News from Hank the Hogger

Yep. Me too, JNXT. I often envy those guys hanging off the side of a unit doing a switch job or rolling past gazing at the world from the cab of an AC unit. Hank started out working on a track gang, got laid off two years and collected unemployment as he worked towards an accounting degree. Hank possesses something on the order of a photographic memory. We would drive out into the desert and look out to the horizon as he would explain what tracks went where, when they went there, and the histories of the railroads that traveled those steel ribbons, long since pulled up to make way for the Interstates.

Hank tried to use that same ability to study accounting. On several occasions on that yestertime, he would recite entire passages of the accounting text books feeling quite confident he would sail through the examination. Then he would emerge baffled and bewildered because the examinations examined the material in a mirror image of what was studied to ensure that only the cleverest could get through.

After two years of trying to retake the failed accounting classes, he was luckily picked up again by the U.P. and worked a series of rail jobs on and get laid off, on and get laid off for another two years as a conductor. During this period he "borrowed out" twice, living first in Portland, and then in Ft. Worth, to get a steady paycheck. He worked mostly locals while the regular guys were out on leave. Finally, his seniority picked up and he began to work more predictably that he finally moved out of his parents house to a cheap apartment he could afford on his savings, were he to be laid off again, and then finally, after much deliberation a nice small house in the better part of town.

Being low on the seniority ladder, where not a few engineers and conductors had twenty or more years in, Hank often picked up the worst dog trains and odd jobs that the senior guys passed over. But it was work.

Hank spent many, many thousands of hours parked on a siding watching train after train rumble past, staring into the vacant wastelands of the Chihuahuan Desert watching the chaparral. Cell phones and reading material other than that specifically required for the job was prohibited and managers, which seem to hide in the bushes, were known to creep up on an unsuspecting crew and write one up.

Hank frequently curses these manager types as "90 day Wonders" who meddle in the business of sorting out cuts of freight that they understand little if at all. One evening, while debarking from a road switcher, Hank found himself being reprimanded by an attractive young woman wearing a hard hat. "Well," drawled Hank, "she then proceeded to demonstrate the correct technique for boarding and getting off an engine. I didn't mind the show."

Moose, who went to work for the copper smelter in town (until a 3 ton copper slab fell on him, crippling him for life) once contemplated a railroad career. He reminisced how he attended a new hire orientation class and the instructor glared down at the assemblage and stated: "if you are married, have families, and worry about missing your kid's birthdays and your family holidays, then leave now." Half the class got up and left.

To survive his marriage with the steel ribbon, Hank has had to embrace his solitude, embrace his loneliness. He socializes little, except with myself, and attends high school football games alone, reminiscing about his past glory days as a middle line backer. He celebrates no holidays. When laying over he might walk to the burrito shack or a Denny's and curse the high oil field prices or abominal service. He typically takes his vacations alone. He took his four weeks off to drive up to Alaska, alone. He is able to plan time off based on Federal Rest requirements ("g.d. government forcing me to get ripped off"), how many engineers or conductors with what seniority are ahead of him for any given train, and who is likely, or not, to "lay off" if they don't want a particular type of train (such as the much hated local, or "dog train" of mixed freight) or a "shooter" (typically a non-stop high priority train carrying UPS piggy backs).

When he gets on a job, he obsessively calculates what he will get paid, and how much overtime he will accrue if the train is delayed, what work rules apply to his pay. "Dying on hours of service," or deadheading is always a bonus, because a deadhead pays the same flat trip rate he gets from Pecos to El Paso, but in a quarter of the time because they travel by van. Dying on hours of service is good, because you have to wait a couple of hours for the van to fish you out of the middle of nowhere and drive you to the motel, and your are on the clock for the twelve hours plus the hours spent driving you to your motel.

Still, he strives to maintain a positive attitude about most things; counts his blessings. He cherishes his Shelby Mustang he bought in cash; a reward for years of staring at chaparral from the cab of a locomotive. He enjoys our time together, explaining for hours the variations of his job- the broken knuckles, the stupid dispatchers, and how cars are spotted at industries. He is passionate about foot ball, and assembles enormous model trains reflective of the equipment he works with daily. 

Me, I struggle to support a family of five, two cats, and a neurotic husky. In my spare hours I tinker with Tyco and muse over Hornby. Hold my breath that my eldest daughter ranks for nursing school. Is it a better life than Hank the Hogger? We both live to a common code: develop an attitude of gratitude. If your car has a flat tire, be grateful you have a car. If your back hurts, be grateful you aren't paralyzed in a wheelchair. If you hate your stupid railroad job, be grateful you have a job.