Workin' on the Railroad, page 1
Workin’ on the Railroad
By Deirdre O’Dare
Published by JMS Books LLC
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2017 Deirdre O’Dare
ISBN 9781634863780
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
All rights reserved.
This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
This one is in memory of a bunch of "rails" in my past and ancestry, including both grandfathers and "Dusty" who lives in my heart forever. And of course for Charlie who still holds his life-long faith and involvement with the industry. Thanks, Bro, for being my tech advisor and inspiration!
The mistakes and errors are all mine.
* * * *
Workin’ on the Railroad
By Deirdre O’Dare
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Coal Mesa, New Mexico
Early June
Roane Wellman hesitated before he stepped through the well-worn door. The June sunlight beat down on his back, scorching through his T-shirt.
I wish I was any fucking place in the whole fucking world besides here, damn the luck.
Looking for a serious job was not how he’d planned to spend the summer between his sophomore and junior years of college, but life sometimes threw a guy a curve ball.
To be totally honest, he’d helped it along more than a little in this case. He’d paid far too much attention to partying and not nearly enough to study at UNM the past two semesters. With Roane’s GPA a thin notch above the failure line, Grandpa Wellman had pulled the plug on financing his only grandson’s education, at least for now. If Roane planned to go ahead and get a degree, he’d have to prove he could do it by himself before there would be any more help.
So here he was at the labor office of the San Juan and Southwest Railroad to answer a recent ad in the Albuquerque Journal for laborers. The small independent railroad served the remote four corners region, especially some new and reopened mines that were pouring out coal, uranium, copper, and a smattering of precious metals.
The SJSW linked to the Santa Fe at Gallup and to the Denver and Rio Grande at Grand Junction. Roane assumed from the wording of the ad that they were building new spur lines to two recently opened mines. In spite of advancing technology and new semi-automated equipment, some of which was actually made by his grandfather’s Wellman Industries, laying track for a shoestring railroad was a labor-intensive task.
To look on the bright side, a summer of hard manual labor might help him make the football team again if he could get his grades up. He’d been on the team the past year before his GPA dropped too far, but he’d spent ninety-nine percent of the time on the bench. The coach hadn’t been impressed with his determination or toughness. Maybe Roane could change that perception.
Squaring his shoulders, he shoved through the door. Several men, mostly young Navajo and Apache Indians, a few Latinos, and even fewer Anglos, sat around the room, struggling to fill out applications. He’d completed his already and had it in hand. Taking the sheaf of papers, the hiring agent looked him over with a cynical stare.
“You really think you’re up to working, sonny? This is no city desk job or errand boy gig. Takes a real man to work on the railroad.”
“I’ll give it my best shot, sir. I need a job, one that pays more than minimum wage, and I’m not afraid to work. My dad and my grandfather both saw to that while I was growing up.”
Roane must have sounded more convincing than he felt. Before he left, he had a job. He went through supply to pick up a hard hat and some other gear he’d need, got an employee ID card, and had a rack assigned to him in one of the old passenger cars that had been converted to bunkhouses for the workers.
The hiring agent also told him how to get to the site where the crew was working. First thing in the morning, Roane would report to Mitch Flannery. He was foreman for the track gang repairing an old grade that had been abandoned some years back when the newly reopened mine had been shut down. That was a lot faster than building from scratch and most of the route was still where they needed it, they said. Roane realized he’d have to learn a whole new vocabulary as well as work long days in the sun, rain, or whatever came along.
Looks like a kill-or-cure proposition. No more silver spoon for this boy. Shit, guess I’ll see if I can make them all eat crow before the summer’s over. A bit more than his pride was at stake, but there was that, too. Yeah, I know I fucked up, but since I don’t want to go in the military, I s’pose I gotta do something.
* * * *
From his seat on the tracked crane he operated, Alden Prescott glowered down at his foreman. “Damn it. Mitch, you’re so drunk you can’t find your ass with both hands. Just get the fuck out of the way and let us work. I can keep the crew in line. I’ve done it enough lately. All you’ll do is piss the men off and screw everything up, the shape you’re in. Go take a nap in your truck.”
The other man mumbled and huffed, but he really couldn’t make a valid protest. Alden didn’t quite understand the heavyset man’s garbled mixture of border Spanish and bad English, but that was probably for the best.
The son of a bitch is one of the sorriest excuses for a man, much less a foreman, I’ve ever had to work for. Why doesn’t he just get his fat, shitty ass out of the way and leave us alone?
Finally, the beefy foreman waddled off, still cussing and grumbling. Alden went back to work, swinging sections of track into the growing new line. Some members of the crew bolted the lengths of rail together, while others drove more spikes into the wooden ties to hold the rail in place. Behind Alden, another bunch worked tamping the ballast and fine-tuning the leveling to support the newly laid track. Once the spur was rebuilt, it would have to handle some heavy tonnage in ore shipped off to a distant smelter.
