Trauma Cycle
“I like to speak in metaphor, there’s nothing wrong with that,” Greg Abbott believes. “In fact, there’s a lot right with it.”
This is an apt philosophy for someone who spends the majority of his waking hours riding a bicycle, but going nowhere in particular. Greg Abbott came to the District nearly eight years ago and put down roots here because, well, “it’s not home. As long as it’s not where I grew up, it’s fine.”
Greg Abbott, trying to hide his years of pain.
Greg’s reluctance to stick around his hometown may have to do with his early years there. A natural athlete, Greg was springboard diving competitively in northeast Connecticut (The NECTa) by age nine. By age eleven, he had progressed to 10 meter platform synchronized diving with his diving partner, Eric. Greg and Eric dove together for three years, even making it to the Junior Olympics where they placed 10th out of 33 pairs. Greg had a very promising diving career ahead of him, but it all came to a halt one January day: that was the day Greg found out Eric had a rare neurological disorder and would soon be unable to dive.
“I knew right then and there that I would never dive again, I just couldn’t do it without Eric. But everyone around me, including Eric, tried to convince me to go it alone. I went to one meet without him and never after that.”
Devastated by losing his beloved diving, and helpless to watch his friend and diving partner slowly lose control over his limbs, Greg entered his sophomore year of high school resolved to put all of his pain behind him and carve out of new identity for himself, away from diving and away from The NECTa.
“I guess that’s what coming to DC and taking up cycling was all about. I’ll never be able to erase the person I was, and that’s ok, maybe I shouldn’t. But I also know that ship has sailed, the grains of sand are moving quickly, and these winds they are a-changin.”
Though Greg has never been able to achieve the same kind of success with his cycling that he did with diving, he’s ok with that too. “After all I’ve been through, it’s really nice to just get on my bike and ride solo. I think I’ve needed that.”
And maybe that’s exactly what DC needs too.
DC’s own blogger, thinker & professor extraordinaire
With the birth of DC Stories I’ve begun to enjoy the blogging ‘world’ and figured it would be interesting to learn about a someone who isn’t new to blogging.
Meet fellow DC blogger, Jerry Brito.
Jerry has always been interested in the nature of graphic design in regards to the web. According to Jerry:
In a previous life I was a professional graphic designer and when I was introduced to the net and the Web, improving the usability and the aesthetics of what I found there was very important to me. When blogging took off it was easy to see the potential of the medium and I jumped on it. I’ve been blogging since about 1999.
Since 1999, he has started a plethora of blogs. His best known blog is Unclutterer.com; a blog about simple living. He has actually sold that blog – yes, blogs can be profitable – to a friend whose wife now oversees the site. Jerry’s current endeavor is an ‘irreverent’ food blog called Crispy on the Outside. Jerry has found that blogging can be more than just a fun pastime though.
I think blogging can be very useful in my professional work as a policy researcher and academic. In that capacity I blog at the Technology Liberation Front, which is a group blog about tech and telecom policy written by a bunch of market-oriented tech experts. It’s very helpful at spreading the word about our research and findings.
So while you can find Jerry on a number of blogs or even Twitter, there is much more to Jerry than this blog can even begin to cover. Originally from Miami, Jerry has lived in DC for almost 10 years. He first came to the area to be an intern at the Cato Institute and after finishing his undergraduate degree returned for three years as a full time employee at Cato. From Cato he left to pursue a law degree from George Mason University. At GMU he focused on technology, telecommunications, and Intellectual Property policy and law. After law school he joined the Mercatus Center at George Mason University as a Legal Fellow. The Mercatus Center is a not for profit free-market academic research center that produces scholarly research to bridge the gap between the academic and the public policy worlds. He is currently still with Mercatus and is also an Adjunct Professor of Law at GMU, teaching a regulatory clinic focused on administrative and regulatory law and policy.
So what is about DC that has kept him here all these years? Well, Jerry loves that while geographically DC is a large city, it still has the charm of a small town. Jerry will be the first to admit that the majority of his hobbies are internet related (blogging, podcasing, graphic design, making short amateur movies) but he still appreciates that DC is place that always has something going on; things never get boring.
