Without Warning

by Darrell Maloney

  “This is for you and you only,” he’d tell them. “You don’t have to share any of it with your brothers and sisters. You can eat as much as you want, whenever you want. When you want to put the rest up for later, you just call for your Mama or me and we’ll put it back in the freezer.”

  Jordan’s mom thought him nuts the first time he pulled what she called his “ice cream miracle.” But she saw how it brightened her sick child’s day and seemed to help in the healing process. Before long she was a believer too.

  Jordan didn’t go as far as his father did… buying a whole carton of ice cream for a sick child. But he made a point to share a bowl with his children when they were a bit under the weather.

  It didn’t chase away the coughs or sneezes or runny noses. But it made them happy for awhile.

  And Jordan was all about making his little monsters happy.

  That’s why he doted on them, especially when they were sick.

  He washed his hands and went to the kitchen to make coffee, then sat down to drink it while he pondered his day.

  The appointment for his annual physical was at ten.

  He typically thought the physicals were a waste of time. But when you work for the railroad you do what the railroad tells you to do.

  If you must drink alcohol you’re limited to two drinks at least ten hours before starting a run and never while on the run. Finding alcohol on a train is a major event. The entire crew is suspended pending an investigation, and somebody always gets fired. The same is true of any drugs. Even, one of his assistants found out the year before, a little bit of weed.

  Stan packed a pair of jeans he hadn’t worn in months on that run. A railroad inspector met them when they stopped for the night outside of Salt Lake City and ran a dog through the train.

  The dog alerted on Stan’s bag and found the remnants of a soggy half-joint in one of the pockets. It had been through the washer and dryer and was no longer in any condition to smoke.

  But it was there, and rules are rules.

  Stan was shown the door.

  The railroad doesn’t play.

  Another biggie when it comes to the railroad is the annual physical.

  Jordan never knew exactly when it was coming. The railroad did the scheduling and never told him until forty eight hours before the appointment. All he knew was that it would be sometime within what the railroad called “the window.” The window was anytime between eleven and thirteen months after his previous year’s physical. Railroad employees used to be able to make their own appointments, but a whistleblower alerted the railroad that some people were using drugs, but stopping them several days before scheduling their appointments. To allow the illicit drugs to clear their system before they had to pee into a bottle.

  The railroad’s response was to take over the scheduling, and not to tell the employees until forty eight hours prior.

  It was all the same to Jordan. Anything the railroad was willing to do for him; even something as easy as making an appointment, was one less thing to worry about. And he didn’t do drugs anyway, so he had no concerns about the timing.

  He thought the whole annual physical thing was a waste of everybody’s time, though. He was perfectly healthy. Men in his family always lived into their eighties, and he fully planned to carry on the tradition.

  If there was one good thing about the appointment, though, it was this: it would give him a chance to ask Doc McKenzie why he had to get out of bed almost every night to go pee.

  -28-

  They’d settled in Pillager, Minnesota for several reasons. First of all, because the rail line passed right through it. Being close to the rail line is kind of a no-brainer for the chief engineer of a cross-country run.

  They knew nothing about Pillager when they took a trip there from Chicago to look at houses and check out the schools. That was the second thing that drew them to the place.

  Minnesotans are friendly and helpful by nature. Arguably the friendliest Americans in any state.

  They welcomed Jordan and Katie like long lost relatives. Every time they looked at a house they might purchase at least one neighbor came over to shake their hands and welcome them to the neighborhood.

  When told they hadn’t decided to buy yet they were invariably told, “But you have to. You’ll never find a better neighborhood than this one.”

  The scene repeated itself so often Katie whispered to her husband, “I think I fell asleep and woke up in a movie. You know, that one where the day keeps repeating itself over and over?”

  “You mean Groundhog Day?”

  “Yeah. Exactly.”

  In the end, they purchased a home in Pillager because it was absolutely the perfect place. At least for them, anyway.

  First, it wasn’t Chicago. That was a very big plus.

  It was roughly the same distance from his parents’ home in North Dakota and her parents’ home in Wisconsin.

  The majesty of Minnesota, be it summer or winter, could not be matched.

  Neither could the fishing and hunting.

  The school system was among the best in the nation, and of course there was the aforementioned friendliness.

  They’d purchased a home in Pillager four years before and had never regretted it. Not for a single day.

  Jordan was on his third cup of coffee when a very tussled and very sleepy Katie walked into the kitchen.

  Without asking she picked up his cup from the table and sipped it.

  “Too cold,” she grumbled and walked over to the microwave to heat it up a bit.

  “Well excuse me,” he said. “If I’d known you were gonna steal it I would have made sure it was up to your high standards.”

  He tried to sound angry, or at least upset, but she knew better. There was no animosity between them. Not at all.

  They were one of those rare couples who never argued and very seldom disagreed.

  On the rare occasions they did, they talked out their views logically and worked out a solution.

  On domino night with their next door neighbors the week before the neighbor commented that he’d never heard them raise their voices to one another.

