Third Avenue Railroad 220

[This is my entry in the

2019 Geek Pride Event

.]

I was next to a dark green trolley car as a group of about twenty-five people stood around in a semi-circle listening to me to talk about the vehicle.

I don't think most of those in the group were really that interested in what a PCC car was or the history of its design. They had come up here to exurban Connecticut to do the touristy thing of seeing retired trolleys and then taking a three-mile round-trip on one of them. There was a route through the swampy woods that the museum had acquired in 1948 when a private transit entity, The Connecticut Company, had converted to buses.

The visitors could have gone to the Museum of Natural History in New York or farther afield to Colonial Williamsburg or the Gettysburg battlefield. Today these people had chosen to come here, a place with the unwieldy name of The Branford Electric Railway at the Shore Line Trolley Museum.

Up here they got some time outdoors and chance to indulge in some "educational" nostalgia. Most visitors took the trolley ride first and then my job as a volunteer guide was to show each batch around the site. I had memorized information about each of the approximately eighty vehicles (including a handful of subway cars and buses) and the history of public transit in America.

It helped my lecturing task to actually have the cars on site so that people could touch them and ride a few that were in service each day. I wasn't that comfortable with pubic speaking but the job was easier when most of their attention was focused on these large machines rather than on me.

Invariably someone would suggest that "we bring these back" -- or modern versions at least -- to solve America's urban woes, including traffic problems. The irony that almost all of them had driven here in automobiles seemed lost on these amateur city planners. A handful of visitors would sit on the bench at the roadside bus stop just outside the grounds. From there they could get a ride to downtown New Haven and whatever connections they needed to finally get home.

On this day I tried to be brief as I described Brooklyn and Queens Transit #1001, the last car I had chosen to present on this tour. I explained how a group of executives called the Presidents' Conference Committee had developed a new vehicle for the transit industry in the 1930s. At that time most of the service in the United States was provided by private companies and all of them were struggling with competition from the automobile.

I told them how 1001, built in 1936, was one of the newer cars in our fleet. The PCC design was one of the last streetcars built in the United States as buses soon took over most surface transit. I personally liked 1001's streamlined, Art Deco appearance which set it apart from the boxy older cars in the collection.

I hadn't noticed much about the composition of the group I had been addressing. To be more specific, I hadn't been looking for any single women to approach because usually there were none. Any age-appropriate women on these tours were invariably there with their boyfriends or even their husbands.

I had been through a sudden breakup at the very end of my last semester at City College of New York. Now it was August, 1977, and less than two months had passed since that unhappy incident. However, I didn't consider the museum as a place to look for new prospects because it was seemingly an unlikely place for that. I was there for other reasons, to please myself and follow my own interests. If anything, being there on weekends gave me something to distract me from thoughts of my departed sweetheart.

As the visitors started to drift away, I noticed an anomaly: there was a young single woman who had stayed behind. She had a camera around her neck and she took a few photos of 1001's green exterior. I looked around to see if she was actually attached to some guy but I saw no one.

I gave myself the time to look her over. She was of middling height, maybe five-foot five. Her dark hair was cut in a short bobbed manner. I made a quick tally of her outfit: dark-rimmed glasses, a short-sleeved blouse, a blue skirt, open-toed shoes. I was pretty sure -- no I was positive -- that she wasn't wearing a bra.

Nice perky tits, cute nipples.

It was worth an approach. "Hi, I see you like trolleys." That sounded pretty weak but I had nothing more clever to say. Sometimes just the fact of approaching was enough to start.

She responded better than I had expected, "Oh yeah, I'm interested in a lot of different things. I'm an architecture major. I know they still have these, I mean PCCs, in Boston."

I had never met an architecture major before, at least not a female one.

I said, "They're finally bringing in those new cars up there, the ones from Boeing-Vertol."

"Right, I've seen them. I've already ridden a few in fact."

That was an excellent sign; she knew what I was talking about. My curiosity had to be satisfied, "So you're from Boston then?"

"No, I live in New York." That significantly improved my chances.

"Okay, I just graduated from CCNY this year."

"Really? I live up in Inwood." That was even better; that would be in upper Manhattan a few miles from my house. I decided to hold that information in abeyance for the moment. However now I was stuck about what to say next, but she helped me there, "I was really impressed with your tour; I mean it was very informative."