More social media sources where you can follow Jerry:
Flickr (he has recently been trying to get more serious about his photography)
Freedom to Tinker (blog)
PaperClippy (blog)
Picks of the Week (blog)
Twitter Gossip (blog)
The Hair Doctor
Whenever you move somewhere new there are always a number of things that change. You have to find a new doctor, a new dentist, (in my case) a new chiropractor, the best place to shop for groceries, a coffee shop and let’s not forget a hairstylist!
If you happen to live in DC, I have the hairstylist for you. Fonni, is a hair specialist over at PRatPartners in Chevy Chase and she is AMAZING! When I first decided that my hair was so long I was beginning to look more like a high school student than a graduate student, I found myself Googling the nearest salon.
Fonni is one of those people who just lights up the room that she’s in. The first time I met her she gave me a huge hug and just sat down to learn about me, and what kind of ‘look’ I was considering. While I had been worried that PratPartners might feel a bit ‘houghty toutey’ I was pleasantly surprised. The interaction between everyone there felt like I was sitting in a modern barbershop. Fonni and I chatted the entire time and rather than just rushing to get my cut done so she could move on to the next customer she literally spent two-hours getting my hair just right.
When I walked away (hair 3inches shorter) I was so impressed and rejuvenated by the entire experience I felt compelled to share my new hairdresser’s name with everyone I know. All my co-workers now rave about her – even my husband loves going to her.
Fonni is more than just a hair stylist though. She’s devoted, determined and a go-getter. She recently let me know that she was thinking about going to medical school to become a pediatrician! A lot of people might wonder how a hair stylist would transition to the medical field but Fonni could. Her meticulous nature ensures that she is doing best job she can. She once told me that people often joke with her that she “just cuts hair” and that she shouldn’t worry so much about giving the ‘perfect’ cut and her response is always, “it’s my job”.
When you sit down in Fonni’s chair you meet one of those rare DC souls whose optimism and twinkling eyes can’t easily be brushed aside. If Fonni ever does become a doctor, I would seriously miss my favorite hair stylist but I’d be thrilled to have a new doctor!
Big John: A Temporary Friend
“Hey buddy, what will it be?”
It is these reassuring words that let me know that my day is going to finish up alright. I order my usual Bud Light draft beer as I pull up a seat at the bar. The bartender in one swift movement slides a napkin and places the pint down on top right in front of me. “How’s it going man? I’m John.”
Big John, as began calling him after round three or maybe four, was my bartender at Clydes in Georgetown. He had been working there for five years but had been bar-tending for 13. After I got through tell him how my day had been going, I was able to get the know his DC story. It’s not an eloquent story that will tear at your heart strings and its not a story of overcoming adversity, but it is a story and it belongs to Big John.
John got his start as a bartender just by being at the right place at the right time. He never really thought about being a bartender and really didn’t to even try, in fact John liked being a bouncer. John is 6’7 and was a bouncing at a strip club when he was 22 years old. It was just another random night and the usual bartender who was supposed to show up skipped his shift. The manager couldn’t get a hold on the guy so he asked John to step in.
“I didn’t know that the hell I was doing. Some guy asked me for a Manhattan, so I handed him a beer. My first night was a disaster.”
He was laughing as he reminisced about the first night that changed his life. He worked at the strip club for three more years before getting tired of the business there. He then caught another lucky break when he was hired in Alexandria. He was bar-tending for about four months when his boss walked came to him explaining how the bar manager quit and John would be taking over. For the next five years John managed the bar and really started to love what he did.
“I run a tight ship.” John said about how he managed his bar. He said he really learned how the business worked and most importantly learned how to do it right.
As he passed me number six, he brought a shot to go with it. One for me and one for him. We cheers to good times and good friends and shot them back. Big John went on to tell me stories of crazy people and crazy experiences that he had in the bar. He told me about the time a man proposed to his wife after putting a ring in her beer and he told me tales of people breaking up and making out. He had seen the side of DC that many of experience but never really got to see from the other side.
