Celebrity on Track 2
©1996, George J. Irwin. All rights reserved.

You never know who you’re going to meet in the Big City. It would seem that the odds are so long against a sighting of any kind in a metropolis in which millions live, and additional millions work; yet, at the same time, one’s chances of crossing the path of a genuine Star are arguably better in a large population center than in a small town. Famous people just tend to be in cities more than anywhere else. Sometimes they turn up in the most unlikely places.

It was not long after I had completed my studies at Free University. I was finishing up work for the week and decided to visit one of the local model railroad shops before heading out of the city. In this particular big city, there were surprisingly few train stores to choose from, and most of the shops that did exist were not worth visiting. Fortunately, there was one exception, and it was only a few blocks from the office.

In the Big City there are limousines everywhere, so I almost failed to see a fairly long white model double-parked outside the door to the shop. I wandered in unnoticed by the sales staff; I wasn’t enough of either a regular or a big spender to warrant much attention. I also wasn’t dressed like most of the clientele, who were attired in three piece suits and other such Corporate garb, which contrasted as usual with my business casual selections. This train store was probably unique in that someone with anything other than the Fortune 500 look would stick out like a sore thumb. The opposite would have been true in practically any other model railroad shop in America.

If I was a sore thumb, however, another patron of the store would’ve rated an entire sore arm. He was facing away from me, but I could see the back of his shoes. His sneakers, actually. They were yellow. While it was true that the rest of his clothes and his hair were also way out of place as well, “Who would come into a nice conservative train store wearing yellow sneakers?” was I wondered to myself. My brain began to process that question in background while I went about my usual rounds.

No visit to this shop would have been complete without my requisite view of the one item I wanted to own most. A more technical name for it was “H-10 Mikado,” but to most, it was a steam engine. In real life, this particular one traveled to and from the big cities in the Northeast on the New York Central System, back in the middle part of the century. Even in my chosen N Scale, 1/160th actual size, it was still pretty big. And it carried a big price tag to go with it. I had been admiring this model for close to a year. It would look mighty fine rolling past the small town on my train layout. I could juggle the books substantially enough to purchase it, but somehow even I couldn’t rationalize such a gratification when student loan payments were looming just around the next bend.

No steam engine again this time, I told myself, but I did happen to notice that the latest issue of Model Railroader magazine was out. My father, who did not believe in subscriptions, would be looking for it as well, but I knew I had reached it first and elected to buy it. As I approached the counter, two other items caught my attention.

The first of these was another steam locomotive, but not just any one. This was a model of the engine that pulled the Empire State Express, one of the premier passenger trains of the New York Central. Even before there was a Twentieth Century Limited, the Express sped from New York City to Buffalo along the New York Central’s famous Water Level Route. The 1941 version of the train was a uniform set of stainless steel passenger cars, pulled by a gleaming iron horse which had itself been sheathed in stainless steel panels to match the train. The effect created was one of immense speed, of a train being shot down the track, not just moving along it. And relative to other trains, the Empire State Express did just that. The miniature version was completely faithful to the original, all the way down to stainless steel representation of the streamlining and the special paint scheme with the name New York Central emblazoned across the coal tender and “Empire State Express” upon a plaque wrought in steel mounted on the engine’s nose. And it, hand-crafted in the larger and more popular HO Scale, had a price tag that made the object of my interest back in the display case look extraordinarily cheap by comparison. But it looked fantastic. Just sitting there on the counter, it looked as if it were ready to rocket out of the store. Which it was, in a sense, since it was probably going to be purchased.

The apparent purchaser was the second thing I noticed. It was the man in the yellow sneakers. His name was Rod Stewart.

I didn’t know why I hadn’t figured that out right away. I knew Rod Stewart was a big time collector of model trains-- given his globetrotting schedule, I wasn’t sure how much time he had to operate them, but he certainly had the disposable income available for purchase of quite a few. And I was quite sure that yellow sneakers were not taboo in the dress code of Rock And Roll.

The suits in the store, who must not have known that the owner of dozens of gold records, the man who asked Maggie May to wake up at the beginning of the Seventies and “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy” toward the end of that decade, and was to continue to crank out hits in the next two decades, was standing within feet of them, didn’t come near the counter. So I did.

And then I realized that I didn’t have the slightest idea what to say.

I had actually pondered the question of what I would do if I ever had a close encounter with a Big Star. I had originally thought that I would say whatever came to mind: I’m a big fan, I have all your albums, I really liked your movie, that book was terrific, and so on, and so forth. And, of course, can I have your autograph. But then I considered the notion that if I ever was going to run into someone in the Big City, it would probably be in a non-celebrity situation; like, for instance, walking down the street, or having lunch, or waiting for a limo... or, perhaps, shopping. In other words, taking a break from being a Celebrity. And, I had asked myself, would I want to be dragged back into star status while doing something relatively ordinary, something that we the obscure can do anonymously whenever we wish, without being noticed? Well, yes! my rather large non-celebrity ego replied, but maybe actual famous folks might not answer that way so quickly. And if being a movie star, or noted author, or big time recording artist was work, which it clearly was, why would anyone want to talk about work while walking, eating, or shopping?

