Chapter 5: Dinner in the Diner

March 14th, 1995, 7:15 PM; Mile 205; 10 Miles West Of Harrisburg, PA

Walking through the train towards the dining car was a favorite ritual of George’s. He had grown up on trains, spent endless hours riding long distance trains. He was so adept at walking through a moving train, he almost seemed like a member of the crew. Being on the last car, the last sleeper, on the train, they had quite a walk through the three 10-6 first class sleepers and the non-first class Slumbercoach.

As they walked, Jill was thinking. And that thinking made her ask some questions.

“Is it just me,” Jill asked, “Or do you find it weird that we manage to be in love with each other while we know practically nothing about each other, besides our basic personality? I mean, I don’t know where you grew up, what school you went to, who your friends are, or what most of your interests are.”

George laughed. “It’s not just you,” he admitted, “I find myself wondering about that myself. I mean, I assume you know trains are one of my main interests, but I don’t even know what kind of music you like!”

Passing through the between-car space of “Pacific Bay” into “Pacific Mist,” was very noisy and in Jill’s case required a degree of concentration, so they paused their conversation. It was cold in central Pennsylvania that day, and the cold air blasted through the limited weather sealing of the car, chilling them, as well.

“How can you so walk between cars so easy?” asked Jill, visibly shaken by crossing over the moving pieces of the cars’ tri-fold diaphragms.

“I’ve done this so many times, I’m kinda used to it. Believe it or not,” he continued as they turned into ‘Pacific Mist’s’ bedroom corridor, “The secret is to walk as fast as possible, which helps cancel out the side-to-side motion.”

As they rounded the next corner into the car’s roomette corridor, Jill saw a sleeping car attendant was in their way.

“Oh, hey Uncle Dave,” George said.

“Yo, George,” he started, then noticed Jill, “I’s don’t recognize the lil’un, nosir.”

Jill, mildly scared, was confused as George grinned.

“Aw com’on, Uncle Dave,” he began.

“I’m just funnin’ you,” Uncle Dave said, sucking his teeth, “but ain’t she a bit young for ya?”

“Maybe,” George said seriously, “but I love her and that’s all that matters.”

“Well, normally I’s be asking ya about how that can be,” he grinned, “but after ya momma and pa, I’s be guessing it be in the blood.”

“Guess so,” George smirked.

“Don’t be worry’n about me troublin’ ya none,” he said with a knowing fatherly smile. He wasn’t going to get his own godson in trouble.

“Thanks, Uncle Dave,” said George with an affectionate smile.

With that, Dave flattened himself out against the corner and let them proceed on their way.

“Uncle Dave?” she asked with a hilariously puzzled look on her face.

Once again, the conversation was briefly interrupted as they passed between “Pacific Mist” and “Pine Fern.”

“He was the attendant on the Niagara Rainbow Mom and Dad met on,” George explained after entering the next car. “He helped them convince the conductor to marry them, and he even served as my dad’s best man. I’ve known him since I was a kid. He’s actually just my godfather, but I’ve always called him Uncle Dave.”

“Really? Wow,” Jill averred as they turned from the bedroom to the roomette corridor.

“Yeah. I’m even named after him,” he pointed out.

“How’s that work?” Jill giggled, “His name is Dave, and yours is George.”

“Back in the old days, Pullman porters used to be called ‘George’ regardless of their name,” George started, “harking back to the slave tradition of calling slaves by the name of their master. Some porters still did it for a while, sort of as a reverse pride. When they first met, Uncle Dave asked my dad to call him ‘George,’ despite the prominent ‘David’ on his name tag.”

“Oh,” she said as the passed into the Slumbercoach “Loch Ness.”

“Whoa, I didn’t notice this before, but these are tiny...” she said.

“Yeah. They were invented to provide a cheap private accommodation between coach and a lower berth in a section.” he explained, “As such, they crammed as many of them in as possible. They still basically provide the same function, although Amtrak doesn’t have sections, so they are between coach and a roomette like mine.

One of them was currently unoccupied, so George stepped her up to show her it better.

“As you can see,” he continued, “they are a marvel of miniaturization. Despite the absolutely tiny size, they provide an- admittedly, narrow- bed, which during the day folds up into a chair, a folding sink, and even a toilet. There are 24 such rooms in this car, compared to 20 of them fitting into a similar space to the ten roomettes in our car.”

He walked her down to the second area of the car, where they had non-duplexed double-slumbercoach rooms, which held two people with upper and lower bunks.