As I closed out my tab and shook hands with my new friend Big John and said goodbye, I noticed that there were at least ten other people at the bar. I watched as John made his way up and down the bar serving beer and holding conversations with each person he was attending too. In the days of screaming orders and flashing money to just get an order, it was nice to meet Big John. Because he was the best kind a bartender a customer could have, what I like to call a temporary friend.
Where You Can Find BJ
Fearlessly, BJ loosens his grip from around the beast’s neck and places the red monster in a firm chokehold as he climbs to a higher peak. Once there, with a child-like gleam in his eyes, BJ erects to find his balance. Then with a quick check of his surroundings, he clinches his fists and within in seconds he is falling free form in mid air. THUMP! BJ, aka Benjamin Jr. who recently celebrated his fourth birthday, now giggly sits atop a mound of pillows relishing his latest dare devil feat. The red monster, Elmo, BJ’s reluctant partner in crime is less fortunate as his limbs limply protrude from underneath his young companion.
Legend has it that BJ has partaken in dare devil routines since he discovered his ability to roll over. While most parents may have exhausted all attempts to curve such extreme desires to leap, tumble, and deliberately fall off of household furniture, BJ’s parents instead provide him with a soft landing with the aid of pillows strategically placed around their Washington D.C. South East row house.
However, BJ’s zeal for adventure doesn’t stop at home. For example, the National Zoo, BJ’s private safari, provides endless adventures. His favorite exhibit would include the lions and tigers. He is also a young humanitarian who strongly believes that the squirrels that live in Meridian Hill Park should be the beneficiary of the bread crust from his peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
BJ also enjoys the history of D.C. The monuments, or in BJ’s words “the big people” a term applied to Jefferson and Lincoln and followed with the questions, why don’t they move, what do they eat, and can I sit on his lap mark many of BJ’s summer evenings exploring the Washington Mall. He also loves to be a tour guide and often points out where President Bush lives, “in the white castle,” or that you must visit the Air and Space museum to take a ride in a spaceship and get space ship.
For now, BJ’s excursions are guided by his parents who are life-time resident’s of the district and try there hardest to occupy the mind of their curious and active son. But don’t worry BJ dreams big – “When I grow up I am going to be President of the world and live in the White Castle with my tiger.” Perhaps, he’ll settle for a dog – probably not – remember, he is only four and his imagination is endless.
Take a Michi-GANDER over here
People from Michigan seem to be streaming into the District by the boatload. They say it’s because the economy is so bad in Michigan, there are no jobs. But I believe that it’s because they are slowly fortifying an army, which will eventually take over the federal government. But I digress…
Michelle Begnoche is one such Michigander now living in exile in Washington. But don’t go feeling too sorry
for her; the self-described “political junkie” is quite at home in the home of all things political. Having worked for several years on the communications staff of Michigan Governor, Jennifer Granholm, Begnoche (and several hundred of her closest friends) decided it was time for a new challenge in the communications arena. Now at George Washington University’s School of Media & Public Affairs, she is more than half-way to her master’s degree and fully settled into the buzz of D.C. life.
As a young professional, Begnoche enjoys that Washington has so many free things to do. “There’s a lot of stuff to do that doesn’t cost a lot of money – which is good when you’re a student.” Begnoche also likes that there are plenty of people around her age, commenting, “I don’t feel out of place – no one’s much older or much younger than I am, and that is a definite plus.”
But does this cold-weather girl from northern Michigan miss the long winters of sub-zero temperatures?
Not a chance. “I love that it doesn’t really snow much here. Shoveling your way out of three feet of snow to get to class is NOT as much fun as it sounds.” And it doesn’t sound like fun at all.
