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masaru2042 · 5 years

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The Engine is My Boss

This a little short of the r/entitledparents thing. But this time, it’s a story of Bessie...Dana’s former engine, running into a very entitled mother and her brat wanting a cab ride. And then, the mother damages the Flying Scotsman’s cowcatcher, that’s a big no-no!

So, it’s Dana again. I got another one of those stories. Entitled parents, you know. And their kids. Something you have to deal with when driving a steam engine. But this one isn’t from Sodor, it’s from my old job.

I used to work for a particular railroad museum in Chattanooga and was the driver of the famous Southern #4501 “Ms. Mikado”, aka Bessie Baldwin.

Little story on Bessie herself. Bessie is a Mikado type steam locomotive, runs on coal, though she has a brother who runs on waste vegetable oil. Which is why I suggested the fuel to Sir Topham Hatt for Gordon. Bessie managed to talk him into it, saying she’s considering a conversion herself mostly because she’s sick of the bill she gets from TVA. Yeah, she orders coal from TVA, having them drop off a couple cars when they deliver to the steam plant. And it’s expensive! I know when Bessie’s having a bad day when she looks at the invoice she gets from TVA. She already complains about the high electric bill, now this. Saul loves it when she starts complaining.

Mikados have a wheel arrangement of 2-8-2, a wheel arrangement invented in Japan. Sodor has a couple of Mikados of its own, notably the two Smallies...Bert and Mike. But also Hiro Kawasaki, who is a Mikado from Japan. The United States saw the wheel arrangement Japan was using for its steam engines and wanted to use it for their steam engines. The very first MS-1 Mikado built by Baldwin Locomotive Works was Bessie herself. And she’s the last one of that particular type remaining. It’s why she is nicknamed Ms. Mikado. Because she is THE Mikado of the US.

And she’ll let you know it.

She was built in Pennsylvania in 1911, but don’t let that fool you, she’s a Southern belle through and through, even jokes that her water tank is actually filled with sweet tea, not water. It isn’t, but she loves to say it is. She was retired in the 1940s when the Southern Railway was going to diesel, sold to a short line and pulled coal cars until the 1960s when she was bought by a railfan who restored her to working order. Unfortunately, said railfan passed away, and she ended up getting his entire estate. He left her everything, and I do mean everything, including the museum itself!

Bessie Baldwin is in fact the third richest locomotive in the world. Her business partner is Saul Amerigo, a Consolidated 2-8-0 built by ALCO in 1901. He’s the Southern #630.

Some of you Brits might notice the odd surnames these engines have. In Britain, steam engines tend to take on the surname of their designer, not so in the States. American steam engines use their plant name as the surnames. Since Bessie was built at Baldwin Locomotive Works, she’s Bessie Baldwin. Saul was built by the American Locomotive Company, so rather than call him Saul ALCO, he’s Saul Amerigo...for the explorer who named the Americas. Japanese steam engines also do the same thing with their surnames, which is why Hiro has the surname of Kawasaki, despite that in Japan the surnames come first. He actually would be Kawasaki Hiro.

Kinda interesting little tidbit.

Also, Bessie is a big fangirl of the Flying Scotsman. It’s adorable. Likewise, Scott’s got a crush on her as well. If she’s not focusing on the business, she’s on Skype, or Discord, or Facebook with Scott.

And what can I say about Bessie, she practically saved my life once. I was down on my luck, got out of an abusive relationship with my ex-husband, couldn’t go back to working as a freight hauler at Norfolk and Southern, was about to commit suicide when Bessie came in, whistle blaring, scooping me up and took me to the museum. And from that day on until my move to Sodor, I was her driver. My cousin was her fireman.

She even hopped on a boat to Sodor just to surprise me for Christmas all because I was home sick. And that’s no easy task for a steam engine that’s 150 tons. I don’t deserve a friend like Bessie, but I’m glad she is one. She’s like the grandmother I never had but always wanted. She even lets me call her “grannie” a few times too. And apparently Saul is my crazy, fun uncle. Which make sense since my actual uncle drives him.

And she is a hard-ass, make no mistake. She will make you work hard, but in the end, you’ll feel like you achieved something after you did.