“In addition to that, these double-slumbercoach rooms sleep two. You can fit two of them into the space of a double-bedroom. So this car has 24 single and eight doubles, a total capacity of 40 passengers- compared to the 22 our car can hold. This one, Loch Ness, was built by Budd in 1959 for the Northern Pacific’s North Coast Limited.”

“Gee, you sure know a lot about them,” Jill said, “How come they have both kinds?”

“Different prices. The Roomette I’m in cost $140 on top of my rail-fare, whereas the single-slumbercoach costs just $49.50- however, it doesn’t include the first class service package of meals, and other amenities. Personally, I prefer the Roomette for the wider bed.”

They crossed into the dining car and walked down the narrow hallway and waited.

“Actually, both the 10-6 sleepers we are currently staying in and the Slumbercoaches are likely in their last year. Amtrak is replacing them with new sleeping cars called ‘Viewliners,’ which may replace the entire single-level long-distance fleet, but I doubt it. Personally, I think it was a mistake.

“The new layout has three ‘Deluxe Bedrooms’- one of them handicapped- which are basically double bedrooms, and 12 ‘Economy Bedrooms’, which are basically double-slumbercoach rooms,” he droned on, “Which I think is dumb, but mainly the company building them, Morrison-Knudson, has no experience building long-distance railcars. They build Subway cars and the like, and I think these are going to be junk, to be honest with you. And I’m boring you. Sorry.”

“Not at all,” she said, “it’s actually rather interesting, but given where we seem to be, at this point I want to know more about you, and less about trains.”

“Oh ... uh ... yeah,” George laughed nervously with a ‘you’re so right’ smile, “Just remember that trains are a very integral part of who I am, where I came from, and probably, where I am going. Also I’m a complete and total nerd, and being a total nerd is an integral part of me.”

Jim came over and sat them at the crisply set-out table with a friendly looking older couple. From the kitchen came the delicious smells of freshly baked chicken, grilled steak, sautéed fish, and other delicious foods being freshly prepared by the stubborn old cook. The menu was like a cut down version of what you’d find in any diner-type restaurant; simple but well done American-style food.

“Can I get you anything to drink, sir?” Jim said with a twinkling exaggerated formality.

“A double scotch on the rocks?” George asked innocently.

Jim glared at him.

“A Coca-Cola?” George said, trying to keep a straight face with limited success.

Jim glared at him some more.

“A Pepsi?” George relented.

Jim didn’t bother writing it down. “And for you, madam?” he asked Jill.

“A Pepsi is fine...” she said haltingly.

With that, Jim left to go fill the drink orders.

“You should report that kind of rudeness,” the older woman said.

“Nah. Jim and I have been having that exchange for about five years now. We’ve known each other since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. My dad and him are good friends,” George explained, “And I’m 17.”

“Oh,” she laughed, “Well, I’m Betty, and this is my husband, Bob. We’re going to see our daughter in St. Louis. Where you headed?”

“Los Angeles,” George answered, “Heading off to college early, I got into UCLA.”

“That’s gotta take a while,” Bob exclaimed.

“Three nights. The Santa Fe runs the Southwest Chief through their territory pretty quick, and some of that trackage is rated for 90 mph running ... Unlike the remnants of the Broadway we are running on at the moment,” George explained.

“The Broadway?” Bob asked.

“Yeah. Common belief is that this train is named for the street in New York City,” George pointed out, “But this is not so. The train was inaugurated to celebrate completion of Pennsylvania Railroad’s four-track mainline from New York to Chicago, the so-called ‘Broad Way’ for the width of the railroad, at the time the widest long-distance main-line ever built.”

His dining companions were listening intently, so George continued, “Unlike this admittedly still-nice train,” George continued on, “the original Broadway Limited was an all-Pullman, all-First Class, extra-fare train running on an incredible 16 hour schedule at its best. It was the competitor to New York Central’s better known Twentieth Century Limited.”

“You sure know your trains,” Betty said, “But why take Amtrak when you could fly there in so much less time?”

“It’s in my blood. My dad worked for the railroads for 20 years,” George started, “before retiring and starting up a company that restores train stations. He met my mom on a train, married mom on the same train, sired me on said train, and I was even born on the train. Also, my mom is a writer who travels all over to do research for her historical fiction. I have gone all over the world by train or boat, I have never flown and don’t ever intend to. Hell, we practically live on a train.”