The railroad is dead. Its dried-up bones lie rusting beneath a California sun in the dusty rockhills of Riverside. A screech and a clank from another time breathes life into its dry bones and a ghostly cart and a cart and a cart passes by. We are sitting in a restaurant. Ours. Though the faded sign – Crazy Greek’s – would call me a liar. The ’s is possessive, but the owner is Mexican and perfectly…