need you to run manifest 223,” the dispatcher told me. “It’s almost two hours late.” So fine. In minutes I was rattling through the Spokane throat, running at track speed, wheels sparking off the multiple frogs and points. I was reminded of the old flick Broadway Limited. These were the times you needed to lean out of the cab window, face into the wind, sliding your goggles over your eyes. Then I thought of something. “Dispatcher, 223. What’s my authority to?” “Pasco yard. And move it. I want you to make up time.” “Got it. Highball.” Hit Pasco and Klauck […]