  Katie pondered the comment and said, “I don’t think he’s ever raised his voice at me in all the time we’ve known each other.”

  “Oh, my God,” Jordan exclaimed. “We’ve turned into Ward and June Cleaver.”

  The neighbors, twenty somethings, didn’t get the reference and gave one another strange looks.

  “Are these people crazy?” kind of looks.

  But Jordan and Katie Myers weren’t crazy. They were just very well matched and very easy going. To them, on the rare occasions they disagreed on something it was much better to remain calm and talk things through than to argue.

  As they saw it, there was too much arguing going on in the world already.

  And too much hatred.

  Too many wars too.

  The neighbor, John Salk, asked Jordan, “So when are you headed out again?”

  “In nine days, on the twentieth. I have to pass my annual physical next week, and once that’s done I’ll start packing.”

  Jordan led a crew of seven.

  They did a milk run for PanAm Railways.

  It was called a milk run not because it ferried milk across the nation, but because it was a regularly scheduled run, from the Los Angeles rail yard to the rail yard of Chicago. It was the same route every time, though the departure and arrival times tended to vary.

  “PanAm Railways” was a bit of a misnomer. It didn’t cross the Americas, or even more than one nation. The company said it got its odd name because even though it crossed no international borders, it ferried goods from around the world to cities all around the country.

  And that much was true. Much of the cargo their freight trains carried came from China or somewhere else in Asia: South Korea, Japan or Vietnam. There were other things too. Southern California produce in refrigerated boxcars. Furniture and household goods for military people rel
ocating from California to other places around the country. Other military people coming back from overseas. Lumber from the Pacific Northwest.

  Anything and everything, really.

  After arriving in Chicago they took a day off while rail yard personnel built another train for them and attached their locomotives to it.

  Then they returned to work, inspected the train to make sure it was rail worthy, then set off west again.

  Going back their load was typically much lighter, as many of the cars held empty shipping containers destined for the return trip to Asia.

  Lighter trains equal faster trains, and they generally made Los Angeles in three days instead of four.

  Once in Los Angeles they turned their train over to yard specialists, who hooked their locos to another train headed Chicago-way.

  In that fashion they ran a seemingly endless loop.

  But not forever.

  They were on a rather bizarre schedule, at least by most people’s standards.

  Twenty four days on, ten days off.

  And even that varied.

  Say they got to their home base of Chicago and dropped their train after twenty two days instead of twenty four. It would be against company policy to send them back out again, knowing it would likely be twenty nine days the next time they had a chance to go on break.

  That would be stupid.

  And PanAm Railways wasn’t stupid. They’d been doing this for a very long time.

  In that case, when the crew arrived two days early, they’d be sent on break early. But the break would be a bit shorter, prorated on the twenty eight days they worked instead of thirty. They’d likely have to report on the afternoon on the eighth day, or the morning of the ninth.

  All in all, though, it worked out in the end.

  -29-

  Jordan sat on the edge of the exam table, waiting for the doctor to return.

  So far everything had gone well, as he’d expected it to. He considered himself in excellent shape. A little flabby, but about average for his age.

  Just enough to guarantee him the annual lecture he always got during his physical:

  “You know, Jordan, you could expect to live a little longer if you’d cut back on the fatty foods and lose about twenty pounds.”

  In that manner Jordan wasn’t much different than roughly seventy percent of other American men, who receive more or less the same lecture every time they visit their doctors.

  In truth, Jordan won the battle against sugar years before. When he was younger he had a sweet tooth to beat all sweet teeth. He especially loved chocolate cake and ice cream. Mint chocolate chip in particular.

  But he’d won that battle and only had sugar occasionally now.

  No, it was the pasta and carbohydrates that kicked his butt now.

  He just couldn’t eat a salad or a wrap when lasagna or a slice of pizza was available.

  He was getting better, and Katie was helping by limiting his options. She only served him meals heavy in carbs occasionally. But he still had a long way to go.

  The doctor walked back into the room, holding his lab results in his hand.

  More lectures on the way.

  Jordan winced just a bit.

  “I’m concerned about the level of iron in your blood, Jordan. Have you been taking any iron supplements? Maybe vitamins with iron?”

  “No. I mean, I take a multi-vitamin. But I don’t think it has any added iron. Why?”

  “Well, it’s probably nothing. We won’t panic yet. Usually iron can be regulated by changes to your diet. Do you eat a lot of iron rich foods?”

  “Like what?”

  “Lentils. Spinach. Liver. Potatoes. Soybeans.”

  “Doc, please don’t take away my potatoes. I love potatoes. I’d marry potatoes if I wasn’t already married. I can give up all that other crap. Just let me keep my potatoes, I beg you.”

  The doctor chuckled.

  “I’ll tell you what. I’m going to have the nurse give you a handout on high-iron foods. Some of them might surprise you. When are you going back on the rails?”

  “The twentieth.”