A Portrait of a Washington D.C. Foot Solider for Change
“To bisect the heart of the Democratic presidential contest, take the Chester exit of I-95 and wend your way to the Pennsylvania Turnpike. If Sen. Barrack Obama has any chance of cultivating an upset on April 22, this 20-mile stretch is fertile land,” asserts an Associated Press article posted on CNN.com, entitled Philly Suburbs Key to State Primary Win. “These are Philadelphia’s western suburbs – a patchwork of charming small towns, elite colleges and working class neighborhoods that constitute one of the most competitive political battlegrounds in the state,” a strong affirmation of the days leading to the Pennsylvania primary. As these words danced across computer screens throughout Pennsylvania early Saturday morning, a bus arrived at 543 E. Gay Street, Gay Street Plaza, West Chester, PA, at 11am sharp, carrying some seventy Obama supporters from the DC metro area. They had arrived with one mission, to take up arms in the political battle for the democratic nomination.
A stream of volunteers ranging in age, gender and race, adorning Obama campaign paraphernalia descend from the bus enthusiastic with their quest as foot soldiers in the battle for change. Amongst these individuals stood Curt Thomas, a 28-year-old male with the complexion of coal. For what he lacks in height, he makes up in attitude. An attitude which embraces the political vigor of the moment, demands respect for the right to say “We fought and died for this,” and challenges the notion that experience rules over political renewal. “Americans complain about their leaders being out of touch, Obama has spent extensive time working on the local level, while others have spent their lifetime working in Washington,” says Thomas, reiterating the heart of the Obama campaign. On this day, the small town of West Chester, home of the United States Parcel Service (UPS), and whose population tilters around 20,000 seemingly rips at the seams as volunteers pour in to the suburban town by bus and car. The parking lot at the stripe mall where the West Chester Obama campaign office is located is filled with cars displaying out of state tags. Many supporters have traveled in groups and others have traveled alone. The campaign office, an abandoned video game store, large storefront windows are filled with Obama signage. Inside individuals are clustered around tables stacked with cookies, fruits, doughnuts, chips, sandwiches and drinks; nourishment for the task ahead. To the right of the tables are rows of computers and printers. Near the computer station, telephones line the wall adjacent to two large sofas and a coffee tables stacked high with local and national publications.
Thomas navigates the packed room, scanning the assortment of food. A resident of Washington DC and former U.S. House of Representatives employee, he appears comfortable in the political atmosphere. He is one of only a hand full of African American males volunteering today. “My complexion speaks to a certain group of people. It has the ability to motivate someone to vote,” asserts Thomas. He admits he knows no one in the room or anyone from the bus he arrived on, “There’s this email list that circulates informing you of upcoming campaign events, that’s how I found out about West Chester.” “Likeminded people with a common goal to get Obama elected,” smiles Thomas. This is not his first time volunteering for the Obama campaign. He visited Pennsylvania in March in an effort to register voters. Now he has returned to Pennsylvania to secure the votes of those newly registered voters. As Thomas gulps down his third ham sandwich on wheat, the Campaign Organizers rally the troops with a shout and response session. “What are we hear for,” they shout! “Change,” respond volunteers. After a few rounds of this exchange, organizers pass out informational packets to volunteers. They segment the group in to smaller groups. Those with cars are given larger turf and those on foot are given condensed residential areas. Thomas, who had traveled three hours by bus, receives walking directions to a neighborhood five blocks east of the campaign office. He quickly flips through the packet of information before departing to his designated turf. His packet contains the names and addresses of every registered democratic voter in a three-mile radius. After a short hike in the sun, he approaches what appears to be a working class neighborhood where porches join many of the houses and wire gates partition others. Several addresses listed on the canvansing roster list multiple persons with differing last names. “I have my work cut out for me today,” whispers Thomas as he looks up at the street sign reading “W. Miner St.” and then turning his gaze back to the campaign map.
The streets are quite. Only a few cars buzz by as passengers turn to stare at Thomas perched on the corner assembling paperwork. He is wearing an orange button down shirt with the sleeves rolled-up. His jeans are a nice median between baggy and fitted. His shoes are a cross between Kenneth Cole and Gore-Tex. His hair, perfectly edged, however, it stop short of sporting any distinguishable regional style. At this moment, at this place, Thomas does not fit in. Nonetheless, he seems unfazed by the attention he receives from neighbors as he approaches the first house.
