The Corduroy Mtn. Pensee #8 Conor Madigan Station lights glow train platform blue and white light on and off. Bell sounds underground through double-doors salt-men lift from cold nights snow flakes great falls. We smoke. Trains stock yards before South Entrance. Pressured steam and brake liner smoke travels dry-cold drafts. Beaten cats huddle leaned conductors. They drink, steam and smoke. Sign above: Conductor Hut. Max says, "Can't we go in for even a fucking warm-up? Christ." "No," I say, "They know it's three hours wait." Speaker bleeps from silvered pole and speaks: outbound-train, number 5688 -- delayed three hours -- track maintenances. "Six hours," I say, "Let's see if we can't." Conductors pet their felines and wave us over. Max leads. I follow with bags. Inside, breathed moisture proximity clears sinuses and men spit dirt floors. "Not coffee, tea," says Conductor 593. Three rail-men convene, stand silent, and stare from woodstove corner. Conductors sit around Formica tables, pitted pocked chrome. "Milk?" asks one. I take milk. Max takes sugar and speaks with men who laugh his cold warm over the stove. I shed ice-stiff jackets for scarf and Henley. "Alex," a conductor greets. "Thirty years," he answers. Lunch pales line ice thick windows. Tin cups hang hooks below bookshelf held directories. "We're just off for Christmas. Breaks get us sick waiting like that." "Sure." His high voice rings in low voiced din of twenty men broken by Max's laughter-Max whose father taught conversation by example, paid his children not to speak, fined for petty talk. previous | next Added to The Corduroy Mtn. on November the sixteenth in the year two thousand and eight.