But there’s one thing I’ll have to say about Bessie is...you have to follow her rules, no matter what. She’s a “my way, or the highway” kind of girl. Especially when it comes to railroad safety.

On Sodor, cab rides are a flat NO. There’s a reason for that, it’s an actual working railway that has steam engines on it. The only exceptions are VIPs, inspectors, the press, and Sir Topham Hatt’s mother, Dowager Hatt. Don’t ask about the last one, because I don’t know!

However, I do know about heritage railways in the UK that will allow for cab rides, or even the chance to drive said steam engine with a trainer driver and trainer fireman to supervise the guest. The NWR is very strict on no cab rides.

However, back at the museum in Chattanooga, Bessie does allow for cab rides on short excursions, not on long excursions, and the person riding has to be at least 16 years of age, or older. And only two extra riders. Despite American steam engines having much larger cabs than British steam engines, it’s still a tight fit to have a bunch of people standing in it, so, there’s a limit. The driver and fireman still needs their conductor to be with them, so two extra people riding is the limit. That makes five people in total inside Bessie’s cab, and that’s a bit cramped, even for her large cab.

And 16 years or older is because she doesn’t want little kids who can’t keep their hands to themselves from messing with her controls. She figures if the person is old enough to drive a car, they can be mature enough to keep their hands to themselves while being escorted by a parent or guardian. That’s 16 with an adult. However, 18 years and over, you can ride without an adult.

Again, Bessie figures, if you’re old enough to go to war, you’re old enough to not have a babysitter in her cab along with you.

Bessie is funny that way.

Also to get a cab ride, it’s an extra surcharge.

Hey, if you’re gonna be bothering the driver and fireman, you might as well pay them for their time of answering all your questions while they’re trying to pay attention to their job, as Bessie states.

And don’t argue with her about it. She also loves giving the cab rider a nice little lecture before the ride, to make sure the rider understands what they’re allowed to do and what they’re not allowed to do. Because Bessie is Bessie. And she doesn’t want people messing around with things they shouldn’t.

It is her body after all and she makes that clear by saying “you wouldn’t want someone constantly poking you in all the inappropriate places too, right?”

Some people keep forgetting that sapient steam engines are living beings, and have their own boundaries and comfort zones just like humans do. And they expect people respect their boundaries. It takes a lot of trust that the engine must have to work with a driver and fireman manning the controls to assist in the control of steam, and even more trust to allow untrained strangers inside the cab on a ride.

And this is why she doesn’t allow children in her cab.

She had a bad experience once when she gave it a try to allow children inside her cab, and we’ll leave it at that. But it does involve various fluids that little kids tend to excrete either on purpose or on accident.

So, no kids.

They can ride in the coaches instead!

Unfortunately, this is one of those stories that involves a child wanting a cab ride and the entitled mother not understanding that no means no, and thinks that talking to the manager of the museum will get what she wants.

Hahaha, no.

So, we were about go out on our little short excursion, a special all the way to the east end of Chattanooga, passing by historic Civil War sites along the way. The scenery is always nice, especially in the summer. A lot of people love riding this special because at the end of the line, before returning, you get to see some turntable action. Kids love that!

On this particular track, there’s a tunnel, and because of the coal burning, you do have to hold your breath a bit when you’re riding in the cab and going through the tunnel. You don’t want that soot in your mouth. This is the other reason why kids aren’t allowed to ride in the cab.

Well, on that day, Bessie was reversing slowly to the coaches, the conductor was hanging out out the door, helping her and me to see behind her large tender. She just upgraded from her old 15 ton coal capacity tender to an 18 ton coal capacity tender, something she made a little bid on an auction off of an old Illinois Central J-3. Not as big as the Centipede tenders that Saul’s younger sister Opal or his nephew Zack had, but way more than what Gordon uses! A single Corridor Tender that Gresley designed had a 9 ton coal capacity. Bessie now has a tender that is twice that capacity. And she ripped a mechanical stoker from an old Canadian Pacific 4-6-2 steam engine she had purchased as a static display.

We don’t know if said engine was sapient or not, and the Pacific isn’t in good shape for a restore either. Sad.