He gathers himself then rings the doorbell. No answer. A few seconds pass before he extends his finger to try again. Before his second attempt is successful, a woman peers from behind her now partially opened door. “Yes,” the woman asks. Now it’s Thomas’ turn. The conversation goes as follows: “Hi my name is Curtis and I am a volunteer with Barack Obama’s presidential campaign.” That part is easy. “If I can have a moment of your time, I would like to tell you a little about Senator Obama.” Thomas finds that he still has her attention so he continues, “Obama is above negative campaigning. Instead, he is concerned with creating jobs for Pennsylvanians and establishing a healthcare system for all Americans,” by this time Thomas tries to wrap up the laundry list of pros and get to the real reason why he had rung her door bell before noon. “On Tuesday, April 22, 2008, you can cast your vote in the Pennsylvania Democratic primary. Can Obama count on your vote?” A long pause follows before the woman utters, “Yes.” He marks her response down and proceeds to the next house on the list. After a few more awkward exchanges, utilizing this script, Thomas curtails the lengthy exchanged and opts to freestyle. “You have to read the people. You can tell which ones want to be bothered and which ones care less,” says Thomas as he reaches for his pen to mark the first box labeled “first contact” and the second column box labeled “Obama supporter.”
Thomas is not new to politics. He says his zest for grass roots politics stems from a 2001 internship he had with the NAACP. He recalls attending a hearing and witnessing a man bound to a wheelchair advocating on the behalf of others through the aid of a commuter as his speaking device. Thomas says this was the turning point in his own life when he questioned what he stood for as a man and in turn moved him to define his agenda and passion. “Only those that feel like they can make a difference participate,” says Thomas. Since then he has been charged with lightening the burden of future generations through grass root efforts because in his words, “That’s progress.”
In addition to Thomas’ physical presence on the campaign trail, he religiously submits articles to small community papers in his hometown of Greensboro North Carolina and Washington, DC. In one such article, entitled America Deserves a Uniter, Thomas sheds light as to why he supports Obama, “Single-handedly, he [Obama] has inserted hope in place of cynicism, and partnership in place of partisanship.” He feels that Obama’s agenda for justice, love and equality can resonate with all Americans. A close friend of Thomas says that his passion for the 2008 election is intoxicating and you can’t help but to get sweep away in the “Obama moavement.” And though Thomas says he is not voting for Obama because he is a “black man,” he does believe his own racial identity plays an intricate part in his grass root efforts. “I have the unique position to speak to that historical political gap or disparity,” affirms Thomas, as he approaches another house.
At this house the women is swift to cut Thomas off and voice her support for the opposing candidate. Thomas thanks her for her time and turns to leave. Half way down the block he jokes, “Everyone is not motivated by change.” The afternoon continues with hits and misses. A few residents praise Thomas for his efforts and enjoy the few minutes he spares to discuss politics. Thomas finishes canvassing the area shortly before five and heads back to the campaign office to turn in his packet, grab a snack and return to the bus for his three-hour commute back to Washington, DC.
Three days later Obama lost the Pennsylvania Democratic Primary by double digits. Fast-forward, however, to October and Obama has accepted the democratic nomination and has a 10-point lead over the republican candidate, McCain. Yet, Thomas, now a first year law student, is still unremitting. “It’s not over until he (Obama) is in the White House,” says Thomas as he prepares to leave his apartment for another day of canvassing, “that’s when we’ll have crossed the finish line.” So now and until the first Tuesday in November, you will find Thomas, a foot solider, knocking on doors in effort bring about change.
All Hail Chief Zee
Hail to the Redskins! Hail Victory! Alright, so even though the Washington Redskins lost this past weekend to the win-less St. Louis Rams, I had the opportunity to meet the number #1 greatest fan ever in Redskins Nation, Chief Zee. Chief Zee is Zema Williams the official mascot of the Washington Redskins and here is his story.
