The Porter’s Orders

Spring 1948

When the whistle blew, he wondered why he had to get something on his stomach. He was somewhere near Philadelphia headed towards Wilmington, Delaware, the last stop. He looked down at the alarm clock. His mind whirled. He had been a Pullman porter for four years, loading baggage and ushering passengers but he could not recall any of this. This time, he woke up in the Pullman worker’s quarters. He peered at himself in the mirror but did not recognize anything. He donned the pristine uniform out of rote actions, and headed out to work towing a pail of hash browns, a bottle of orange juice and his wife’s homemade Spam and egg sandwich. He just carried it, never remembering its contents.

He walked by Curt Rio.

“Are you alright, man?”

“I just don’t recall who…what?”

Rio just strode past with a bewildered look plastered on his face. The click clack of the train was a symphony of the traveling violin. He listened to the melody as he sat in the COLORED section, in the back, in the corner designated for porters. He laid down his hat and unpacked the pail. He displayed the contents in an orderly fashion. He placed the orange juice in the upper left hand corner. The hash browns found a home in the opposite corner. The sandwich was center stage. All of this just seemed like he was performing a routine task, he had no idea why he carried out such actions.

He picked up the sandwich. He had enough memory to open his mouth just as the train entered a tunnel. A jarring sound and a violent thrust upset the juice and hashbrowns. He laid down the sandwich. The lights flickered like a string of roman candles. With his hat back on his head, he walked back from the porters’ compartment to the luxury class area.

As the train sped up, yelps and quiet chatter coalesced. In the whirl of noise, The porter found his way to the front of the train. It completely barrelled out of control. Steel against steel and a few sparks flew up into the sky. Attempts to stop the out of control, speeding bullet of transportation failed again and again. He made his way to the head of the train, wondering exactly why he was even aboard.

“Boy, what are you doing in this engine? Don’t you know your place?” Manager Baskin Rubinski asked.

“Excuse me sir, but I don’t know why I’m here.”

“You’re a damn porter, Trent!”

“Is that my first name?”

“You’re Eakins Trent. This is no time to play memory loss. We’ve got an emergency on our hands!”

“I think I can maneuver this locomotive here,” Trent replied. He didn’t know what he was saying.

“Oh, yeah? You didn’t even know who you were a moment ago. We’ve got two drunk engineers incapacitated. So you’re telling me you can take control over those levers and gears?” Rubinski questioned.

“Yes.”

Rubiniski looked him up and down with supreme prejudice. Then, a smirk crossed his face.

“Alright, boy. If you say you can slow this train down and get these souls off successfully, I’ll give you my job.” His job was to ensure that men like Trent stayed in their place.

“I don’t want your job, sir. I just want to get my memory back and then get this train under control,” he spoke slowly, evenly.

Rubinski motioned for him to enter the control room. The smell of alcohol permeated the area. He felt at ease despite the chaos. He moved the drunk engineers over and looked down at the array of dials, knobs, and switches. The train swayed wildly and a collective “Oh” rose up from the cars behind him. Glass breaking and lights going out didn’t rattle him.

His resolve to keep the passengers safe and arrive at their destination and keep this train in good condition, spearheaded him to assess the situation...which he had no memory of even being on the train. He became a machine. He would have to immerse himself in the mechanics. His spirit became an instrument in preserving life and property.

With every pull and press, the train still remained unwieldy.

“You pray to God?”

“No.” He said this with a confidence that hid previous unassurredness.

“I don’t either. But I might start now,” he chuckled nervously.

“I wouldn’t,” he replied with the same measure of certainty. He kept the train on the rails, but it was slipping around the bends. A shriek coursed through the colored car as a man clutched his throat and passed out without warning.

His wife begged for someone to help him. Rio, a corpsman in the Navy, rushed to aid him.

“Don’t you dare,” another passenger mentioned. He gripped onto Rio.

“Goddamnit, if you don’t let go of my arm, this man won’t be the only one passed out,” Rio responded. The man unclutched his grip. The Navy doc went to work and checked the pulse and whether he had any obstructions. Rio cleared his air passageway and found an ice cube the man had almost choked on and removed it. He revived the man.

“Thank you,” Paddy Holker said to Rio. He bent and tipped his hat to the man and his wife. He then held down that compartment like a panther guarding its lair.

Back at the engine, Trent worked up the nerve to keep his eyes on the rails and still focus on the whole collection of instruments on the board. He gave instructions.

“Sir, you’re going to have to hold these two buttons while I pull this lever.”

“I don’t take orders from a forgetful ni—”

“If you want this train to get back on its regular motion, then it’s important to hear me. I’m starting to remember what I did in the Marines. I worked with engineers…I think. You’re going to have to listen to what I say and do as I direct. Is that understood?”

“Yes, si—, uh sure thing,” Rubinski hesitated. Trent steeled himself. The two men struggled to place their palms on the correct equipment.

“Hold tight!” Trent barked.

As Trent pulled the lever, Rubinski followed directions reluctantly. Both of them managed to get the train back to running at its normal pace. Applause pervaded the train.

“It seems like we might be okay,” Rubinski said. “I’ll give the credit to you, of course. You will be promoted,” he remarked.

Trent sighed. “I just want to remember what I was supposed to have for breakfast.”