So, as we were backing up, my cousin Chuck turned his head to hear some sort of argument happening at the ticket counter. It happens. The supervisor inside the ticket counter should be able to help out with any trouble any dissatisfied customer has. So lucky I didn’t have that job. I’m not a people person, or rather a general public person. It’s why I went to work for NS and hauled freight in a diesel up and down the east coast.

The rest of the crowd was out, waiting for the coaches to open up, taking pictures as we backed up. Bessie’s bell was blaring loudly to make sure people knew she was moving. She’s a big ole girl, and she wants to make sure you stay out of her way. And then, the mother who had a scrawny looking 6 year old boy, came storming our way. The ticket lady came out the door and raced after her.

“Hey, cuz…” said Chuck. “We got trouble.”

I got up from my seat and looked out the fireman’s window.

“Bessie, stop!” I shouted and she clenched her brakes.

“Set the brake!” Bessie called back.

I pulled back on the brake lever and then returned to Chuck’s window.

“What’s the hold up?” Bessie asked. Her knuckle hadn’t touched the knuckle of the first coach yet.

“Trouble,” said Chuck.

“What? What kind of trouble.”

There were times Bessie wished she had a neck so she could look around. Though, she does have very excellent peripheral vision, despite being over a century old.

“The ‘I wanna speak to a manager’ kind,” I told her.

“Well, ain’t that a bowl of peaches and cream…”

Except, the mother wasn’t storming up to Bessie to complain to her, because well, Bessie’s the manager. She was storming right to the cab where we were.

Yeah, people tend to either forget, or not know that Bessie is the boss to talk to for any problems. She’ll put her driver wheel down and tell you “tough shit” and then get to her trip. And if you don’t like it, that’s your problem. She’s too old to care and she has a time table to adhere.

“Excuse me,” the woman said, dragging her jiggling son over. “My son wants a cab ride, and the lady at the ticket counter said you won’t give him one. I’m willing to pay extra. That’s not a problem.”

“Right,” I said. “Your son can’t have a cab ride. That’s policy. No child under the age of 16 can ride in the cab.”

“I WANNA RIDE THE TRAIN!” screamed the kid.

I felt a slight tilt from Bessie’s frame. Oh, she hates the screamers. She hates the screamers. I could feel the cab shudder just a little at the ear bleeding sound of that child’s voice.

“And you will, precious,” said the mother.

“He can ride the train,” said Chuck. “Just not the cab. It’s for his safety and also for insurance reasons. We don’t want him potentially messing with the delicate controls inside. And Bessie is very particular when it comes to who can touch her valves. Little children tend to don’t know how to keep their hands to themselves. And it’s just best they don’t ride inside here.”

The mother wasn’t happy with that answer and her mouth puckered, wrinkling at the lips.

“My son is a good boy, he won’t mess with the train’s controls,” she said.

“I ain’t a train, honey!” Bessie shouted. The woman wasn’t paying attention to her.

“It’s also very hot in the cab,” I said. “Which can be very dangerous for very young children's health. There’s also the danger of the child inhaling the particles that come from the engine’s funnel going through the tunnel. She burns coal in her firebox and there’s a lot of soot and ashes. This can damage a child’s lungs. It’s safer for them to ride the coaches.”

“Now, see here!” the mother called.

Oh god, not the “see here” phrase. A Southern mom’s version of holding a gun to your head to get what she wants. You don’t piss of a Southern momma. Ever.

Chuck and I just tensed at her grating voice.

“You let my little son ride in your cab, he’s been a good boy!” she said. “I wanted to do something nice for him. I’ll be sitting there with him, so I’ll make sure he won’t touch anything.”

“We could get fired if we allowed your son in Bessie’s cab,” said Chuck. “It doesn’t matter if you’re with him or not.”

“I WANNA RIDE THE TRAIN, MOMMA!” the child screamed again.

“You’re upsetting my little boy!” she shouted at the both of us. “Now you let my son in there right now, or I’ll see the manager! I’ll make sure you are fired!”

“Oh?” I perked up, jumping down from the cab. “You wanna see the manager? Okay. You can see my boss. And she can tell you why you ain’t getting into that cab.”

All the while, that kid kept screaming, pulling on his mother’s arm. And with each crescendo, I winced.