Zema “Chief Zee” Williams first entered RFK stadium in on September 5, 1978 at Redskins vs. Cowboys rivalry. He was invited surprisingly by a Cowboys fan to come watch the game. Williams bought a head dress and a what he refers to as a “Tommy hawk” and headed out to his first Monday Night Football game; a game that would change his life and the Washington Redskins forever.
Over the past three decades the memorable and eccentric Chief Zee has been electrifying the fans of RFK and FedEx field. His passion for the game and the love of the not just the Redskins, but the Redskin Fans has kept him going all these years.
Zee has battled injuries, muggings, surgeries, and sickness in order to be there for his brethren fans. When I asked him if he has ever missed a home game, he told me that he has only missed four. One for his father’s funeral; one for his mother’s funeral; one for surgery following an aneurysm in his stomach; and opening day of 2006 to honor his rival and best friend Cowboy’s super fan, “Crazy Ray.”
Chief Zee is an institution to the Washington Redskins franchise. Fans expect him to be there at every home game cheering them up when they are down and leading them strong when the Redskins are up. The team loves him so much that they have guaranteed him lifetime season tickets for him and his family, pay for his expenses when he travels to do appearances, and when he lost his big toe to surgery the provided him a scooter to get around. But the biggest showing of appreciation and love came last year when a thief stole Zee’s head dress. Chris Cooley, the Redskins Pro Bowl Tight End used his blog and clout to find the head dress and return it to Chief Zee in exchange for a signed jersey.
In 2000, Visa and the National Football League Hall of Fame picked one fan from each team and inducted them in to the Hall of Fame, for the Redskins it was none other then Chief Zee. He is one that has been there through the ups and downs of the Redskins and the good times and not so good 90’s, but according to Zee it is the outreach of the community and the support of the fans keep the Chief coming back.
“I am the number one Fan of the Redskins Fans.” Zee said. “They are the ones who keep me going.”
But for the fans its Zee that brings the fans back.
Chief Zee
I asked a man that was sitting around me about what he thought about Chief Zee he told me:
The Chief is the type of fan you just love he reminds you of the fun and the innocence of the game and more importantly he makes you feel like a kid watching the greatest game on earth.
East Coast Love
“If I hadn’t met Kieran, right now I would probably be sitting on a beach in the Caribbean, drinking rum punch out of a coconut and working on my tan. So… Did I make the right choice? I guess so, ” Jeanette Duffy said wistfully. “I always burn really badly.”
Instead of heading to the Caribbean for work, Duffy headed to D.C. for love. After a chance meeting with her now-husband at a Halloween party in Brooklyn in 2004, Duffy was instantly smitten. And instantly torn: she was supposed to be leaving after New Year’s for St. Thomas and St. Martin to manage a new account at her job – a post which could potentially keep her there for a year. “I knew it was a totally rash decision, we had only known each other a few months, but for a Christmas present I told Kieran
Duffy, on the beach she once spurned.
I wasn’t going to go. He was so happy.”
Six months later, Duffy and her then-boyfriend decided to end their commuter romance, make it a live-in one and she moved in with him in Cleveland Park. Now married and soon-to-be home-owners, Duffy says she misses New York, but only when she’s awake. “At night, I dream about being on the beach in St. Martin. So that’s not really the same as missing New York, is it?”
When pressed to find something she likes about D.C. Duffy answers, “I have never used ‘think-tank’ as much in daily conversation as I have since I moved here.” A lovestory for the ages.
D.C. Bound
(By request the names have been changed)
Reg Mosley repositioned his conductor’s hat while standing on the dimly lit platform and quickly returned his hands to the pockets of his navy blue Amtrak uniform to find warmth from the early morning chill. A bespectacled thirty six year old who is a self-professed addict of automobiles, yarns and wearily looks down the empty platform in anticipation of today’s journey north. It is a quarter to six and the sun is yet to begin its ascent. The air is still, aside from the occasional passing of freight trains transporting raw material, perishables, and waste to the far corners of the country.
