Their names were Albert Gomez and Adolfo Gutierrez.
Albert, 38, was a groom at Valhalla Farms and lived in Rockdale. Adolfo, 27, had a wife and baby girl. They lived in Cameron.
They were both born in Mexico but they lived and worked here. They had friends and family here, people who loved them. They were real people.
Albert and Adolfo died June 4, 2000 when they crossed in front of a BNSF train at the Houston Street crossing, the same crossing where Brian Reinders and Travis Mueck died last month.
The circumstances between the two accidents are chillingly similar.
It was a late on a Sunday afternoon, around 6 p.m., according to the report published in this newspaper, when Adolfo and Albert attempted that crossing. The weather was clear, the sun bright. It's likely that Adolfo, the driver, never even saw the train coming, not necessarily because the sun was blinding (though that is also possible) but because the glare off the rails makes seeing anything past about 100 feet very difficult.
In fact, you can test this particular theory yourself. The next sunny day, go to that intersection at around 5 p.m. and look to the west. Note that the sun is not on the horizon but the glare from the sun glances off the rails and right into your eyes. No one could see a train if it is right behind the glare.
One striking difference between the accidents is that Brian and Travis crossed that intersection from Houston Street. Adolfo crossed from the other direction and would have had to look back over his shoulder - right into the teeth of the glare - to see anything.
In both accidents ... well, never mind. Let's just say that the immediate aftermath of both accidents was also very similar and leave it at that.
Recently, we mentioned Albert's and Adolfo's deaths in an editorial. We meant no disrespect when we referred to them as "Mexican laborers." Had we known more about the men, likely we would have written the editorial the same way because we were trying to make a point.
That point is that, four years ago - long before Brian and Travis were killed - our city leaders had a stark demonstration of the danger posed by that particular intersection. It may be "seldom-used," as one news report put it, but it's not "never used." People in this town - particularly young folks in a hurry - often use that intersection as a short cut.
But, Adolfo and Albert were first-generation immigrants. It's possible they weren't even American citizens yet, but that's not information I have. They were laborers, fully employed but employed at low-skill positions. They weren't well known. While their families and friends - of which, by all accounts, there were many - mourned their passing, they had no family or business connections to the people in Cameron who would feel outrage at their deaths and could Get Things Done.
Brian and Travis were bright young men with stellar futures. They were well loved and well respected. They touched many lives in this town and their deaths affected all of us.
Adolfo and Albert may have been real people but, the way Texans often look at things, they were nobodies.
So, when they died that sunny Sunday afternoon in June four years ago, the community at large shrugged its collective shoulders, tsk'ed briefly at the tragedy then moved on in glacial indifference.
And that's a shame because their deaths were rendered senseless by that very indifference. If nothing else, that accident four years ago should have been a catalyst to appropriately mark - or at least close - that dangerous intersection.
Instead, it was still open, still unguarded last month. It remains open and unguarded today.
This was published Feb. 19, 2004 in The Cameron Herald.
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