"Skrrrrrapits"

I went to visit a doctor today. An optometrist. I’ve worn glasses about three years now. As my eyes are getting older, my vision deteriorates. It’s a fact of Life, it seems. So I went. Colleen came too. It was her doctor, Ms J. She’d recommended her to me. Dr. Skrapits. Dr. Linda Skrapits. Funny name. Lovely person.

She’s about my age, I guess. Younger, I suppose. She has a three-year-old boy at home. A picture of him adorns a desk in her examination room. She’s blond, pretty, funny. She examined my eyes thoroughly and joked with me. She did her best to make me feel at ease. She took all the time I wanted, filled out my forms for insurance, and wrote a prescription for new glasses.

When she learned I was a locomotive engineer at VIA Rail, she asked lots of questions about my job.

“How far do you travel?”
“Do you like it?”
“Do you stay away overnight?”

Her little boy is crazy about trains, Ms J. She gave me a Thomas the Tank Engine sticker.

“You were a very good boy, Dale,” she said showing straight, white teeth.



I’m looking forward to seeing her again next year.

***

Another Near Miss

We were on our way to London last night, Allison, Stephan and I. Conversation had faded into the darkness and we settled into a kind of easy quiet. The sun had long since set. There was nothing but the drone of the big locomotive and the glare of the bright headlights fanning out ahead of us. I had run the engine from Toronto to the town of Kitchener, where Stephan had relieved me. I now sat in the middle seat and squirmed a bit to find comfort there.

As we came round a curve, not far from Stratford, I noticed two people standing on a wooden bridge that spanned the railway track.

"I wonder what these two are up to?" I thought. "What are they doing out here in the middle of nowhere at 11:00 at night?"

As we approached the bridge, they moved to stand directly above the track. They were young men - teens, I supposed - dressed in t-shirts and blue jeans. This didn't look right. They were up to something. I watched in stunned silence as one brought his hands up to the edge of the bridge railing and dropped a large rock. I hadn't time to do anything but bow my head and cringe.

A second later, we heard the rattle of the stone striking the roof of the locomotive and rolling harmlessly off behind us. It had missed hitting the windshield by only a few feet.

"Assholes," said Allison calmly.

It was the only word uttered in the cab as we silently pondered our fates. I can't speak for the others, Ms J, but I felt incredibly lucky. If that stone (It was as large as a cantaloupe) had struck the windscreen, one of us would have been gravely injured. Yes, the glass is safety glass, bullet resistant, they say, but it would not have withstood the impact of a five pound rock at sixty miles per hour.

I imagined what might have happened if it had struck the glass in front of Stephan or Allison. I imagined the crashing sound and the shrieks of pain as stone and bone collided. A broken face. Bits of bloody glass strewn about. And the two perpetrators calmly walking away without a backward glance as the train slid to a stop with the brakes applied in emergency.

I didn't even know where we were, exactly. What was the last mileage post? How long had it been since we left Kitchener? I peered outside. The headlights illuminated the road two hundred feet ahead of us, but beyond that, there was only darkness. Farm fields raced by us on either side, although they too were invisible in the inky black. How would I summon help if I hadn't a clue where we were?

Suddenly, Ms J, I felt angry. Furious. What kind of heartless bastard would do such a thing? What manner of careless indifference would allow a person to endanger innocent Lives? And then walk away claiming no responsibility? I'm thinking of it now, Ms J, reliving it now and I'm fucking livid!

Good God Almighty! Who would even consider such a callous and cowardly act?

When we were young boys, we used to stand on a bridge above a local highway and urinate on the traffic roaring by on the road below us. I remember laughing so hard, we'd wet ourselves as much as our defenseless targets. It was harmless fun. We hurt no one.

But this ... This is serious stuff. Must I be afraid now every time I see people waving at us from bridges? Am I to suspect every train watcher is a ne'er-do-well with evil intent?

I like my job, Ms Journal. In fact, I love it! But I understand now how dangerous it can be. I understand how vulnerable I am at times. Many American locomotives have steel bars that cover their windshields to guard against incidents like this one. Is that where we're headed in this country? It breaks my heart.

God help us.

***

Dreaming of Tableware

Ahhhhhh … Two days off. How lovely!

I met with a friend this morning. He and his wife were at his dad’s house here in Mimico. His poor ol' dad passed away back in April, and Larry is trying to empty the house. He’s sold much of the furniture already, to another friend.

“Do you want a set of dishes?” he asked me. “China?”

I opened a kitchen cupboard and looked at its contents. It was a complete set of English china, Ms J, the same pattern as Mum has. Exactly. Eight place settings. Larry waved his hand.

“Two hundred bucks for the whole thing.”

There were dinner plates and dessert plates and bread plates. There were cups and saucers and mugs. There were soup bowls and serving bowls and salad bowls and dessert bowls. Salt and pepper shakers. Butter dish. Gravy boat and saucer. And a teapot. And a serving platter.