Like any other given morning, the odds would be in your favor to find Mosley, a train conductor, standing on the same platform at the same time at Richmond Virginia’s Amtrak Staple Mills station. Today being no different, he savors his last few moments of silence before his morning passengers board for northern destinations. A voice over an intercom cuts through the morning chill and bellows “Now boarding northbound train 84 with destination to Ashland, Fredericksburg, Quantico, Alexandria, Washington DC and stops between DC and New York!” On the other side of the tracks, yet visible to Mosley, passengers congregated at a gate hurriedly respond in unison to the early morning cattle call. With luggage in tow, the group of 35 to 40 individuals distinctive only in age, race, and gender turn the corner and one by one begin the ritual of passengers world wide: with the onslaught of questions.
Mosley, a 12-year Amtrak veteran, is accustomed to the passengers’ succession of questions. “Is this train going to New Jersey,” one lady asks. “Yes Mam, all stops north of DC,” replies Mosley while assisting her with her bags. Another man follows with “What about Boston?” While helping a woman with a stroller, Mosley responds “Yes sir, 84 continues to Boston after departing New York.” “What time should we arrive in Philadelphia,” asks an elderly woman with a cane. Mosley escorts her up the train steps and answers, “Mam, the conductors that will replace me and my crew in Washington can better gage arrivals north of DC.” “Well, when will we arrive in DC,” the same elderly women relentlessly inquires before turning to find her seat. “Eight o’clock,” answers Mosley while retracting the train steps, securing the door and beginning his decent down the aisle of the train at 5:56am.
At six o’clock, train 84 departs from Richmond on schedule. In the café car, Mosley places his walkie-talkie and tickets collected from passengers on the table and he slides into the attached both to review today’s work orders. To his right, at a nearby table, two other conductors sit and caress their morning coffee while reading the Richmond Times Dispatch. In the same car, a small group of frequent commuters flock at tables to discuss train gossip. Upon noticing Mosley’s arrival to the café car, one commuter interrupts the chatter and jokingly hollers, “Mosley! The train was three hours late yesterday! What the hell happened man?!” Mosley flashes a half willing smile to the banter and calls out to the nearby conductors, “What does a late train do?” He and the conductors respond in laughter, “Get later!” The commuter has no time to respond before the engineer for train 84 announces over the walkie-talkie frequency the impending arrive to Ashland. The conductors return to their respective post and at 6:14am the train stops in Ashland and a second group of passengers board.
The café car now bustling with hungry passengers, who are essentially prisoners to the limited food options on the train, forces Mosley to retreat to an adjoining passenger car for the fifty-five minute commute to Fredericksburg. Red seats fill the car with restrooms anchoring the rear. The stench of a consignment shop consumes the air, “Shitty equipment,” remarks Mosley. He says the cars, which adorn red seats, are approximately 32 years-old and those with blue seats are slightly younger.
Revisiting the conversation from the café car, Mosley admits his job is often unpredictable. “We (Amtrak) promise to get you home but we don’t guarantee at what time,” smiles Mosley. His profession requires that he arrive at the station by 4am to receive work orders and spend the next 16 hours, on a good day, transporting passengers to and from Richmond. A commuter in earshot of the interview asks Mosley if he likes his job. “Oh yeah,” Mosley answers with zero hesitation, “I do.” Mosley cleared $89,000 last year for approximately fifteen days of work a month and a lot of overtime. Who wouldn’t like his job?
He, however, says that historically a conductor’s pay was equivalent to that of a doctor and lawyer. Now, their salary is contingent on the appropriations set by Congress, which many Amtrak workers find minuscule compared to the budget designated for the airline industry. According to Mosley, the diminishing mystique of the railroad is directly correlated to the rate of pay and benefits Amtrak employees receive. “For the last eight year’s my union has been in negations for pay increases instead of the standard yearly COLI (Cost of Living Increase),” says Mosley. Things are however looking up for him and his colleagues. Last month his union settled their contract with the Amtrak Board of Directors for an undisclosed amount, which will provide back pay and health benefits.
