‘m usually a pretty outgoing person – lost a few jobs by shooting my mouth off. Very, very noisy, a real chatty Cathy.
At the Western Bay, I’m in charge of the center aisle. Everything that goes on there goes through me. I tell the dispatcher what’s going on. I relay his orders to the crews. At one point, when 242 was fussing around in the Placerville Jct. lead and I heard on the wire that a mail train was coming west, I advised the dispatcher to advance him to Dolores (one of my stations) while my alter-ego at the junction got the local clear of the main. I even had to go up on a stool to rerail a car in a bad spot while half-twisting to look back at the holding mail train. “We’re clear, boys! Highball!”
So from that – with a half-dozen guys pushing around in my aisle, confusion, spraying pig-shit, radio chatter in one ear, yelling in the other, hanging chads, flying effing monkeys – the session eventually ends (brilliantly, I might add, so complements to the crew). And then there is the long drive home with John, with low-key chatting about the session and life. Then another forty-five minutes of solo driving, just listening to the radio. And then home with the wife.
“How was trains?” Grunt.
“Did you have fun?” Shrug.
“Did John come with you?” Grunt Shrug.
I guess running three stations on two divisions really sucks it out of you. After four hours of that, I’m pretty talked out.
Good thing, though. I can still type.