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

Friday night’s dinner was fish—the most delicious fresh-water perch that the new boarder had ever tasted. Friday, in those days, was an obligatory “fish day” for Catholics. (“Mackerel-snappers” as some had called the devoted parishioners.) No meat allowed. Didn’t matter. Not to Jason. Nothing could’ve been more delicious—than what his landlady had “whomped up”! He’d never been particularly fond of fish before. Especially as purveyed, by Mr. Clarkson—at his fabled, storied, coffee shop. His company’s offerings, however, were, always, practically tasteless. (Unless you particularly enjoyed the taste—of cardboard!)

But, this! This fish! This delicacy was absolutely divine! Jason had never thought he’d ever say that—about some stupid piece of fish, for heaven’s sakes. Of course, Our Boy did not devour merely one piece of the wondrous morsel! Try three generous-sized portions! It seemed to please his landlady!

EIGHT

Saturday, for some reason or another, seemed slightly more relaxed—on the job. Despite the fact—that the crew had worked just as long. And just as hard. Our Hero’s body, thankfully, seemed to be adapting—how-ever-slowly—to the heavy-duty carrying of more bricks, than he’d ever known existed. His muscles weren’t nearly so sore, anymore. The condition was more like they’d become merely quite tender. But, that had been a helluvan improvement.

When the “working pair” (quoth Susan) had arrived home, Saturday night, no robe was considered necessary. In fact, as soon as Eric and Jason had arrived, Our Boy was advised that the host couple always went out to eat, each and every Saturday night. The sanctified site was—always—Ted’s Bar-B-Q, on West Chicago, close by Schaeffer Highway. The eatery was the proverbial “stone’s throw”—from Eric’s work site. But, the couple’s Saturday evening ritual had predated the construction site—by three or four years. The reason: “They serve great ribs.” (Also quoth Susan,) The new-roomer’s attire was pronounced “acceptable”—for this unexpected, surprise-invited, outing.

Another worry, though: Was Jason going to have to finally dig out his critical ten-spot? To pay—for his dinner—at the bar-B-Q joint? He certainly couldn’t decline to go. Or to pay! Was he finally trapped? Had the “trap” now sprung closed—as he’d always feared that it would?

The meal—always Ted’s “special” sparerib dinner—was delicious. Maybe not quite “divine”—but, it was tasty, as could be. Jason had never tasted ribs—quite as exquisite, as these. They were spectacular. And—even more spectacular, in Jason’s judgment—was the fact that Eric had picked up the entire tab!

As far as Our Boy knew, Ted’s did not survive into the 21st century. In fact, there didn’t seem to be any restaurants—in the entire Detroit metropolitan area—that served these kind of ribs. They must have been quite prevalent—in this new/old era. Grandpa Piepczyk had mentioned “rib joints”—frequently—in his many reminisces. If that was the actual case, then it was a shame! A super shame!

That night—when Jason crawled between the sheets—he’d settled into a deep, deep, sleep. After, he’d stuck out his tongue (and given the well-known raspberries) to that stupid damn clock! This was a slumber which sent him to depths, of out and out unconsciousness! Unlike anything he’d ever known before! Peaceful! Much more peaceful—than anything he could remember! All kinds of peaceful!

He was awakened Sunday morning—at nine-thirty—by a loud knocking on his bedroom door. He’d had the feeling that, who-ever-it-was, had been pounding on the portal—for quite some time. It was, of course, Susan.

“Y… yes?” he finally managed to blurt.

“Jason?” It was Susan. “Jason… up and at ’em, Kid. We need to be to Mass… at eleven o’clock. I left out some, kind-of-dress, slacks for you… in the bathroom. They were Jeff’s. That… and a white shirt, of Eric’s. And a tie for you. They’re on the potty. Need you to heave out, now… and take your shower. And shave… and all that stuff. We won’t eat breakfast. Not till we get back from church. C’mon, Kid! Rouse!”

He “roused”. Got out of bed, donned Saturday’s surviving trousers—then, headed for the john.

Once he’d finished showering—and grooming—he joined Eric and Susan downstairs. She was decked out in a beautiful satiny, emerald-green, shirt-waist dress. It sported a white celluloid collar—and similar cuffs, on the short, puffed, sleeves. He loved the way she’d always worn those modest full-skirts! Always attractive! But, on that Sunday morning, she was “abusing the privilege”! She’d, obviously, done up her hair—the night before. She was staggeringly beautiful! Jason—when he’d first beheld her—stopped! Literally—in his tracks!

“Susie! Susie,” he blurted. “Susie, you… you’re beautiful! You’re absolutely beautiful! I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone as pretty… not nearly as beautiful… as you are!”

“Why thank you, Sir,” she answered—and undertook an overdone curtsy. “I also note that you’ve finally figured out my name. I’m thankful… on both accounts.”

“Whazza matter?” asked Eric from the other side of the room. “I’m not beautiful?”

“Yes, Eric. Yes… you are. You’re beautiful too.”

For the first time, Jason was able to actually see—and hear, and witness—what Grandpa Piepczyk had been constantly lamenting! Had grumbled about! For years! What his granddad had, continually, been griping about! Incessantly! The old man had been grieving over the situation—since well before Our Hero had even been born!

The demise of the Latin Mass! That had been a really sore point—probably the main bane, of the old man’s existence—to hear him tell of it. Until that first Sunday morning, in 1942, Jason had never quite appreciated, what his grandfather had been, forever, grousing about. Now, of course, he understood! Understood—completely! And he quite agreed!

Susan, Eric—and their new boarder—attended the eleven-o’clock Mass, at Gate of Heaven Catholic Church. It would later become known as Our Lady, Gate of Heaven—but, in 1942, everybody just seemed to call it, by the simpler name.

The church, itself, had been—obviously—a storefront, at one time. The smallish, one-story, building had sported three separate entrances—so, apparently, it had originally sported three stores. The third portal—one of two, that fronted on West Chicago Boulevard—was the ingress, to the church itself. The secondary two-thirds, of floor space—which used the third entrance, fronting