Two hundred dollars seemed like a lot, Ms J. But it was good china, and the same pattern as Mum’s. I told him I’d take it.

At home later, I went on the internet to investigate the retail price of my new dishes. It seems the mugs alone are worth $24 each. The dinner plates are $19. Based on website information, I estimate the value of these dishes at about eight hundred dollars. Is that possible? Do folks pay eight hundred dollars for a set of dishes? Incredible!

Oh and I got a dehumidifier as well. Ten bucks.

Thanks, Larry! Thanks, Ron!

In my imagination, I see those dishes set on a large, antique Duncan Fyfe table in a dining room in a century-old country home. A great feast is being enjoyed by friends and family who've gathered with Colleen and Ivy and me to celebrate Christmas, or perhaps just to share stories and visit. A fire crackles in the living room fireplace. Colleen is a teacher at the school in town. Ivy is a student at Queen's University in nearby Kingston. I am retired from the railway.

See, Ms J? I can dream too!

***

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

I got a letter a while ago from the Ministry of Health. There’d been a problem with my Health Card. I’d visited their office a month ago or more to have my photo taken and apply for a card renewal, but something was wrong with the photo. I needed to be re-photographed. So this morning, I went.

I waited in line behind two or three foreigners new Canadians before it was finally my turn. I showed the receptionist the letter I’d received and she smiled brightly.

“I’m sorry about that, sir,” she said. “We’ll process you right away.”

She handed me a slip of paper with a number on it and picked up the phone.

“I’m sending a Mr. Pringle in to see you. He’s a D2.”

She replaced the phone then and said, “Go right in, sir. Give the girl your letter and this note. Wicket number 6.”

In I went, straight past dozens of people who’d been waiting their turn for half an hour or more. I was aware of their eyes upon me as I headed for wicket number 6. I was met there by a lovely blond lady with ruby lips and a ready smile.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m here to have my picture taken. Again. I was here before, about ---”

“Yes, sir. Sorry about that. Sometimes we don’t get a usable photo and we don’t notice it until it’s too late. Just stand with your back against that white board there and look directly into the camera.”

I did and she took my photograph. Flash.

“Here you go. Here’s your temporary card. Your new one will be mailed to you in four to six weeks.”

She was cute, Ms J. I wanted more of her smile.

“Forty-six weeks! What the …?”

It took her a second to realise I was joking.

“Four TO six weeks,” she said grinning. “We’re slow but not THAT slow.”

I winked my thanks and took my documents.

“See ya round.”

“See ya in five years,” she called after me.

I strolled past all those poor souls who still waited to be served, and I felt like a king. I’d been less than five minutes, Ms J, in a government office. I’d had preferential treatment, and been served ahead of the sweaty masses with their turbans and burkas and baseball caps.

See? I don’t work for BBRC anymore. I’m a VIA employee now.

I am respected!

***

Duckin' the Fog at VIA Rail

It was humid last night as we left Toronto en route to London. Misty. As we approached the city of Guelph, the mist turned to fog. Soon, we were enveloped by a thick grey blanket, a blanket so thick that even the bright headlight could not penetrate it. I sat up straight in the middle seat and craned my neck. I was unable even to see the rails directly in front of us. I was glad I wasn't driving.

"Gettin' foggy out there, eh?" I said, grinning at my uncanny ability to state the obvious.

"Yeah," said my trainer, Jim. "It's gettin' that way."

"Where's our next restriction?" I asked, referring to our printed operating authority among the papers on the dashboard.

"The east siding switch at Kitchener," he said. "It might be lined against us."

The track we were on is a single track known as "dark territory." There are no signals to alert enginemen of track conditions ahead. Instead, orders are issued on paper. These orders contain operating information for engine crews. They proscribe caution speeds for sections of track in need of repair, and also arrange for opposing trains to meet at predetermined locations using auxiliary tracks known as sidings. Sometimes, preceding trains are permitted to leave track switches lined for other than the normal route; following trains are warned to be on the lookout for these potential hazards.

But the fog obscured everything.

Somewhere beyond the headlight, beyond the fog, beyond the darkness and the endless fields of corn and soybeans, a switch was open. A trap was waiting to catch us. I glanced at the digital speedometer. Seventy miles per hour.

"OK," I said as though I were comfortable with his answer.

The other engineer - Stefan is his name - spoke then from his place at the controls on the right side of the cab.

"What mileage is that switch, Jimmy? About sixty? Sixty point six?"

"Sixty point five eight, I think."

"Yeah, that's it."

I turned my head left and right to look at the men on either side of me. Both were staring calmly - calmly! - into the nothingness ahead, waiting to see God-knows-what. Jim spoke next, offering me a bit of trivia.

"This wooden bridge here ..." and he waited a second until the sound of the wheels changed to a hollow echo. "This bridge right here spans a river called the Nith River. Nith. N-i-t-h. Funny name, eh?"

"Yeah," I said, but I could see neither bridge nor river. Fog was all the night offered. Thick fog. Worrisome fog. At seventy miles per hour.