So after this debate with myself that was grounded in the hypothetical, what I had prepared as a general statement in the unlikely case of meeting a Big Star was, “Keep up the good work.” It was short and to the point, and not terribly obtrusive, I thought. It also did not seem to be appropriate at all as I approached the first major recording artist I had ever been less than the distance between the cheap seats and the stage from. I knew I had time to come up with something, as Rod was still picking out items from behind the counter, but I didn’t have all night. Was he really going to buy that Empire State Express engine for his collection? It cost more than I had made in the entire previous month...

Wait, that was it.

I spanned the remainder of the distance between myself and the counter, stood right next to Rod Stewart, and crouched down so that I could view the Empire State Express locomotive at eye level. I didn’t have to fake my reaction to it. I have always been fond of streamlined steam engines and this was no exception. I just admired it for a few moments, as I would have even if I were the only one in the entire store.

Rod noticed my respectful inspection.

I turned slightly toward him without getting up and said, “It’s a real beauty.”

“Yes, it is,” he replied.

I stood up and gestured slightly toward the locomotive. “That train had quite a history. Most rail buffs think of the Twentieth Century Limited when the New York Central comes to mind, but in some ways, the Empire State Express is just as impressive.”

Rod nodded in agreement.

I switched gears and asked a typical model railroader question. “How does she run?” Operate, that is. A miniature locomotive that looked good just looked good. A locomotive that looked good and ran well was a true work of craftsmanship.

“We were just about to find out,” Rod said in his slight Scottish accent.

The man behind the counter, who also was the owner of the store, gingerly picked up the Empire State Express steamer and carefully aligned it onto the rails of his short test track. He engaged the electric throttle and the locomotive’s big wheels began to turn, a bit hesitatingly at first but then more smoothly as more voltage was applied. A moment later the engine was moving smartly down the track at a nice even speed, the drivers and valves and all the other parts that make watching a steam locomotive so fascinating moving in step with the wheels. It neared the end of the test track and the man at the throttle slowed it to a stop. Then he reversed the direction and brought the unit back to its original position. It was an impressive performance.

“She’ll run even better when she’s broken in,” the owner predicted.

“It runs pretty well right now,” I observed. “Now, if they only made one in N Scale.” And if I had 1% of the money that the person on my immediate right possessed, I added to myself.

“Is that what you have?” Rod Stewart asked. Wow, a question!

“Yes, I do. I actually model part of the New York Central,” I slightly simplified. At the time, I was working on a train layout suggested by a small portion of the Adirondack Division of that railroad, circa 1980, which was actually two corporate takeovers beyond the life of that railroad.

“But my father has HO Scale trains,” I continued. “He’s had trains longer than he’s had kids.” It was too bad that my father didn’t happen to stop by the store that day. Occasionally we would bump into each other there in the shop, each buy too much and end up taking the bus or train home together with the understanding that neither of us would tell my mother about what we had brought back from the city. He would have been quite excited to meet Rod Stewart, to be sure.

“He’s got quite a collection. But he doesn’t have the Empire State Express. That one is something else.”

“Yes, I think I’ll be taking it,” Rod said to the owner.

“Sure thing.” The owner smiled, carefully reboxed the locomotive and momentarily disappeared behind a wall of shelving. He returned with three large shopping bags, all full. “Do you want these run up to your limo?” he asked.

“Yes, please. Thank you.”

I took that as a cue that the brief encounter was about to end. I supposed that I could follow Rod out of the store, and say something about his music then. Or maybe I could ask if he had a couple of hours free and wanted to see my father’s train collection. I was sure that there was a phone in the limousine; I could just call home and casually mention that there would be a special guest for dinner. Then I remembered that there was a record store right across the street, and if I hurried, I could get there, buy one of his albums and have it autographed before he left for parts unknown.

And then I noted to myself that all of those notions were completely obnoxious. Wouldn’t it be better to let him be Rod Stewart, the fellow train buff, rather than Rod Stewart, the world famous rock and roll star, for at least a few more moments? Well, it was what I would want, I decided.

I got the attention of another of the store’s employees and purchased the magazine I had spotted before. Just before I walked out, I turned to Rod and said, “Nice meeting you. Keep up the good work.”

“Thanks,” he replied.

And that’s how I met Rod Stewart. The fellow train buff.