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Frank Byrd
New York
ON THE PENNSY
I CHEF WATKINS' ALIBI
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Chef Watkins was a short, fat squatty little Negro with the meanest
disposition of any cook I've ever known; and I've known some mean ones in
my time. He had a jet black skin, full pork -chop lips and a belly on him
that shook like tapioca when he was working the lunch-hour rush. He could
cuss like a top -sergeant and seemed to take a fiendish delight in giving the
boys hell.
When we had taken about as much of his crap as we could stand, the boys
got together and hatched up a plot to get rid of him. The trouble was, he
stood in too well with the big bosses. He was one of those kow-towing, old-
fashioned, handkerchief -headed darkies who would grin and yes a white man to
death and give his Negro subordinates hell from morning,' till night.
We all knew that Chef Watkins was killing the Company for everything he
could steal. He had bought a huge, rambling old country house down in Mary-
land and a large breeding farm for jumping horses and prize stock and
you can't do that on what the Pullman Company pays you even if you have
worked for them twenty years and have full seniority rating.
Nothing was too big or too small for him to steal. He had worked out a
system with the commissary steward and between them they did an awful lot of
bill padding. In addition to that, he used to throw hams, chickens, legs of
lamb and anything else off to his wife or children whenever he passed his place
near Bowie. You know, that junction where the Pennsy crosses the Seaboard?
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Well, the boys got together and decided that Old Cheffie had to go. So
what we did was to drop a little hint here and there to Mr. Palmer, our chief
steward, that if he'd just happen around the kitchen when we were nearing that
Seaboard crossing, he might find out what was happening to all our missing sup-
plies that he was catching hell about back in the New York commissary.
To make it short and sweet, when we neared the junction this day, Chef
Watkins was busy, as usual, getting his hams and chickens together to toss
out the window to his wife who was armed, as was customary, with her old po-
tato sack in which she carried home the bacon; not to mention eggs (well
packed of course).
Just as the train slowed down and the chef leaned back, ham poised like
a football about to take flight, Old Man Palmer drawled in that deep Southern
accent, as only Old Man Flamer could: "What in hell do you think you're dein'
there, Watkins?"
Well, you could have knocked the chef over with a feather. He stumbled,
coughed and did everything but turn pale. It's the only time I've ever seen
him stuck for words.
"Know one thing, Mr. Palmer?" he finally spluttered. "Dere's a ol' black,
nappy -headed woman who stands out dere by duh crossin' and cusses me an' calls
me all sorta names ever time I pass hyeah, an' it makes me so mad I gus' grabs
up duh fus thing I gits mah han's on an th'aws it at 'er."
II CHEF SAMPSON'S ICE BOX
When we were running on the Pennsy, there was an old chef on our run who
was the most onery old cuss you ever heard of. His name was Sampson and he
could out -cuss a blue streak. He was a dictator in his kitchen and there was
hell to pay any time the dining car waiters and cooks assistants did not hew
the line as far as chef's kitchen -rules were concerned.
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There was one thing he was particularly mean about. He didn't allow
anybody, not even the steward or second cook, to go into his ice box. The
steward had the right to, of course, but even he used to humor the old man
beoause he was so efficient in his -work. And any time the second or third
cooks wanted anything, they had to say:
"Going in, Chefl"
Meaning, of course, the ice box. Well, if he felt in the mood, he'd say:
"Go 'head ins"
If he didn't, the answer would be:
"Wait a minute. I'll git it for you. I got my box 'ranged jus' lak I
want it an' I don't want it mixed up."
W4a also had an inspector named Mister Trout. He was a tall, rangy,
mean -looking cracker from down in Georgia. He used to pop up unexpectedly
in all sort of little out of the way stations, board the train and start gum
shoeing around, seeing what he sees. Kell, this day he climbs aboard at Al-
toona and just when we're speeding through the mountains to Pittsburgh, Old
Man Trout eases back into the kitchen and starts rummaging through Chef's
ice box. Chef had his back turned and was busy chopping some onions on a
board near the window. He heard the commotion, however, and, without turning
around said:
"Git the hell outa dat ice box."
Old Man Trout said nothing, but continued his inspection.
"Git outa dat ice box, I sayS" Chef repeated, still without turning
around.
Old Man Trout straightened up to his full six, rawbony feet, took one
contemptuous look at Chef Sampson and said:
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"aho in hell do you think you're talkin' to? My name is TROUT"
Chef Sampson stared back as cool as you please. Finally he drawled:
"I wouldn't give a damn if it's CATFISH. You git duh hell outa Tror
ice boxi"