Workin' on the Railroad

Chapter 1-3

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, s**t,” Roane mumbled. Of all the lousy f*****g 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 f**k 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.