So maybe she dug informative guys. "I do this once a week as a volunteer, usually on a Saturday or Sunday. By the way, I'm Paul."

"Nice to meet you, I'm Angela, Angela Shulman." I did detect a bit of nervousness in her. She immediately started explaining something more, "I don't have a car so I had to come up here on the New Haven Line and then those two buses from the station."

"I know about that, it's quite a trip to do that. You came all the way up here for this place?"

She shrugged and smiled, "What I can say, I'd heard about it and I was curious"

I had been around enough blocks to know the move I should make next. "Say, Angela, have a beer with me, I mean right now." I tried to smile and look relaxed but I detected some hesitation in my voice. "I can tell you, you know, more stuff about this place."

I hope she cares about that, or about simply talking to me.

Anyway, I expected she'd be a bit confused and she was, "I didn't see any bars around here."

"I have a cooler in one of the barns, in one of the cars actually."

Her expression lit up, "Really? Sure, that would be great." My heart jumped a bit;

wow, she seems smart, friendly, witty perhaps . . . okay, keep cool, see how it plays out.

I led her into one of the car barns. My cooler was inside New York's red and white Third Avenue Railroad #220, one of the older vehicles in our fleet -- it had been built in 1892. It was easy to get into; it had open platforms on each end and the doors to the interior were not locked. There was another car next to it so we had some privacy.

I had a bag of pretzels to go along with our beer so we set up a little party on a long bench seat. The power wasn't connected so the car's lights weren't on; however the barn door was open so enough light came in to give a pleasantly intimate feel to the place.

I was getting some "meeting a new girl" nervousness myself but I had been through that several times before. I gratefully thought back to my earlier girlfriends who had vigorously, well, banged a lot of insecurities out of me. It helped to remember that Angela was probably going through the female version of the jitters.

I tried a touch of erudition and I discussed a few details about #220. I dropped some comment about how it once ran on a "conduit system" and I was about to briefly explain what that was.

"I know what that is; I've seen pictures. They had it in Manhattan for instance -- I mean where this thing ran." I was pleased that her eyes hadn't glazed over at these details; she again knew what I was talking about.

I decided that, if she seemed to have some familiarity with the topic, I could wow her with more expertise. "Actually, it wasn't even electric when it was built. It started off as a cable car like the ones in San Francisco."

I had caught her with some new knowledge. "You mean in New York? I didn't know they had them there."

"Yeah, there was quite an extensive system once. Anyway, we put a trolley pole on this one so we can actually operate it here."

"Can you operate one of these yourself?"

"No, I mean I can't; you have to go through some training first. Even on this little system you wouldn't want someone who didn't know what they were doing."

She said, "I wonder if I could learn that here?"

I think as of 1977 no woman had ever been a motorman (motorperson?) or conductor at Branford. In fact, there were very few of them on real-world systems. I gave a non-committal answer.

"It's possible I guess, you'd have to put some time into coming up here."

A minute later she said something that struck me, "It's so quiet in here. Yet I can imagine all the people, it must have been hundreds of thousands, who rode this over the years. I wonder where they were going, what they were thinking?"

"Yeah, I often think about that too. Sometimes I imagine they left something behind, some vibrations I guess, that you can feel in these cars."

We soon went on to some personal topics. I found out that she had just finished her junior year at Cooper Union in Manhattan; she was a year younger than I was. She still lived in her parent's apartment. That summer I was trying to work out the logistics of my own first apartment. I assumed, if our connection progressed, that there would be some workarounds for us to get together. I had been through that with other girls and there were always ways to handle it.

She got to an inevitable topic. Most girls were relatively subtle about it and so was Angela. She casually said, "So now that you've graduated -- was there, I mean, I suppose there was a girl back at CCNY?"

I didn't want to pin that down, "Ah, yes but it's sort of gone sideways recently."

"Sideways, huh?" She probably guessed it had completely derailed but she didn't say that.

I threw it back at her, "So what's been going on with you?"

"Oh, like you, I'd say I'm somewhat up in the air."

