetheless more clear than mine.

“Yeah, I remember hearing you had got married.” An understatement, remembering my sniggering at his predicament. “So you got kids, now?”

“One. Yeah...Jolene wanted out of the Cleveland area. This was out far, but not too far. You knew Jolene, didn’t you? Walters?”

Oh, good grief. I did know her. She was six years behind us in school...started first grade a few weeks after the August weekend Brian’s family drove off. She was a shy little girl from what turned out to be an abusive home. Finished high school a year behind my brother, and then, that summer, I found her in a McDonalds uniform. Unnaturally tall, but there was no mistaking the wavy blonde hair and the shy mannerism. So this was what it came down to.

We stood outside the pedestrian door for the town hall, and looked outward. Traffic was light – past midnight, even the late-night carol services were done. The sky was still bright with stars. Brian and I shared a past – but what we had, was gone.

“Hell of a night for it,” I said, to break the silence.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Brian said. “My daughter knows the family. They’ve been frantic all day. She had a fight with a boyfriend, and she sent a strange email sometime today. And drove off – nobody knew where. Family called the cops, but they couldn’t file a Missing Person report for 24 hours. No contact, just one threatening email.”

“I don’t know what to say.” And I didn’t. I couldn’t offer well-wishes to the family. I didn’t share in their horror. This was a stupid, wasteful, impulsive act of a woman-child not thinking clearly – and I was thrown into it. I had no legitimate part in it. I was an interloper, an object of offense. All I needed was my ex to roll down, the mile or so from what had been her parents’ home...to hiss at me and shake a fist.

“I know,” Brian said, tipping his coffee cup. He’d gotten whatever he had wanted from this conversation. It was time to go. Past time. “It was good, seeing you.” Not looking at me while he said it.

The crunch on the snow from his car tires, slowly faded, and silence enveloped me on the driveway apron.

 

[Unca Walt]

Editing a novel by you, CJ, would be one hell of a lot easier than the one I am doing now.

 

[searcher]

Bump

 

[Casey Jones]

Life happened.

But things are slowing down...or, moar accurately, are becoming universally despair-inculcating. Now that there's no joy in online surfing, and meantime, I have torn ligaments in my shoulder - keeping me off bicycles and mortarsickles, my two favorite time wasters - it may be time to once again TRY to be serious about something.

The hour grows late.