  “Okay. I want you to read that list. Give up some of the foods and cut back on others. If you keep the potatoes you’ll have to make sacrifices elsewhere.

  “As soon as you get back off the rails I want you to go by the lab and give me a sample of your blood. I’ll call in the order today so it’ll be in the system.

  “Once you’ve done the labs I want you to see my secretary and have her schedule you for a visit a few days later. We’ll review the results together and see what kind of job you did. If you’re able to lower your iron with changes to your diet that may fix the problem without going any further.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  “If it doesn’t we’ll have you tested for hemochromatosis.”

  “Hemo what?”

  “Hemochromatosis. It’s an inherited disease that’s fairly rare. It usually doesn’t manifest if only one parent is carrying the gene, but almost always does if both parents are. Have you ever heard anyone in your family talking about it?”

  “No, never. Can I die from it?”

  “Not directly, no. But it results in the body’s inability to process iron effectively. It makes your body store excess iron in your liver, heart and pancreas. Over time it can lead to heart disease and diabetes.”

  “Is there any medicine I can take for it, if it turns out I have it?”

  “If you have it we’ll schedule you for periodic phlebotomies.”

  “Now I know you’re messing with me, Doc. My wife put you up to this, didn’t she? She tells me I need a lobotomy all the time.”

  The patient doctor smiled and shook his head.

  “Not a lobotomy. A phlebotomy. It’s just a procedure where we drain a pint of your blood and dispose of it. Since your red blood cells are a big collector of iron, losing a pint of blood dilutes it and lowers your iron content.”

  “How often would I have to do that?”

  “We’d closely monitor your iron levels. It would depend on that, but I’ve got other patients who do the procedure every month or two.

  “I’ll tell you what. We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it, okay? Work on adjusting your diet, and if you can get your iron down that way we’ll consider the problem solved. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Now, besides that everything looks good. Do you have any other concerns or issues you want to talk about?”

  “Only one. I keep having to get up at night to use the restroom. Sometimes two, three times a night.”

  “I see. How long has this been going on?”

  “I don’t know. Over the last six months, I guess.”

  The doctor stood up and went to the other side of the room, where he donned a pair of latex gloves.

  “Drop your pants and underwear, and bend over the table.”

  “Uh, oh. Doc, we don’t know each other that well.”

  “Funny. Now bend over.”

  “You’re not even gonna buy me dinner first, Doc?”

  Jordan’s efforts to lighten the situation fell flat. The doctor had heard all the jokes before and proceeded with the prostate exam anyway.

  “Okay, you can get dressed now. Your prostate is starting to swell. It’s quite common in men your age.”

  “Is there anything I can take?”

  “Yes, but you know I don’t like to prescribe medication if it’s not necessary. Try reducing your fluid intake after six p.m. and not drinking anything at all for an hour before bedtime.

  “That should fix it. If it doesn’t, call and make another appointment and we’ll get you on some medication for it.”

  “Okay. You are going to send me flowers, right? After that exam, I mean?”

  “Shut up and get out of my office.”

  -30-

  The last few days before Jordan flew to Chicago to hit the rails again flew by.

  They always did.

  There was
a flurry of activity as the father of three tried to do a few more things with his children. He took them to their favorite pizza and game parlor, then took them swimming and miniature golfing.

  He worked with his son on his bicycle riding skills, and took off his training wheels.

  He looked on with pride as the boy pedaled back and forth in the empty street in front of their house, and told him how proud he was for doing so without falling.

  He made love to Katie every night for the last five nights in a row.

  He enjoyed that part of leaving more than most of the others.

  On the morning of the 20th he boarded a plane for a short flight to Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport, where he took an Uber to the train yard.

  Jordan was the trainmaster and chief engineer of his train. Some railroads separated those duties between two men. PanAm found it suited their needs to have one man responsible for both jobs.

  When he walked up to locomotive 50211, painted mostly bright yellow, but with a face of navy blue, he placed his hand on her and talked to her.

  Most engineers talk to their locos. It’s one of the secrets of the trade.

  Shhhh. Don’t tell anybody.

  “I’ve missed you, girl. You ready to get rolling again?”

  Not surprisingly, she didn’t answer.

  He climbed aboard the operator’s cab and found his conductor, Chase Martinez, holding a clipboard and going through several sheets of papers.

  “Hey, buddy,” he said by way of greeting. “How much have you done?”

  Chase looked up and smiled.

  “Absolutely nothing yet. I only beat you here by ten minutes. I haven’t even stowed my gear yet.”

  Jordan left his own gear on the gravel outside the big locomotive.

  Dragging his clothing and personal gear into the operator’s cab would mean he’d be stepping over it or walking around it while he was doing his checks and going through the several-step process of starting the engine. Better to leave it on the ground. He’d have plenty of time to stow it in a bit.

  “Have you seen anybody else yet?”

  “RJ’s walking the line, checking brake lines and couplings and sand sprayers. Amy’s doing her checks on loco 4. If anybody else is here they’re sleeping and not answering the radio.”