I thought of the passengers behind us, weary travelers on the night train to London. It was getting late. Nearly midnight. I supposed some were sleeping. Others, perhaps, were reading, or sipping tea and talking quietly in the dimly lit coaches. The dark windows held only the comfort of their own reflections. They had no way of knowing the challenges we faced in the cab of our locomotive. They were literally trusting their Lives to us. I envied them their comfort.

"How far ..." I began, but stopped and waited while Stefan blew the whistle for an invisible road crossing. I hoped to God there was nobody on the track.

"How far away is that switch, I wonder."

"A long way yet," said Jim as he raised a glass bottle to his lips and took a gulp of iced tea. "We're about mile forty-two here. There's still twenty miles or so."

Twenty miles still to go. That was good. I relaxed, Ms J, but only a little. One day soon, I'll be finished my training here. I'll be expected to operate these trains in weather like this. Winter is coming soon and with it, blowing snow and whiteout conditions. The world looks much different in its winter mantle. When that day comes, and it surely will, I pray I'll be paired with someone as experienced as these two.

A metal post bearing a small white sign with black numbers emerged suddenly from the fog and quickly disappeared in the blackness behind us. Mileage forty-two. Stefan held out a small plastic bag and shook it gently and smiled.

"Anybody want a cookie?"

I allowed my shoulders to relax as I chewed the cookie. I was in good hands here. Our passengers had every right to feel comfortable. VIA engineers are highly skilled, confident, very capable.

And one day, God willing, I'll be the same.

***

A Year Already

I arrived home from Windsor the other day to a big surprise. I opened the front door and immediately noticed rose petals on the floor. Pink rose petals. They were scattered about willy-nilly from the front door, into the living room and up the stairs to the bedroom. A bouquet of roses sat next to a glass of red wine on the shelf in the hall. There was a note taped to the banister: “I love you!” An arrow pointed toward the fireplace mantle. There, I found an envelope with a card in it. I left the envelope there and followed more arrows. Along the way, I found little notes from Colleen explaining what it is about me that makes her love me so.

Your sense of humour.
Your silliness.
Your soft touch.
Your tender kisses.
Your honesty.
Your giving heart.
Your passion for justice.

There were others. I smiled at each one.

Then I climbed the stairs to the bedroom.

Happy Anniversary, Colleen. It’s been a year now. I’m still happy. Still in Love.

Despite the changes we've weathered and the ones surely yet to come, I remain your biggest fan and your best friend.

I love you.



***

My Monkey Brain

I woke this morning as I do most mornings, with a maelstrom of thoughts crashing round in my head. Here's what's on my mind:

My blog has become boring. Ordinary. Although events here in Mimico (and elsewhere) remain interesting/exciting/stressful/remarkable, I do not feel the freedom to report them as I once did. Too many friends and family now peruse this page with regularity. It's an an odd thing, Ms Journal. I've really enjoyed telling you about my Life and my job, and about my feelings and the people and events that foster those feelings. And of course, my Ego enjoyed the feedback. I always hoped more people would read it. Now that I've got my wish, I'm not happy.

My children continue their struggle to achieve independence. I wish I could offer details here, but I can't anymore. I just can't. Believe me, Ms J, there's suffering there on a number of levels. Disappointment, frustration, and suffering.

Thoughts around the way BBRC abandoned us continue to haunt me. I lay awake every night writing impassioned speeches in my head, speeches I want to deliver to the man who called me a liar and fired me two years ago. I can't let it go, Ms J. I continue to hate him for his cruelty and for his indifference to the pain he inflicted so needlessly on so many good people. I want him to know of the damage he's done. I want to tell him how he spoiled a great job and demoralized a dedicated workforce. Most of all, I want him to care. I wish he could feel compassion for those he hurt. I'd love to hear an apology. But I won't, Ms J. Ever. Powerful people will continue to hurt those who are vulnerable. It's necessary in order to preserve their power. It's been suggested that business has no heart. This business is no different.

I can't tell him these things because sadly, he's still in a position to hurt me. Like a serpent whose fangs remain lethal after the head is severed, he could still harm me even though we no longer work for the same employer. VIA operates trains on BBRC track. If BBRC doesn't want a particular person on their property, they have the right to ban them. I've considered writing a letter to him here, (for myself, Ms J, not for him) but a few ex-workmates now read this blog. Sooner or later, it'll come to the attention of those in power. And my words will return to hurt me.

Freedom of speech, it would seem, is a nebulous concept at times. And the rich and powerful use it to their advantage through intimidation and litigation. I must learn to accept this fact. A better idea would be to write the letter in my private journal. Better and safer.

The best idea would be to forgive and forget. That would be best, Ms J. But that will never happen. Never. BBRC lost a good employee when they fired me. Even after they reinstated me, they never got him back. VIA is the winner here. VIA and me!

Tune in next time for something a bit lighter. I'll tell you all about Colleen and how she sees beyond my scars and bitterness, and loves me anyway.

***