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

in the manner that the Reeve character had been so shockingly—so tragically—transferred. Obviously (well, hopefully obviously) such an exacting fate was something—that Our Boy would not have to worry about. Should not have to worry about!

Oh yeah? At a little after three o’clock, in the morning—on his very first night, seemingly secure, in the home of Eric and Susan Atkinson—he’d sat bolt-upright in bed! Frightened! Terribly frightened! Absolutely panicked! Plucked right out—of a rather placid dream! Shocked, he was! To the bone!

Something had painfully intruded a mind-boggling—totally horrible—thought, into the otherwise-peaceful, nocturnal, mode! The new—the startling, the chilling, the bone-rattling—image had, flagrantly, inserted itself! Maybe he would be subjected—to the exact same fate, as Reeve’s character! Dear Lord—no! Please—no!

He’d set about—immediately—trying, mightily, to dispel the horrible “Discovery of The Coin” scenario! Initially, without much success!

What had he done—well, almost done—earlier, that very afternoon? Had Jason given any thought—the remotest of thoughts—to the Reeve character’s fate, he’d never have entered that glorious Marcus restaurant!

He had not given the slightest bit, of consideration—to the fact, that he’d be paying, for that remarkable food! Paying for it—with money, that would not be minted, for another 55 or 60 years!

He’d shuddered! To the point—that the bed had shaken! Three or four times! Had rattled—substantially! His body had contorted—from top to bottom—again and again! To, suddenly, realize the truth—that, maybe, he’d really not known just “how close he’d, possibly, come”. Not at the eatery, anyway. The thought had not occurred to him! Not until now!

Now, however, lying in that wondrous bed—in the middle of an otherwise glorious night—the Reeve character-realization had caught up, with Jason! In spades! Had overwhelmingly caught up with him! Had overtaken him! Had petrified him! Retroactively!

Looking back, he felt as though it had been some kind of good luck omen—when the cashier, at the hamburger joint, had not noticed the dates, on those singles (those supposed-silver certificates) that he’d “passed”.

Well, actually, there’d been no special reason for her to have screened the money. He doubted that there would’ve been a memo, circulated among the company’s restaurants—warning employees to be on the lookout for bills printed in the 1990s. Or even in the 21st century. He found himself wondering if—whoever had checked out the cash drawer, at the end of the shift—would ever have noticed. Probably not, he assured himself—sighing heavily. No one looks at one-dollar bills—for authenticity. Hardly ever!

Once he’d finally managed to calm down—somewhat—he realized that, to his good fortune, this was, hopefully, one less worry for him to agonize over! The cold sweat—thankfully—had begun to, slowly, dissipate. Thank God!

He nuzzled back down—into that soft, yielding, mattress—and began to drift back off, to the blissful sleep that was, once again, beckoning.

Then—within just a matter of seconds—he’d snapped, wide awake, once more! He had—good Lord! He’d paid his dear benefactor—Susan Atkinson! Had paid her—with five one-dollar bills. Each one of them—like those, at the Marcus restaurant—would have to have been printed a considerable number of years, in the future. His gracious new landlady had seemed to not notice!

Perhaps this was—as indicated above—due to the fact, that there are simply such overwhelming numbers of one-dollar bills changing hands! In every facet of life! Literally, every second! “Zillions” of them! At all seconds! Day in—and day out! Possibly (probably?) this was such a spectacularly-common occurrence—that no one ever really looks, at any singles! Like, ever! He certainly hoped so!

For some reason or another, the lad remembered his grandfather telling him, of a humorous movie, from the early-fifties—called, he was certain, Mister 880. It, apparently, was based upon a true story. An elderly man—played, in the picture, by actor Edmund Gwenn—had, continually (and often) counterfeited one-dollar bills. Had done so, for years.

To say that the product was of poor quality would be putting it mildly. The word “Washington” had even been misspelled. But, virtually no one had ever noticed. Ever!

Every time the old geezer needed some money, he’d simply “run off a few singles”. Then, he’d buy something—for a nickel, or a dime—and pocket the change. He would repeat the “operation”—till all the phony bills, from that particular “issue”, had been passed. The better to live on—for the next couple or three days. But, he had always bought something. That way, the vendor would, always, realize “at least a little bit of profit”.

Maybe each and every one—of Jason’s singles—might always escape even the most cursory, of inspections. He felt a little bit better. Hopefully, the currency—that he’d given Susan—would’ve “slipped through”! Hopefully! Maybe she’d simply deposit—or spend—the incriminating dollar bills, in the next day or two!

Tens or twenties, though—they would probably be a “horse of a different color”. (That had always been one of Grandpa Piepczyk’s pet sayings. Comfortingly, at the dinner table—the previous night—Jason had heard Eric use the very same expression.)

He was thankful that his $10.00 bill had been considered—one of the “older” ones! In the late 20th Century, the Federal Government—had undertaken a complete overhauling, of the country’s currency. Jason’s “memory”, of the huge project, told him that the tens had been the first—to undergo the major change.

Fortunately (or unfortunately) the bill, in his wallet, had been one of a vanishing breed! Minted—before the “new” tens had come into being. Jefferson’s picture was still centered on his note! In the same fashion—that it had been centered for (Jason guessed) many decades. For, maybe—even a century or two.

On the other hand, this “tenner”—he was positive—would be a dreaded “Federal Reserve Note”. It was Our Hero’s understanding, that—until the sixties or seventies—all United States currency had been labeled, as “Silver Certificates”. Would the “Reserve Note” nomenclature be that noticeable? That discernible? To whomever he might decide to give the bill? Had anyone—in 1942—ever heard of a “Federal Reserve Note”? Would anyone know—what the term even meant? It was “a puzzlement”—as Yul Brenner would emote, in Rodgers & Hammerstein’s The King & I, some nine years, in the future.

Whatever the circumstance, his money situation, undoubtedly, boded ill—for the new tenant. Literally, the sum total—of