“Somebody’s torturin’ a cat, it sounds like,” said Bessie. “Marci, get the ASPCA on the phone!”

That’s Bessie, everyone!

“Ma’am,” I began. “This is my manager, Bessie Baldwin. You can now relay all your grievances to her.”

“You’re joking!” the mother shouted. “I will not be disrespected.”

“She ain’t jokin’,” said Bessie. “I own the museum. Now, what’s this about a cab ride?”

“A train runs the museum?”

Keep in mind, that kid was still screaming. He even flopped onto the grass, pulling up the dirt around him.

“Engine, or locomotive,” began Bessie. “And if locomotive is to hard to say, then use engine. Either one will fit. The train is the thing I was backing up to before you ran over with your wailing banshee, demanding for a cab ride despite it being against our policy! I haven’t finished coupling up to it, and I’ve got passengers waiting. Now, what is it you want?”

No engine likes being called a “train.”

“My son deserves a cab ride,” she said. “And your...operator…”

“Engineer,” I said.

“Don’t interrupt me, young lady,” she snapped at me.

“I don’t give a damn if you’re precious little hell spawn’s got good grades, helped a little old lady across the street, made Cub Scouts, won a little league game, or saved a bag of drowning kittens near the Chickamauga Dam, he ain’t getting in my cab.”

I heard a clank on the rails. Bessie just set her center driver wheel down. And when she does that, it’s end of discussion.

I don’t think the mother got that message though.

In fact, she put her foot down as well.

“My son…” the mother began.

“Can get the hell out of my museum,” Bessie finished.

“How dare you…”

“Demand that I let that wallowing little monster inside my cab.”

That’s right, Bessie can play the game too.

The mother pointed her finger stiffly at Bessie, coming near her cowcatcher. Just when she was about to open her mouth again, Bessie blew her whistle loudly. Now, Bessie’s whistle ain’t no peeper you Brits are probably used to hearing from a steam engine. It’s the kind of whistle most people think of when they hear “steam engine whistle”. The loud...whooowhooo! She’s got a three chime whistle. And that clamped the mother’s mouth up real quick. It also grabbed all the eyes from the other passengers to the front.

“I don’t have time to argue with an entitled, stuck up snob that’s obviously gotten more than she deserves, and never once been grateful for it,” began Bessie. “Nor for her little hellion that sounds like he wants to die of asphyxiation rather than shutting up. It’s obvious you haven’t popped one on his little bottom enough. If I had a pair of hands, he would have been taken out to the back of the shed and given a prompt to whoopin’ for making such a scene like that.” She tilted her frame down. “Both my engineer and fireman have given you the reason why we do not allow children under the age of 16 from ridin’ inside my cab. This is policy, and it is to protect my business as much as the child’s health. The boy can easily suffer a heat stroke standing so close to my firebox. My cab ain’t like your fancy Lexus with climate control at the touch of a button. Driving a steam engine is no fun ride, it is hard, hot and sweaty work. And I do not want your child’s snot covered hands anywhere near my controls. I’ve spent most of my century not knowing the intimate relationship between a child’s snot bubble and my valves, and I wish to keep it that way. And another thing, the policy of cab rides is not only my policy, but Norfolk and Southern’s policy. I must adhere to that policy if I wish to continue to run on their lines. What you are asking for just to please your brat and your sense of entitlement will put me out of business. Now either go buy a regular ticket, enjoy the ride in the coaches and shut the hell up, or get the hell off my property.”

There was a short humph from the mother as she began to drag her kid away.

“See if I bring my business back here again,” she said. “And I want a refund and compensation for you scaring my precious child.”

“Patricia!” Bessie shouted. “Did this woman pay for a ticket yet?”

“No, ma’am,” said Patricia.

“That ain’t happenin’, hon,” said Bessie. “Now, get the hell out. You’re holding everyone up. Chuck, release the brake so I can back up. I needa get the coaches hitched.”

There was a clink and Bessie began to back up slowly again, softly expelling steam as she went and letting gravity guide her back. Her bell rang loudly. Then, tapping her brakes, she finally came to a stop as the knuckles connected.

I didn’t have to be in the cab to back her up. Chuck was just as good as a driver as he was a fireman, and could handle both at the same time just to help Bessie back up. And Bessie took care of the rest.

