It's What You Make of It

Well that was a crappy morning, Ms J. "Craptacular", as Meagan would say.

Nothing horrible happened. There was no phone call from ... anyone not alive. Nothing terribly stressful happened at work. Indeed, the day began quite normally, with the alarm clock playing its electronic version of Beethoven's "Fur Elise."

I was tired, though. I didn't get much sleep. I met with a friend (Hi, Dana!) for lunch on Sunday. We chatted after lunch and later retired to my house. I made dinner and invited her to stay. We supped on burnt potatoes, cold vegetables and a roast of beef that I'd euphemistically describe as unremarkable. She said it was good, though, bless her heart. Our lunchtime chat turned into a gabfest that lasted nearly eleven hours.


Yeah, Dale. Lovely. But what about this "craptacular" morning you refered to a minute ago?

Yes, yes. I'm getting to that, Ms J. ----- Jeez.

I was tired this morning. I usually curl up in an empty coach and nap on the way to Hamilton in the morning, while the other engineer operates the train westward. But not this morning. I couldn't get comfortable. There was neither physical nor emotional comfort. The coach was noisy, and cold. The ride was rough and bumpy. And I kept thinking of Meagan. Without warning, I suddenly erupted in a furious wail.

"FOR F*&% SAKE!! THIS COACH IS DRIVING ME MENTAL!!"

My anger surprised me. I didn't even feel it building, although I know it must have taken some time to reach that level. I sat up and peered out the window into the darkness. I had no idea where we were, but my watch indicated we'd be another twenty minutes or so til we reached our destination.

I paced up and down the aisle, feeling my anger and wanting to punch something. I tried assaulting the seat cushions, but found it rather unsatisfying. So I yelled some more.

"STUPID NOISY EQUIPMENT! I'VE RIDDEN BOXCARS THAT WERE SMOOTHER THAN THIS!"

I hollered, Ms J, but I knew the train wasn't the source of my anger. I changed gears and screamed again, louder.

"STUPID TEENAGE HORMONES!! YOU'VE POSSESSED MY DAUGHTER! GET OUT OF HER! LEAVE HER BE!! COME BACK TO ME, SCOUT!"

I knew I was full of anger and hoped by shouting I might rid myself of it. After five minutes of pacing and screaming and cursing, I felt better. A bit hoarse, perhaps. But I was calmer. That lasted about half an hour. By the time we'd arrived in Hamilton, I was feeling edgy again.

Someone occupied "my seat" in the coffee shop. My breakfast bagel was too greasy. The coffee didn't suit me. The crew of another train were there, laughing and teasing each other. When they turned to me, I wanted to tell them all to get bent and flee back to the locomotive.

The other engineer was too chatty on the trip back to Toronto. He droned on about car stereos. I didn't care, Ms J, but I smiled politely and nodded appropriately. At every station, I listened to my inner voice criticising people on the platform.

"Look at this one's hair. Look at that one's stupid shoes. Who would wear a coat like that? What a moron. What a fatty. Bad teeth."

I was ruthless. It seemed I was powerless to stop it. I was repulsed by it. And I was glad I could keep it to myself. Does that make it OK, Ms J? Is it alright to behave like that if no one knows about it? I don't think so.

To stop my criticisms, I decided to talk.

"What do you think of the fence they've put up at the yard?" I asked, referring to the new ten-foot high chain link fence erected to force us all to pass through the office in order to access the trains. No more walking from the parking lot to the train yard.

"It's crazy, eh?" he said.

"Well, it's just another way to control us," I replied. "...to make us march in step like good little soldiers."

I could feel my anger cresting again.

"The sons-o-bitches won't stop until we're all miserable. Miserable and broken. They herd us like cattle going off to slaughter. That's the way they do it in the States, I guess. It's the American way. I don't know why this new management want us to hate them. Why do they want to foster an atmosphere of dread and distrust? Why can't they just leave us alone and let us do the &*%$^ job we've been doing every ^&**%$% day for thirty **^%&^* years!!"

The atmosphere in the cab had been lacerated blood-red by my flailing fury. And fear oozed out. I waited for a response and when it came, it was tiny and feeble.

"I don't know. I don't guess we have much choice, have we? Either accept it, or quit."

I turned back to the console and rang the bell for a road crossing. In the silence that followed, I felt the tears coming. Stupid tears. I hate them. I opened my eyes wide and successfully willed them to remain there and not spill onto my cheeks.

Too angry, today. Too helpless. Too powerless to change things. My job. My Life. My daughter and son. I cannot control things. Someone or Something is in control. I believe that. But it's not me, is it? It's just not me. Nothing I can do.

---

I wrote a letter to Meagan, you know Ms J. It was a pretty darned good one too. But I won't send it. It wouldn't help. My friends were right. They voted overwhelmingly in favour of deleting it. Too angry. Too threatening. Too much fear. She would only get angry. Angrier. It would only make things worse.

Let it go, old man. Let go and let God. All will be well. Somehow. Sometime.

I've poisoned my morning, Ms Journal. I'll try to do better this afternoon.

***