University of Virginia Library

It happens on a Wednesday night. The Gaslight closed,
vision rosy, speech slurry. The power of the car overwhelms,
permeates, gets inside you. And with it, that travel, roam, get,
away from it all feeling. A phantasy is in the making. But
where? Streets rolled in hours ago. Even the gates to old
Tom's house are locked.

Lights flicker overhead through the windshield for three
(or was it four) blocks, stopping as suddenly as they began,
marking the beginning of the end of the city. Near the end
the pavement widens and shores aside a pillared building,
gobbling up what once were steps. The B&O Railroad.

Your glasses frost and you wish you had thought of
gloves. A single light moves forward from among the others
and soon engine 5894 stops in front of you, a single car and
caboose behind it. Three silhouettes move between cars,
methodically shutting valves and dimming lights, then step
off into the rising streams of steam. Lunch boxes held in one
arm and lanterns swing in the other, two figures walk down
the tracks, away from the station. They continue past a
small, open-faced shed, pot-bellied stove inside, and fire
blazing; a good place to thaw blue knuckles and stiff
joints. Instants pass and obscure figures are now men with
coveralls and striped engineer's hats, waving their arms,
stamping feet, now sharing the fire's warmth, mumbling to
each other.

"Evening," "Hi," "How are you."

"Cold this evenin' ain't it? Near 16 degrees I suppose."

"Yeah, sure is Say, do your know how many trains come
through here at night?"

"Yep, that's right. Sure is cold Colder than a...."

Again:

"You wouldn't know how many trains come through here
a day would you?"

"Oh, I'd say we get about ten freights or more a day,
Ain't many passengers. Only four I think."

"Who would have a schedule?"

"Might try upstairs."

Five bells resound and the swinging lantern moves down
the tracks. Voices mumble, then a shout. "How many cars
did you count?" "48." "Thought there was supposed to be
52."

UP a flight of dimly lit stairs, three men sit around a desk,
feet propped, reading the latest railroad news, munching on
something to eat. Questions cause puzzled looks. The boss is
in the next room and points to an obscure chart on another
desk. No one seems quite sure of "how man?" Someone pulls
out a white pad and begins to figure. The words come unsure,
hesitant. East and West bound are confused. Number 490 is
the freight west of Charlottesville, but 790 is the same train
cast. 892 is 492's connection to the Potomac yards.
Seventeen numbers and a green printed sheets with Orange,
Ch'ville, and Clifton Forge in bold letters are the end result.

"Hope these help. You oughta try the Southern. They
have more traffic than us, I think."

"They have a train this time of night?"

"Yeah, sure do."

"When is it due?"

"Sometime between now and four in the morning."