Locomotive to the Past by George Schultz (iphone ebook reader .TXT) 📕

time-travel journey! An unbelievable trip! Back through all those years! One that could only be dreamed about! At least, that’s what he truly believed! He’d simply never thought all that much about it! Till now! One way or another, he was—quite obviously—back, in the year 1942!!! Nineteen-and-forty-two! Totally incredible!

How could he possibly be in—of all things/in of all years—1942? I mean, wasn’t such a phenomenon—was that not a physical impossibility? He looked around—numerous times. It was almost as though his neck had been mounted, onto some kind of energized swivel, or something. Or something! Sure enough! That’s where he was! This had to be—exactly where he was! In 1942! A couple of months—after Pearl Harbor Day! Imagine! 1942! Barely post-Pearl Harbor! Incredible!

World War II! That history-making event! And it had just broken out! It had been a mere five or six weeks—since the Japs’ sneak attack on peaceful Pearl Harbor! Imagine! He just kept thinking—continued ruminating—over and over (and over and over): Incredible! In-damn-credible!

Look at the cars! Just look at them! Look at every one of them! Look at the style! The style of clothes—that all these people are wearing. Virtually everybody—well, 75% or 80% of them, anyway—are, of all things, wearing hats! Well, some kind of headgear!

Actually, wearing hats—or babushkas—they were. Lots of the latter. He couldn’t recall ever having seen a woman—one wearing a babushka. He wouldn’t even know what they were called—had he not heard Grandpa Piepczyk speak of them, from time to time. Jason had had no idea—that they would’ve been so overwhelmingly prevalent, in his new epoch. Well, truth to tell, he’d never thought much about them, at all.

Also truth to tell, it was pretty cold—here, in January, in Detroit. In fact, his trusty old jacket was not all that effective. Not against the brisk, cold, wind, that was, relentlessly, sweeping along Michigan Avenue. Suddenly, the light frock—seemed particularly inadequate!

Across the street, that sign did say Briggs Stadium. Not Tiger Stadium! Briggs Stadium! This must be! It simply has to be—1942! Just has to be! But, why? Why here? Why now? Why should it be the fate, of Jason Rutkowski? To make this monumental, considered-impossible, trip? Such a mind-boggling journey? He alone? In the entire universe? Why Jason?

Well Smarty-pants, how do you know that you’re the only one . . . ever . . . in the entire universe? Maybe a half-a-million, of the other people out here . . . are just like you. Maybe there are all kinds of people . . . who’ve just been picked up . . . and sat down . . . right here! Now . . . and for years! Maybe for centuries!

Maybe there are people here . . . people from the seventies or eighties or nineties. Maybe from the sixteenth century. Maybe from before Christ. Who knows? How do you know how many others there are, out there, who might have been . . . or might not have been . . . deposited here, from some other age? How many others might be thinking . . . exactly what you are thinking?

MAN! It was so confusing! Everything was so—so damn bewildering! So overwhelmingly bewildering! Everything! What was he going to do? Where was he supposed to go—from there?

It occurred to Our Hero—all at once—that he was very hungry. Ravenous! He’d not eaten all day. Hadn’t eaten in—literally—decades! Usually, he’d just grab a bite—at Mr. Clarkson’s glorious coffee shop—after the luncheon crowd had dispersed. On that day (on this day? on whatever day!) he’d not been able to avail himself of that “nourishing” little luxury—thanks to his sainted manager.

He’d had no idea—where any restaurants might be. Well, there was one across from the stadium. On Trumbull. Jason crossed Michigan Avenue—and approached the cafe. He peered in—then turned away. Somehow, it didn’t look as though the food, in the joint, would be particularly appetizing. Not to him, anyway. A probably-nonsensical reaction.

Was this the way—that all eateries were? The ones—to be found in his new era? Did that little restaurant represent—did it typify—what he could expect? No matter where he went? Would they all be—just like this one? He was not impressed!

Grandpa Piepczyk used to talk of all the wonderful restaurants—that had flourished, in his youth. That, of course, was before all the many multi-national chains, of fast-food joints—and their, cardboard-like, mass-produced products—had broken out. Had infested—the entire country—then, had begun to, eventually, take over.

“Everything has wound up… tasting the same”. That had been the old man’s, probably-a-little-too-harsh, opinion—pertaining to restaurants, in general.

Jason, throughout his youth, had never seen sufficient evidence—to contradict his grandfather’s staunch belief.

Hopefully, Grandpa hadn’t been “embellishing” the truth. From Trumbull Avenue—close by Michigan Avenue—though, things looked pretty grim. Our Boy seemed to remember the old man talking—extensively—about a string of three or four excellent Coney Island hotdog joints, on Michigan Avenue. But, those were—Jason was positive—located all the way downtown. And, though he could see the tall buildings—maybe six or eight blocks away—he was just flat too hungry to walk, even that far. Besides, “Beautiful Downtown Detroit” covered an awfully large area—needle-in-a-haystack-wise.

He trudged the half-block north to Cherry Street—and looked to his left, across Trumbull. There appeared to be a number of retail outlets on Cherry Street—behind the leftfield stands of the stadium.

There was a sign on one little white building—across from what he was beginning to realize was an absolutely beautiful ball park. The blinking sign said “Marcus”! Could that be what Jason had always known as a “fast food joint”? Did they even use that term in the early-forties? Somehow, he thought not. This was the first Marcus, that the new-arrival had ever seen.

He tried—valiantly—to remember if Grandpa Piepczyk had ever mentioned Marcus—as a place that he used to frequent. There had just been so many eateries—that Grandpa had said he’d regularly patronized—most of which the getting-hungrier-by-the-moment lad had never heard of. Places that had, obviously, no longer existed, in the late-20th century. “Palaces” that had long vanished. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember the name Marcus ever coming up—in even one, of those cherished exchanges. Damn!

Our Hero was—all of a sudden—even more ravenous! If such a thing was possible! Hungrier than he