With years of experience in track-building and maintenance, Alden could have bid for the foreman job if he wanted to. He’d probably get it, too, but he preferred to avoid the paperwork and the people headaches. Machine operators drew good wages, anyway. The bad thing was that, with an incompetent foreman like Flannery, Alden had to do most of the other stuff anyway just to keep the job going.
Mexican and Irish, Flannery seemed to have inherited the very worst of all his ancestors. He was pugnacious, stupid, and had a vicious streak as wide as the yellow stripe of cowardice down his broad back. Flannery also had a weakness for booze and a fondness for MJ that would eventually catch up with him. For Alden, it couldn’t happen too soon. Unfortunately, the man apparently also had a few friends in the higher echelons of SJSW who covered his worthless ass and kept him on the job.
Right now, this crew was operating shorthanded, but the higher-ups had promised to get more men on the job soon. Alden knew they’d advertised in the newspapers of several southwestern cities. They seemed to think the men they sought were not on the Internet. While experienced railroad maintenance men were few and far between and mostly snapped up fast by the big carriers, even a few basic laborers would help. So long as they could follow instructions and were not afraid to work, he’d help train them. Maybe that was not too much to hope for.
As Alden operated his crane, he kept an eye on the balance of the crew. For sure, Flannery was out of commission for the rest of the day. Alden wasn’t getting paid or earning seniority as the assistant foreman since it was unofficial, but that was how it panned out. On a job like this, safety was a big concern. He had two helpers who hooked up the chains so he could lift each section of track from the beat-up old gondolas and settle them in place to be bolted and hammered down.
Those guys were definitely in harm’s way. One false move on Alden’s part could crush a man against the side of the car, trap and shatter a leg, or knock the hapless worker off to fall ten or fifteen feet onto the rocky ground. Alden wasn’t totally happy with the current pair, two Indian boys, but they were the best of the lot so far. He hoped he’d drilled safety into their skulls enough that some of the rules would stick.
It didn’t help the work that Flannery had his pets, a couple of good-looking young Mexican guys and one blond kid who was said to be shirttail kin to Mr. Harmon or Mr. Mills, the owners of the SJSW. Everyone figured the Anglo boy was some kind of stoolie for the bosses, so they watched what they said around him. He didn’t do much work anyway and tagged after Flannery most of the time, usually with a clipboard and a bunch of papers. Maybe he was starting to do part of the paperwork for which the foreman was responsible.
Rumor had it Flannery was porking—or at least getting blown—by the two Mexicans. Alden didn’t know whether that was true or not. Alden figured they might also be Flannery’s link to some good Mary Jane out of Mexico. He did know they didn’t do a hell of a lot of work, but that wasn’t his concern. As long as the track got rebuilt or fixed properly, he couldn’t care less. He took pride in his work and had the experience to know how to do it right. Most days, he gave the company a full shift and then some. He never doubted he earned his checks.
* * * *
Roane drove his pickup out to the worksite. He got there just as the crew finished its shift and began to return to the “camp cars” at the supply point. The actual track ended about a half-mile farther up toward the mine and was advancing by about a quarter-mile a day, or so he’d heard. He parked beside several other vehicles lined up in front of the string of faded gray and aluminum cars. The motley bunch of wheels probably belonged to members of the crew. He climbed out and looked around.
A short train consisting of one locomotive with a half dozen gondolas and a flatcar stood on the other side of the parking area. A bunch of men scrambled off the flatcar and headed toward the line of bunk cars. A few glanced curiously at Roane, but none of them said anything to him.
Then a new but badly dinged-up red pickup came roaring in, fishtailed in the gravel, and slid to a halt near the end car in the row. A short, corpulent man got out, stumbling as his feet hit the ground. He grabbed the side of the bed and held on for a few seconds before reeling off toward the last camp car in the row. A couple of young Latino guys got out on the other side and hurried after him.
A second truck, this one dark metallic blue, pulled in at a more sedate pace. The man who alighted from it seemed as different from the first as day from night. His stance was sure and steady, and he paused to look around the area with a calculating intensity before he left the side of his truck. Something about him caught Roane’s attention and held it.
The man wore a white hard hat, Levi’s, and a dark blue denim shirt. Tall and lean, even the red dust coating his clothes did not detract from his commanding appearance. He must be Flannery, Roane guessed. I need to talk to him.
“Hey, Mr. Flannery, got a minute? I’m a new hire, just reporting in to start work tomorrow.”
The tall man turned at the sound of Roane’s voice. “You got the wrong man, kid. Flannery’s dragging his ass into his domicile over there.” He pointed to the end car in the line. The beefy man seemed to be having problems climbing the three wooden steps to the door.
“Oh, shit,” Roane mumbled. Of all the lousy fucking luck—the guy has to be drunk or sick or something. He sure isn’t in good shape and he’s my boss? “What’s his problem?”
The other man snorted. “Stuck his nose in a bottle when he was a kid and never got it out, is my guess. You’d do best to try and catch him first thing in the morning. He’ll probably be semi-sober then. You say you’re a new hire?”