“It’s not all gravy,” confesses Mosley while watching the sunrise behind Virginia’s open fields. He continues, “For example, relationships are hard when you spend most of your time on the train.” The father of one is accustomed to the long hours and tardiness of his profession but not the loneness. Mosley explains that he has come to learn the difference between scheduled and actual departure times. Saying that actual departure times are anyone’s guess, where scheduled departure times are only applicable in a world without variables. He concedes that the unpredictable nature of his job is taxing. Consequently, when asked of his marriage status he quickly replies, “Question mark.” Meaning, he is separated though not legally. He says that women he has attempted to date often deduce that the train is his wife, mistress, and girlfriend leaving him little time for much more, “Sometimes I think they are right,” adds Mosley.
At 6:56am, the sun casts a morning glow on the steal tracks as the train arrives in Fredericksburg. Many of the passengers who board know Mosley by name and warmly greet him as he collects their tickets. A woman openly flirts with him as he approaches her seat, “Good morning Reg. I missed you the other day.” He blushes but declines to return any advances. “Crazy things happen on the train,” says Mosley as he continues down the aisle. When asked what the craziest thing he has ever experienced, he quickly replies with a grin, “What should I choose from?”
Though many wild events take place on the train, Mosley says railroad travel also has its share of inherent risk for workers, passengers and pedestrians alike. Studies say that every ninety minutes there is a train derailment or collision, and every year there are approximately 3,000 train accidents killing over 1,000 people. Ask Mosley if he has seen death while working on the train, and he becomes motionless. After a moment, he replies, “Sadly, I have.” Mosley removes his glasses to wipe them clean before continuing, “One was a kid my son’s age.” His son is four. Appearing physically moved by the tragic event he refuses to elaborate and changes the topic. “My motto is to arrive safely,” he glances out the window again as the train approaches Quantico at 7:14am and adds, “The simple things will keep you alive.” He opens the door as someone over the intercom announces, “Arriving at Quantico. This is northbound train 84.” A few passengers board, the steps are retracted, the doors are secured and once again the train is in motion.
The majority of the seats on the train are now filled, so Mosley remains in the vestibule, which adjoins two passenger cars. A passenger passing through stops and asks, “Is it supposed to rain today?” Mosley kindly replies, “I haven’t heard.” When the passenger departs, he jokes, “Sometimes I’m also the weather man.” When asked if he had always dreamt of becoming a conductor as a child, he quickly replies, “No, my dream job was to work on cars. Obviously, that didn’t happen but my career allows me to own a piece of the dream,” concludes Mosley. The piece of dream he is referring to, in car fanatic lingo, is a “Quarter ‘til 8,” a steal grey BMW 7.45 series and a “10 minutes to 4,” a platinum Nissan Z series.
By the time the train pulls into Alexandria at 7:45am, the sun fully illuminates the sky. At the station, some passengers disembark while others wait to board. Though Mosley can give you the mathematical position of most cities in the Northeastern corridor, he is often celebrated for his ability to lift luggage. Accordingly, a couple that exits the train thanks and tips Mosley ten dollars for his assistance with their bags. “Lunch money,” says Mosley as he shovels the bill into his uniform pocket. After a brief wait to receive permission to proceed through a railroad work-zone outside Alexandria, the train is again in motion at 7:52am. Mosley walks down the aisle and announces, “The next stop is Washington D.C. Please take this time to check around your seat and collect your things if Washington is your final destination –”, “Excuse me, how long will I have to take a smoke,” a man cuts Mosley off as he approaches from the rear, giving other passengers their queue to begin the ritual of questions. After 12-years on the train and 23 years left before retirement, Mosley still answers each question with patients.
Satisfying the passengers’ inquires, Mosley announces, “Once again, our next stop is Washington D.C.” At 8:08am, northbound train 84 pulls into Washington D.C.’s Union Station, eight minutes late. “Did I forget to say that arrivals are just as inaccurate as departures,” Mosley grins while exiting the train. He has nine hours before he boards southbound train 95 to Richmond with a new group of passengers. For a man whose life is dictated by time, Mosley again stops to assist a woman with directions and another with her luggage before retreating to the confines of Union Station.
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