I've Been Workin' on the Railroad

The summer of my sophomore year at Cal State Long Beach was looming as was unemployment. My best friend’s dad was an engineer with the Santa Fe and his mom suggested I apply for a job as a switchman. I said, “Can I do that?” She laughed and said, “Anybody with a strong back can do it.” (That’s not entirely true. The smartest I guy I ever met was a foreman at Hobart Yard.)

So . . . one fine Monday morning, bright and early, I found myself down at the foot of the 4th Street bridge in LA with 30 other guys wanting a job. Three guys were hired, including the kid whose best friend’s dad was an engineer – coincidence? I think not (old-school unionism). After a physical exam at Santa Fe Hospital (presumably cheaper than buying medical insurance for their employees) and “writing the book” (a very lengthy open book test of all the relevant rules and regulations), I started training. Regarding writing the book, I suspect the company lawyers just wanted, in the event of an accident, to be able to prove you knew the rule you broke and the company wasn’t responsible. To become a foreman, one took the same test – closed book.

I happily worked there for about a year. It paid great! I had my own apartment, a 25” color TV, a stereo, a Mount Vernon 50B, a Duo Gravis Silversonic . . . I was living the life! The only requirement, time-wise, was to show up for the “extra-board” once a day until one had worked five shifts per week. Life as a switchman was seniority based. “Old-Heads” usually had regular jobs but had two days off per week. Folks got sick, took vacations, etc. These vacancies were filled at the extra-board. Daytime shifts were preferable (for most) to swing shifts which were preferable to graveyard.

As low man on the totem pole, if I wanted the night off to gig, I could show up in the morning, not “get out” (get an assignment), and have fulfilled my obligation for the day. If I wanted to work on the railroad, I could usually get out on the graveyard shift. Most of the time this worked; sometimes my best laid schemes gang agley. Weekends were the riskiest; the 5-day regular jobs left the extra board near empty. If I had a weekend night gig,  my quota might not be met and calling in “sick” might be necessary. The yardmaster did call me in once and tell me, “We’re not here to put you through college, son.” As I gained seniority, the problem intensified.

And the job could be dangerous. Three guys were killed while I worked there; one was a switchman. I had two close calls. Once I lost my footing mounting a moving boxcar and almost went under, spraining my ankle. A yardmaster gave me the third-degree for about half an hour before sending me to Santa Fe Hospital, trying to gather evidence it was my fault, not the company’s. An old-head had prepared me for the grilling – I kept my job – the company was safe. They took care of my ankle – no harm, no foul. Another time, my engine crew had been blocked in a siding for several hours. A little sleepy, I got out of the caboose and my foreman immediately pulled me off the track as a boxcar whizzed by. Dumb luck – and the wisdom of another old-head. It was about six months after leaving the Santa Fe that I noticed I was less stressed.

But in a sense, this job really felt like home. My grandfather and great-grandfather were both railroad switchman; most of the family worked on the B&O . . . but the Disneyland Band beckoned, and that was that.

The Santa Fe was my first and last day-gig.