Django Durango

January 1974

Dear Pioneer,

Please thank your guides for the postcard! It’s found a nice home pinned up in my cab alongside the others you’ve sent me. I’m a bit envious of your Rocket, getting to see all those beautiful trees up close.

It’s not quite as festive around here. Instead of holly and lights for decoration we have overhead line equipment and trolley parts! The volunteers’ goal is to get all the equipment we got from the CTA last year sorted, cataloged, and stored in the trolley bus garage before operations begin in March. This is on top of trying to build a wye out in front of the building so the cars can turn around. You can imagine the noise coming from the other side of the property.

Normally we would spend January taking it easy, but it’s been harder to rest with all the hustle and bustle going on. (Do you get the holiday season off? My letter writer says your museum is open almost every day, but I have to imagine you must get a small break.)

I’m not complaining about us being busy, mind! There’s always someone here on the weekends to keep us company, sometimes even during the week. Juno can see the garage better than the rest of us so she keeps the whole train updated on the goings-on. It’s entertainment for the Goddesses at least and keeps them from being too restless after spending better than a year sitting idle. I do wish Vesta wouldn’t speculate about when we’re going to get a diesel garage though. I told her it wouldn’t make much sense to have a whole building for just one engine. “Maybe if we get some more diesels!” I said. She just sniffed and told me our train is worth one building all on its own. Venus scolded her, but I think Vesta meant it as a compliment in her way.

I was told, in so many words, that my last few correspondences were getting a bit long. Between my letters and the Rail & Wire, they were starting to run out of typewriter ribbon! To keep things short (and not take any more time away from the Line Department), I’ll sign off here. I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas and a happy New Year!

Your friend,

Pilot

Now approaching… 1974!

2903 wasn’t sure what possessed him to accompany U-505 up to the roof. On any other night, he would have suspected a trick or trap of some sort. Not that he thought U-505 would actually do anything to him – no one wanted to make trouble for the museum – but there was no reason why U-505 should want to invite him to the roof and it would be foolish not to be wary around an enemy.

He didn’t think U-505 would have asked on any other night though.

Today had been one of U-505’s reunions. Crewmen from the American ships who had captured him would get together and visit him about once every ten years. These events had always been a matter of malcontent for U-505 and he’d be more terse and cutting than usual in the days leading up to them. 2903 had to admit though that U-505 remained professional and would be a good, albeit stoic, sport while their veteran seamen were there. It helped that Pioneer and 999 would turn on their practiced charm and run interference whenever the men would say something tactless or to divert the topic when U-505 chanced to ask what news there was of the ships who had captured him. The ships never attended these parties and he’d stopped asking after them two reunions ago. When the men would leave, U-505 would wait out the rest of the day’s work, then make himself scarce to brood about having to play nice with Admiral Gallery and his rapidly aging crewmen.

This reunion, however, was the first time U-505’s own crew had attended as well.
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He didn’t recognize her all at once. Her voice hit him first, just like it had four years earlier when it knocked him right out of his mundane life as a beat reporter and sent him into a tailspin. Yes, that was what had done it. Her posh affectation, the slight slur of a child’s unpracticed speech that she never quite grew out of, and how she had used it to ask all those chemistry questions to show off her intelligence and yet look needy and helpless at the same time.

Since he’d gone off his Joy, he had remembered her, certainly, but only in terms of their youth. He knew beyond that, but he’d been careful not to let himself land on that topic. He’d distract himself with a deft tangent if he edged too close to thinking about Sally who left in that green and white checked dress and used that voice and everything else she had to win herself helpful new friends at every turn, how she had never used those things on him.

And look, here was a helpful new friend now! Didn’t Sally’s latest companion look spiffing with his hat tilted at a jaunty angle to belie what carefree and lighthearted company he must be. He was fit and fashionable and not too tall as well, not awkward and gangling like Arthur was. He’d look just right with his arm interlocked with Sally’s. Glasses too, of course. Sally always did love an intellectual, didn’t she?

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As soon as Sally was clear of the fence, James started in on Roger.

“Dr. F said not to tell anyone she was alive. She said she didn’t want anyone to ask her for anything.”

“But she likes Sally,” Roger scoffed. “Everyone does.”

“Yes, I noticed you putting on your little show for her.”

“You can not be serious. We just had this argument thirty minutes ago!”

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Though he had been conscripted into the role long ago, Jack Worthing took his responsibility to Wellington Wells seriously. “Uncle” Jack was the face of optimism and stability. He acted as master of ceremonies through the good times and saw the town through the bad, emboldening them when prudent, encouraging them to endure when it was not – or rather he would have if indeed they’d ever had any bad times. When anyone wrote to him about their worries and concerns – which was surely a symptom of having too few problems – he allayed any doubts or questions and set them back at ease. He saw it as his duty to be the very embodiment of keeping calm and carrying on, a shining example of stalwart English spirit that Wellington Wells could rely on and emulate.

He didn’t have much of a memory of how his fellow entertainers felt about their similar standing in the world. So many of them left the industry at some point between the indeterminate then and now, preferring a life of anonymity. Jack was very nearly the only one left, save for some hobbyist musical acts. He had the vague feeling though, that the way Nick Lightbearer was fidgeting and looking unsure of why everyone else seemed so pleased to be in his presence was not becoming of an entertainer of his notoriety.

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