1. An annoying and irksome person.

2. An object of abuse and ridicule.

And on the Saint Valentines Day Massacre running of the West Virginia Northern, I got to be the session’s Butt Monkey.

I’m not sure how this happened. Hey, in my years of blogging ops sessions, I’ve written about plenty of hapless butt monkeys, people who barge about in sessions, cluelessly delay others, lose their tempers or tell long-winded stories while I’m trying to mentally work out my switch moves. Some are such monkeys (either by personality or inability) that I only hint at them or (in some cases omit them all together). Yes, your narrator can show pity.

So how did this come to pass that it was my turn in the barrel of monkeys? I’m not sure.

It was early morning when I whistled out of Clifton Forge on 243, bound for Harris yard to swap out some cars and return. I’d just finished up the job as the sun broke above the ridge lines (and what a successfully-programmed daybreak it was!) and was pumping air on the Harris siding when a long coal drag rolled in, a steam helper on the front end. The helper swung up the Blackstone branch to clear and the coal rumbled down the line to Clifton Forge. Since I was ready to go and a timetabled train, I took charge of the diamonds and informed the helper that I was riding the coal crummy out of town and he could wait. Dick move? Perhaps. But it was also a railroad move. Technically I had seniority. And possibly the other operators were listening. And judging? Who knows.

250 and Helper, located by a Silver Alert. (Greg Komar)

Returning home, I immediately stepped up the footplate to 171, westbound empty hoppers to Huntington, and easy run. So back up the line I went to Harris, rounding the bend into town and dutifully blowing across the road crossing and bell and whistling on the station approach. A glance at my orders showed a highlighted warning, WATCH FOR 250. Well, the far-end tunnel signal was yellow so nobody was coming upgrade from Elkview. I even informally asked the guys working Ashbury Yard across the aisle if 250 had left and got a bunch of clueless shrugs. That was about as unrealistic as I chose to be – I didn’t want to break the play of heavy mountain railroading by walking around the corner to look for the missing train. Took the signal, valved off air and worked the hoppers down the hill. As suspected, 250 was holding at Elkview on the main waiting for the helper, now branchlining a teakettle just finishing up other work. Rolled by on the siding and headed for beans in Huntington. But now my fortunes were about to change.

Magically finding myself teleported back to Clifton Forge, I took over 141, another empty hopper string but with work. This one would be dropping hops along they way, five to Elkview, ten to Darby, and then five up the Madison line. No big deal. For the third time that morning, I tootled by way around the bend into Harris. But this time the far signal was red – I guessed that 250 was finally on the ascent. I really didn’t consider what it was or what it needed to do – I was planning my drops. Thus I rolled down the siding at the yard to clear the main and made sure to mention to the arriving 250 and her helper that I was fouling the far east end, too long to fit.

A properly-positioned 141waits as 250 clears. Nobody notices that I’ve lost air from the rear-end break. (Greg Komar)

And that’s when I was grilled about being on the siding – 250 was a Harris Turn and needed the track I occupied, no questions and no negotiations. Because I know what side my bread is buttered on when dealing with layout owners (and buttering is always important) I backed my long empty hopper string back up the Clifton line so her short turn could nestle onto the siding. Whatever.

With her in the clear, I advanced back up the main, figuring I’d make my way to Elkview but got in trouble again for coming back into the yard while the helper was dropping off. At this point, my former friends, both over in Ashbury Yard, started up with the snickering. In my defense, 171 had no mention in its instructions regarding 250 and I accounted for it anyway, only overlooking its biblical-important instructions of entering on the siding (instructions I was not privy to).

Now it gets worse. With 250 directing me to just get out of the yard, I advanced the throttle, only to have the rear two hoppers (and the caboose)  uncouple. So there was more fussing and more snickering from the sharper-than-serpent’s-teeth crowd over in Ashbury. I figured the best I could do at that point was get the train together and get out of town. Coupled and went.

Seconds after this photo was taken, Greg and I realized that I was missing the rear end of my train. (Greg Komar)

So, yes, finally I was away from the pandemonium in Harris, going through the upper tunnel and feeling like Kelly’s Heroes’ Oddball after he destroyed the railroad work camp with his sherman. I had the long hair, the goofy expression, and I was clear of it. Rolled down the hill through the gentle loops towards Elkview.Nobody was in my aisle. I was alone. I could sit at Elkview and wait for the helper to return and take my cuts off. Just as I cleared the aisle-end tunnel and was crossing the trestle into the third, Greg came around the corner for a photo and noticed that I was missing (at least) a caboose off the rear end. WTF? Again?

So I stopped the train and looked around.I wasn’t up the upper ridge line. Walked back around to Harris and it wasn’t there. Scowls and snickers were, but not my missing crummy. Also there – the helper returning downgrade, just entering the tunnel. I asked him to hold until I figured out where my rear end was (so many ways to read this).

“Well, it it’s in the tunnel, I’ll find it,” replied the helper. That pissed me a bit – what if it was derailed? What if you made it worse? When he did emerge (without any missing rolling stock) I told him (firmly) to hold until I figured out what the fuck was going on (railroad term). Greg was already under the layout looking and I hated that he was working on something that was my responsibility. I joined him under and crawled through the below-decks bilge. Finally, inside the tunnel I’d just departed, way in the corner, I found the caboose and the two hoppers that had given me problems (railroad and social) back at Harris. With that, I gently pushed them out of the bore, Greg hooked them up and I proceeded (a wiser and dustier man) down to Elkview, the helper dutifully following me.

And you can assume that I kept a sharp eye on my tail end. I wasn’t going to lose them a third time.

Did the drops at Elkview and then waited as the Darby crews (same guy as the helper) slowly ground out ten cars of coal like a surly barista before pulling my ten-cut off. While waiting, I inspected my train. Only fourteen cars. I should have had fifteen. Went around to the owner still working 250 and getting more annoyed with my 171 disaster and inquired. I was informed that 171 staged with twenty cars and should account for twenty cars – period. Returned to my train (coal still falling, a lump at a time, into the loading hoppers). Carefully counted again (for like the third time). Heard my name dropped in the other aisle a couple of times (I guess they assumed I couldn’t hear through a drywall divider and some massive plaster mountains). Dammit. So under the layout I climbed and oh so carefully looked at every possible place that missing car could get to. Finally found it – it had presumably been involved with the two cut-away cars (either between, or in front of) and had fallen – GASP! – to the floor. While that is concrete, luckily (a) the car must have fallen flat on its side and (b) landed on cardboard. No broken couplers. No damage. Called over that it was located and tape-marked it for inspection (it would go into Madison with me for my final run in). Of course, more muttering and more snickering. Whatever.

The peanut gallery. They are as complementary as Russian Olympic judges. (Greg Komar)

Finally got my ten-string removed at Darby and headed without delay into Madison, checking (as I rolled though the visible lift-bridge) that every car and caboose was accounted for.

So that’s how I ended up on the receiving end of this Lord of the Flies day. Two final things.

At the end of the session, when the crews retired to the lounge to discuss the day’s events (and likely me), I hung around in Ashbury. There were cars that had not been spotted by the other crew and I worked in the dark to properly get them in their consignee locations.

And, on the way home, our know-it-alls managed to fumble their way off the freeway and all the way across Tampa Bay before we could turn around. So good thing this isn’t a commuting blog or I’d have something to comment on.

So tough day, but still glad I could attend.

And that sets the record straight.