I watched the mother drag her child away, exclaiming: “I’ll sue your company! You’ll go bankrupt and have to be scrapped for parts!”

No engine likes the “S” word. Neither Gordon, nor Bessie.

“Lady, you are banned from my museum definitely!” Bessie called back. “If you try to come back on museum property, I will have you arrested for tresspassin’. And I have the police on speed dial!”

She does. Bessie has an iPad hooked up in her cab, and can do a “hey, Siri, call 911” if need be. Some of the small wires near her smokebox are in fact connected to a microphone so that Siri can hear her and a speaker so that she can hear whoever is talking to her over the phone. Bessie is a bit of a jerryrigger, she can jimmy anything she needs in a pinch, or rather, design it and get one of the mechanics to jimmy it for her. Because, she doesn’t have any hands. And the iPad is actually connected to a rigging near the water glass and plugged into a USB cord that’s attached to her dynamo.

The woman walked swiftly away only to stop for a moment and peered down upon a bright red cowcatcher hanging up by two long nails with four yellow numbers written on it. The numbers were 4472. The woman let go of the child’s hand and then began to tug on the cowcatcher.

Oh no, not the Flying Scotsman’s cowcatcher!

“What in blue blazes are you doin’!” Bessie shouted just as she saw the woman try to drag the heavy iron cowcatcher from its resting place. That thing was Bessie’s prized possession, something she won off an auction from another railway museum. The cowcatcher was from Scott Gresley’s USA tour in the late 1960’s, an event that Bessie sadly missed. Scott Gresley, aka the Flying Scotsman, came to the United States on a friendly tour with his owner Sir Alan Pegler as a show of friendship between the two allies. It nearly ended in tragedy when the Prime Minister at the time withdrew funds and bankrupted Pegler and Scott was nearly scrapped to pay off the debts. Luckily, this was during the time of the Civil Rights movement, which then decided to include sapient steam engines in its movement. Scott was recognized as a person, not an object, could not be cut apart and scrapped, as that would be considered murder, and was sent home under good faith that the UK will recognize Scott’s personhood. They did, in fact. Scott’s now the second richest sapient steam engine in the world and helps to fund the British Railway Museum.

And the last thing Bessie wants is anyone to mess with her beau’s cowcatcher.

“You leave that alone!” Bessie shouted. “Security!”

The aids were already calling for security, Bessie sounding her whistle finally drew them towards where the commotion was happening. All the while, the woman took hold of the cowcatcher and hefted it from the nails. It slid and dropped face down with a loud clang! And right on the woman’s big toe as well.

She called out and slipped her foot from the heavy iron cowcatcher, hopping on one foot. The cowcatcher was very sturdy, so it won’t be easily broken from a fall, but no doubt it probably needs a good repaint after scraping on the concrete.

“You’re gonna pay for whatever detailing is needed to fix the paint,” Bessie said. “Security!”

At last the security guards grabbed the woman. One of them, a rather large man, picked up the child and then took both to their cars. All the while the woman kept shouting she wanted to sue Bessie for not allowing her son a cab ride.

Bessie had to file a small claims and take the woman to court over the damage to Scott’s cowcatcher. Of course, being an engine, she couldn’t really appear in court, but had her lawyer and her secretary appear on her behalf. It wasn’t much, just a couple hundred dollars to have the cowcatcher repainted, but then there was the filing the police report for disruption of the other customers, as well as being fined for delaying a passenger excursion train. Needless to say, the woman had to pay a hefty fine, and serve several hours of community service for her attitude.

Bessie would have given the boy a ride eventually, once he became 16, but now that’s not going to be possible. She put a ban on the boy until he was 18 so he could come back without his loudmouthed mother. However, being around 6 years old, it’ll be over a decade before that boy will be allowed to return to the museum.

But that’s not a problem for Bessie. Oh no. She intends to keep on puffing for another century, until the Good Lord finally decides its her time. Until then, she’ll keep taking passengers, and telling stories of her days on the Southern Railroad.

#flying scotsman #OC #steam engine #Gordon #Dana Gordon's Driver #fanfiction #r/entitledparents #parody

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