Roane nodded. “I just signed on today. The hiring agent told me to come on out. I’ve got my hard hat and stuff and a bunk assigned to me. I’m in car seventy-two-sixty-eight—looks like that’s it over there, the third one in.”
The tall man held out his hand. “Okay, guess I can fill in for Flannery for now. Welcome aboard. I’m Alden Prescott, crane operator. Did they tell you what you’ll be doing?”
“Just all-around labor, I guess. That’s the way the application read, anyway.” He accepted the handshake, feeling a strange zing of energy streak up his arm when his palm met the other man’s. “My name’s Roane Wellman.”
“Glad to have you, Roane. We’re pretty shorthanded, so every warm body helps. Do you have any experience with this kind of work?”
Roane shook his head, a bit reluctant to admit it, but knowing he must. “Nope, not really. I can use a shovel and…well, I’m a fast study. I’ll get in and do my best. I can obey orders and follow directions, at least. Prob’ly have to learn some new terms, but I’m quick.”
Alden arched one dark eyebrow with more than a hint of skepticism in his expression. “Whatever you say, Wellman. I need someone to spot for me and guide the panels into place. Unless Flannery has another plan for you, you can start with that tomorrow. Go get settled and have some chow. Not sure who’s cooking tonight. Some of the guys take turns and some just run to town for pizza or Navajo tacos or something. Since you’re new, you can eat free tonight. Maybe have to wash dishes, though.” The way he grinned made Roane doubt the reality of that threat, but he figured he’d find out.
“Okay, Mr. Prescott, I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Who the fuck is Mr. Prescott? My name’s Alden or just Prescott. I’m no high honcho or gentleman, kid. Save the fancy manners for the kinds of folks who need them.” He turned away with that parting sally and headed for a different car.
Roane squared his shoulders again and strode toward his temporary home, not sure what he’d find, but determined to face it boldly. He expected there would be some guys like those he’d seen in the hiring office, maybe one or two who would want to test his mettle, but he figured he could hold his own. He doubted that a lot of fighting would be tolerated in the camp, anyway. Just some hazing, and he could handle that.
Here we go, workin’ on the railroad. Never expected to find myself here, but guess I’ll make the best of it.
As he climbed the steps to enter the car to which he’d been assigned, he started whistling the latest Bob Seger song. Maybe some Garth Brooks or Kenny Chesney would be better, but he happened to like Seger. He didn’t know what Chicano guys listened to these days, but probably about the same things he did. Rock was pretty universal. As if to prove him right, a radio suddenly blared inside the car—Bruce Springsteen singing “Born in the USA.” He switched to that tune mid-whistle.
Chapter 2
Alden climbed into the bunk car he shared with Dominic Ragulsky, another machine operator who ran the tamper. A family man, Dom went home to his wife and kids in Durango, Colorado, almost every weekend. On the rare occasions when his wife came to visit him instead, Alden made himself scarce. They each had stamp-sized bedrooms at opposite ends of the former boxcar and shared the cramped galley area and living space in the middle. Mostly they ate with the crew since that was easier than trying to cook. Latrine facilities consisted of a closet-sized cubicle that held a commode and also served as a shower stall.
Feeling the day’s accumulation of dust grit against his skin, Alden headed for the shower, peeling off his dirty clothes as he went. Moments later, standing beneath the spray, he found his thoughts drifting to the new hire. Good-looking boy, although Alden told himself that was the least of his concerns. Roan? His name had sounded like that. Strange name. Alden thought it usually referred to the color of a horse. The muscular young man did not look horsey at all. His neatly trimmed sandy hair and beard had glints of red in it, and his blue-green eyes had held intelligence and curiosity as he’d scanned the camp and supply point.
I’d bet he comes from at least an upper middle class family. New truck he’s driving, and just his attitude. Somebody taught him some manners at least. Not the typical summer hire, but we’ll see how he works out. I’ll have to watch close until he learns the ropes—newbies are accidents waiting to happen. And I fuckin’ well don’t need one of those, never again…
* * * *
Three cars down, Roane climbed the three splintery wood steps and swung open the screen door with his free hand. He carried his duffle bag in the other. Stepping inside, he scanned the limited space to see what he faced. Four young men lounged in the center of the room. Two looked to be Native American, one Latino, and one probably white. Four pairs of eyes flashed to him, as expressions from vague curiosity to outright hostility crossed the four faces.
“I’m Roane Wellman, a new hire. They told me I’d bunk in this car. What’s still available?”
One of the Indians gestured with his chin. “Empty bunk at the end. You can take the top or the bottom. Rest of us have our spaces. My name’s Jack, Jack Dahosie.”
The other three then gave their names, one by one, but none of them offered a handshake or much more of a greeting.
“Willie Randall, Yavapai Apache.”
“Diego—or make that Jimmy—Calderon.”
“Stan Hatfield.”
Stan deliberately cranked up the volume on the radio. He picked up a dingy pencil and began to beat out the driving rhythm on the table top where the radio sat, making an obvious point of dismissing Roane. The other three glared at Stan, but also ignored Roane. Then the two Indians got up and left, muttering something Roane could not understand.