I figured that I could get away with some first day smooching so I tried for it. Sometimes a girl would be up for a friendly little make-out session right at the beginning. After our second beers I put my arm around her shoulders and pushed her glasses up. She kissed back warmly and cuddled against me.

I soon dared to drop my right hand down and I moved the side it of against her chest. I already knew from looking that she wasn't wearing a bra but now I could feel her bare nipple under the cloth. My thoughts started to go in a more explicit direction:

I wonder how much we could get away with on this nice long seat?

I rubbed her blouse for a few moments and then she pulled back from me. She sounded a bit huffy as she said, "Paul, I know -- I think you'd like to get frisky with me inside this car."

Back when I was eighteen I would have felt abashed for making the move I did and then getting called out about it. But now I had the impression that she was being tongue-in-cheek with me. And if she wasn't -- well, it had been worth a try.

I tried to make light of it, "Me? I'm a gentleman."

She responded, "Well, if you really were a gentleman you'd ask me out for dinner first."

Actually I already was planning to take her out, this evening if possible. Yet I figured I could josh with her first, "Dinner first? So that's it, it's a pay to play thing with you."

"All you guys are the same, I see." She slid back on the seat and folded her arms.

I said, "That's what you think, we're all the same?" I shrugged and feigned indifference. "Well, that's the way it is then."

I looked around and said, "Anyway, there's something I've got to check on before I go home today." That was complete bullshit I had just made up on the spot. I looked at Angela again and hoped she understood that we were playing a game with each other.

She frowned and said, "Perhaps you need more motivation."

"Okay, like what?"

"Like this." She pulled her blouse up and pushed her bare breasts forward. Then she started laughing, "You should see the look on your face. And you're blushing too. So I assume you like my tits?"

I knew my lack of a plausible poker face had betrayed me again. But I definitely did like what I was seeing and I had to say something, "Of course I like them. Nice, ah, perky nipples."

She lowered her blouse and said, "I am curious, have you brought girls into these cars before?"

I decided to be honest, "Actually, this museum is not exactly a pick-up paradise."

"Hah, I'm not too surprised, but then again you found me."

Now I just had to get the logistics in order. "You know, I have a car here. I'll drive you back to the city and we can have dinner tonight." I thought of my go-to location for these things. "We can go to Arthur Avenue."

"Sure, that would be great." Then she slid forward and we started kissing again. This time she was happy when I put my hand up under her blouse and fondled those taut nipples of hers. I thought of paraphrasing that old song, "When he tweaked my boobs I could feel the car shake." Actually, Ms. Esther Smith, it wasn't the car that was shaking, it was

you

.

As we left the grounds that day she took a couple of photos of me outside the barn and I took a few of her. Near the gift shop building we recruited a passerby to take shots of us together.

When I started up my car I noted the look she was giving me. I thought I could interpret it but I wanted to confirm it in a roundabout way.

I said, "So has this place met your expectations?

"It has, very much so." Then she got more direct, "If this all goes well -- and it seems it will -- then I'll take an opportunity to come up here again. Then we can do some real frolicking inside these trolleys."

I said, "That's not until next week though."

Angela replied, "I know that, I didn't necessarily mean . . ." I could see her thinking something through and she said, "I get it, you're wondering where else we're going to go."

I was puzzled for a moment and then

I

got it.

She knows I just graduated from college and I likely don't have my own apartment yet.

Rather than confirm or deny that I just sat there for a moment. She guessed the truth merely from my lack of a response. She tapped the dashboard, "However, you obviously have this car, correct?"

It was the first car I had ever owned, a four-door 1972 Oldsmobile Cutlass. Angela looked behind us and said, "And that back seat seems pretty roomy." She had an odd little smile. For some reason I thought of a little girl who had been offered a nice ice cream cone.

I briefly remembered other cars that had come in handy. Several of them had been owned by former girlfriends; now I had my own. I was grateful that I had spent a bit more to get this one rather than the tiny super-cheap Plymouth Cricket that I had looked at.

I said, "Angela, public transit is a necessary thing, it really should be improved, but the automobile may one of the greatest inventions ever."

****

[As of 2019 the two streetcars described here are still at the Shore Line Trolley Museum. The Boston Boeing-Vertol cars, the first new American design in two decades, were very unreliable but some survived until 2007. At least one of them is now in a museum.]