wires.
We suddenly began to slow down and water started to spray out of the back of the tender, or ‘coal car’ behind the engine.
“Scooping water from the pans of water between the rails so’s we don’t have to stop for it,” Slim shouted.
After scooping a tank full of water we really began to fly, the speedometer climbing from 50 to 60 to 70 and higher. The engine began to rock and roll, it was pretty scary, like we were going to tip over, Jonathan looked really scared.
Slim smiled and shouted, “Hang on, don’t worry, she’ll ride a lot smoother once we hit 80 per.”
We were really flying, and the ride got steadier as we went faster. The kids began to yell, “Yaaa-hoooo!!” like cowboys.
I glanced at the speedometer and was shocked to see we were going just over 100 miles an hour, the engine’s exhaust chattering like a machine gun, the vibration from the flying connecting rods awful, but the kids were having a great time. The old engine was taking it all in stride, I couldn’t help thinking that she was enjoying her race with the Broadway.
We were on the outside track and caught up to and slowly passed the Broadway Limited, Slim waving with a big wide grin at the crew of the Broadway’s much larger engine in triumph as they tried to keep up with us.
“These here engine’s ‘ll outrun anything on the road!” Slim shouted over the incredible noise. “She hit 115 miles an hour pullin’ the Lindbergh Special - sweetest little machine in world!”
Now, watching the Broadway’s hard-working K-4 Pacific in full cry as we slowly passed her was an awesome experience, but I could hardly hear her for the noise from our engine. After a while we left the Broadway Limited far behind.
We slowed down for the bridge over the Delaware River and into Trenton, New Jersey passing the station. I made a mental note that if we were stopping here, I could visit my father-to-be as a boy in St. Anthony’s school, or my grandfather, a blacksmith for this railroad. He worked a giant steam hammer that weighed tons and could forge heavy steel locomotive parts, yet he was so skilled that he could tap the glass cover of a watch with the hammer and not scratch it, my dad would tell me.
“Next stop is Princeton Junction, best get off there,” old Mac shouted. “Too many ‘Brass Hats’ around Manhattan Transfer, might get into trouble lettin’ passengers ride the cab.”
I nodded. “Sure thing…”
“Brass Hats, Lito?” Lauren asked.
“Company officials, don’t want to get old Mac into trouble, do we?”
All too soon we stormed into Princeton Junction and we climbed down and thanked them for the ride.
“Right on time!” Old Mac shouted. “Better get washed up,” he said laughing.
I looked at us and we were a sight, the kid’s faces dark with sweat and soot, and no doubt mine too.
Back in our car we scrubbed our faces in the washroom and took our seats. I ordered sodas for all of us. I almost ordered a Diet Coke then remembered there was no such thing. One or two of our fellow passengers took out the slim, silver hip flasks from their back pockets and poured some of it into their glasses of soda cool as you please.
“What are those?” Jonathan asked.
I had forgotten to tell the kids about Prohibition!
“They are putting maybe whiskey or gin into their sodas Since 1920, drinking alcohol is against the law, no beer, wine or liquor is allowed.”
“Really?” Lauren asked, eyes wide.
“Really!” It’s called ‘Prohibition.’ Well-meaning people tried to outlaw alcohol since it is the cause of so much poverty and crime but since drinking is such a big part of American life, it didn’t work. Americans are drinking more than ever now, and it’s a really big business. You have to go to secret bars, called ‘speakeasies’ to get a drink, and have to know a password to get in.”
They laughed: “Speak-easy?”
“Yeah, they had to be quiet because it’s secret, right?”
They nodded.
“The funny thing is that now there are twice as many places to drink in New York than before Prohibition. They say the quickest way to find a speakeasy is to ask a policeman!” I told them as they eyed me skeptically. “Even so, every now and then, the police or Federal Agents, like Elliott Ness, who will become famous a few years from now in Chicago, raid the speakeasies and arrest everyone. It’s kind of a standard scene in any movies about the Twenties, you’ve seen them – the police breaking down the doors, the customers getting hysterical, being led into the police wagon, some trying to hide, some acting like it’s a party. Most people get off with just a slap on the wrist.”
“The bad part is a lot of bad guys, gangsters, took over making, smuggling and selling illegal ‘booze’ or ‘hooch’ as they like to call it, and they make more money than ever, but fight each other over territory – remember those old movies I made you watch?” I said with a grin.
“Yeah!,” Jonathan said. He made like he was holding a machinegun, “Ratatatat!” he shouted.
“Something like that,” I said. “Chicago has the worst reputation, it’s a national joke even now.”
“I want to see a real gangster!” Jonathan said grinning.
“Me too!” Lauren echoed.
The young lady who was sitting next to us was fixing her makeup, and discreetly started to powder her knees.
“What’s she doing, Lito?” Lauren asked all too loudly.
“Shh! Inside voice please… it’s a modern fashion, makes their knees look pretty. Not too long ago women couldn’t even show their ankles. Now in the Twenties, its considered kind of daring to expose their knees. Some girls like her like to roll their stockings below the knee, it’s easier, and show off their legs as much as possible. A kind of woman’s liberation,” I explained.
She ordered a ginger ale from the porter and, with her back to the other passengers, carefully picked up the hem of her skirt. I saw her take out her hip flask, held by a pretty elastic garter well above her knee, and pour something into her soda.
She noticed me looking: “Oops!” she laughed nervously. “Oh well, here’s mud in your eye!” she said raising her glass to me. “Say…wanna snort?” she asked offering me her hip flask. “It’s the real stuff….”
“Uh, no thanks..” I said nodding my head at the kids.
“Oh sure… gee, sorry. Cute kids!” she said.
“Thanks,” I said smiling.
“Oh well, here's mud in your eye!”
We flew across the wooded flatlands of New Jersey on the smooth four-track wide mainline and soon were flying by the smokestack industries of northern New Jersey, then out into the swampy meadowlands, we stopped at Manhattan Transfer.
Here, many passengers got off.
“There’s no exit here,” I told the kids, “you can only change trains here, nice for people going to lower Manhattan. Most of those guys who got off were probably headed for Wall Street on the Hudson Tubes, a subway system between New Jersey and New York.”
Old Mac’s engine suddenly steamed by running backwards. Looking out the window, I showed the kids the boxy electric engine clanking up to couple onto our train to take it through the tunnel under the mile-wide Hudson River to the center of New York City.
We soon were moving rapidly across the swamps, knowing there was no towering Empire State Building peaking over the long hill that hid the river from view.
