8029. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, (Pt. 22)

22. RAILROAD BLUES 
(Princeton)

Here are a few fill-in things, by

which the intensify and detail 

these Princeton tales : 1. Years 

back, this little single-car rail 

line was put in place by the

Camden-Amboy line, when 

it ran along the banks of the

Delaware and Raritan Canal.

It's been moved a bit, a few 

times, once stopping actually

in the more central area of

the campus. When Princeton

was a male-only school, it is

said, the train was 'needed' to 

bring females in for the varied

sporting events, like Yale 

football, etc. Princeton itself 

was considered an isolated, 

farmer's outpost of a school.

The train used to be referred 

to as the PJ&B line, (Princeton 

Junction and back)  -  a phrase

no one really uses any more, 

except a great old Princeton 

pal of mine, from NYC, Teri

Noel Towe. Who by the way,

after all these years of radio

service to the school, had 

been unceremoniously booted

off the air. He's class of '70, I

think it is, and was for many

years the Thursday morning

classical music/Bach scholar

(to me) spinning records and

weaving a quite erudite narration

of all things  -  history, music,

self and the rest. Teri would 

ride the Thursday train, in or

out, Princeton/NY, with dedication

and without fail, lugging his own

complement of LP's and things to

play on that day's broadcast. We

became fast train friends (even

though the trains themselves were

often slow)  -  kudos to Teri, who

still uses the term 'PJ&B'. He's also

over the past NYC years, been a

radio personality of his own, known

as 'The Laughing Cavalier'. You can

look that up. (Type in, Teri Towe,

Wall Street Journal, for a photo and 

a nice January '16 interview/profile).

-

Teri could talk the ear off a 

telephone  - stories, recollections, 

very pointed opinions, direct and 

four-square obscenities, each of 

which only go to make the point. 

I'd be enraptured often, on those 

Thursday rides. He was and is a 

grumbler, of the best sort, a cultural 

critic, both wise, impeccable. 

Plus, he dines very well.

-

You know when the railroad shuts

down for a few hours, and the trains

all stop, mucho delays, and the rest,

and all the 'overhead' announcements

will tell you is that there are delays

due to a 'trespass incident'? That 

happened some four or fives times 

a year, at least. Everyone knew it

meant  -  this 'trespass incident'  -  

that once again some suicidal sad

sack had jumped in front of a 

speeding train. 'What's that on the

tracks ahead?' would be changed to

'What's that on the tracks, a head?'

It's good for at least two hours of

delay. Identification, body parts,

clean-up, checking that all things

are good again, and then re-service.

One time, among numerous, we 

were stuck on the tracks for a 

good two hours, just waiting. 

The only thing that made that 

bearable, for me, was listening 

to all the cellphone people trying 

to describe the situation to the

person they'd called, or watching 

the hundreds of different ways 

that varied people reacted  -  

the calm, the angry,the frantic, 

the hungry, the lost. It was a riot. 

I've found that people soon enough 

become themselves, right from 

the core, whatever they are, in 

not to long a time either. All that 

pretense and the amplified

'I am what I am not' stuff goes 

away as they get angry or surly 

or just wither away to impatience. 

Funny stuff. Another time, there 

was a really long mechanical delay, 

a breakdown on the train we were 

riding  - cold, dark Winter's night,

dark by five. Dreary. And we had 

to sit for some two hours in the 

dead train, a full house too, 

awaiting what they'd called a 

'rescue train' to come take us 

away. It did finally arrive, on 

the inside, fast track  -  that in

itself freaked me out, the danger.

With small ladders, one at a time,

the conductors escorted us down 

off the dead train and up back into 

the 'rescue' train. That too took a 

long time. I got home that night 

after 9pm. As always happens, 

there was some loudmouth on 

the train  -  on which train 

everyone was already surly 

and annoyed  -  going around

shouting out some website or 

procedure, I actually forget, to

file a claim for infractions, hurt,

damages, anything. He said NJ

Transit wouldn't ask any questions,

would just want to pay off quickly 

and keep it all mum. He said to 

make up a missed appointment, 

damages, anguish, all sorts of 

things. Just to see if he was 

on mark, I filed a really simple 

one, but it was turned down 

with a note a few weeks later.

Oh that NJ Transit.

-

The Dinky has, like, signs on it, and

around the station  -  'Don't touch the

train. Do not climb on train'. Stuff 

like that. As it turns out, back in 

the 1980's or something, some 

really drunk Princeton University 

student prankster did climb a train, 

moving or not I don't know, and

was fried by the electric catenary 

or whatever those electric things on

the train-roofs are called. And then,

of course and holy of holies, the

student's parents sued the railroad

 and the university big time for 

'allowing' such a thing to happen.

Isn't that crazy? I mean that they

stopped there? I mean, really, the

list is endless  -  the company that

made the booze, the bottling company

and the glass company, the driver 

who delivered it to the store, the 

store where he bought it, his 

drunk friends for not stopping him 

and  -  hell, why not, his girlfriend 

for not having him in the sack right

then instead and giving him a good

'slingo'. Where's a lawyer when you

really need one?

-

My last train tale, for this chapter, is

about another endless delay. This time,

not on the train yet, we were still in the

station at Princeton Junction awaiting the

NY bound train, when all service stopped.

A solid hour of nothing, no word, except

delays and more to come. The place was

janglingly angry. After endless and annoying

delay, I went around to the few faces I

recognized from our nightly train, and asked 

if anyone would care to join in and split up
a cab fare  -  I'd already had asked how ,much 
from the taxi guy, who wanted $50 to go to

New Brunswick, and he wouldn't go any

farther. I got, believe it or not, only one 

taker, a girl from Edison. We got out of 

there, and for $25 bucks each, and tip, 

we got to New Brunswick  -  my wife  

picked us up, and we drove her home.
Just as we were leaving New Brunswick,
by the way, the train service to everywhere,
which had been re-established in the meantime
and was running again, came rolling in.