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

Jason had no idea whether the, bedlam-laden, situation was typical, of all such operations—in 1942. Was it always like this—on “any given Sunday”—as the NFL had always loved to say? It most certainly had not been the case—at that glorious Marcus restaurant, on his first day. in his new age. That had been the only era “history”—on which he could reflect. Well, that—and Ted’s Bar-B-Q—which had also been “unbusy”. And the sum, of these delightful, gastric, experiences—had told him, nothing!

If the current condition was typical—was prevalent—in the early-forties, then not much had changed, over the following 60 years. The young man could identify with the condition—from his own experience, at the storied coffee shop, of angelic Mr. Clarkson. Still, as a prospective customer, why bother trying to jack with the situation—just for a lousy nickel drink?

Well, where do YOU have to be . . . that you can’t spare a few minutes? What important . . . what deathly critical . . . appointment awaits your urgent presence?

There was, of course, no good answer.

NINE

Our Space-Traveler, ultimately, decided to head back—toward his adopted neighborhood. Walking south, on Greenfield, he suddenly began to feel extremely tired. Exhausted, would probably be more accurate. Maybe the week’s workload—all those hods-full, of those, beastly-heavy, bricks—had, at long last, apparently, done him in. His legs were actually beginning to cramp, on him! To tie themselves up in knots, and very painfully so! The discomfort was becoming almost-unbearable—by the time he’d reached Schoolcraft, once again!

It seemed to him that—as he’d gazed back toward “palatial” Cadillac Elementary—that he could make out a storefront. One that looked to be a “confectionary”. Those neat places, he’d plainly remembered—well, only from Grandpa’s never-ending, nostalgic, dissertations.

These wondrous facilities, according to the old man, had typically featured an unusually-long soda fountain—where the milkshakes and malted milks and ice cream sodas and sundaes and banana splits were all made “from scratch”.

The same, wondrous, always-delicious, retailing, procedures—as had been the mind-boggling case, at Cunningham’s. None of these wonderful products were close to being “prepared”—from some stupid, all-taste-the-same, re-manufactured, mix. Some concoction—that was dumped, into some “sophisticated”, “Hi Tech”, way-too-noisy, soft-ice-cream, machine. The machine that never stopped saying “Gloppita, Gloppita”!

Of course, the presence of these forties-era, elongated, soda fountains had seemed to apply to virtually all drug stores—and all confectionaries. These “cathedrals” (quoth Grandpa) had remained—and had flourished—even into the fifties, if Jason was remembering his grandfather correctly.

Confectionaries, of course, had ceased to exist—in Our Boy’s former venue. Not for years—had they been a part of “The American Scene”! They’d gone the way—of the, late-and-lamented, Dodo Bird! Decades before Jason had come along—probably! Or, if they did exist, he’d never heard about them. Surely, he’d have blundered across one or two, of them—over the past few years.

Yeah the past few years he mused. The ones that are almost 60 years in the future.

At times, the mental calisthenics involved—in merely reflecting, about such incidental, seemingly-insignificant, festoons, in this incredible journey—were almost more, than he felt he could handle! (Almost?)

He sighed deeply—and then, painfully, dragged himself the required block! Headed east—toward the school. To the corner of Prest Street, and Schoolcraft. There, indeed, was a confectionary. It was set-back, slightly, from the street—which had made it a little difficult to spot, And—surprisingly—it was not very crowded. (Hallelujah!)

He bought an on-your-honor 12-cent Sunday Detroit Times, from the rack, in front of the store—and entered.

On his immediate right was a large magazine rack—filled, mostly, with 10-cent comic books. There were, also, a few “confession” mags (True Story and True Confessions, to name two—very popular, at the time) as well as one sports publication. Oh—and the latest copy of The Police Gazette (about as racy a publication, as had been available, back then). Of course, the display featured the “required essentials”: Life, Look, Saturday Evening Post, Colliers,—and Liberty. The “adult” magazines cost a quarter—or, in a couple of cases, 35-cents. (In the case of Liberty Magazine, the price was only 15-cents!)

A little beyond those periodicals, stood a tall, slender, greeting-card counter. Further on back, toward the soda fountain—on that right wall—sat a bright-red-and-bilious-yellow juke box. It was all lit up—and playing Sammy Kaye’s Remember Pearl Harbor. Good HEAVENS! Apparently, the song had been written—and released, by RCA Victor Records,—only three days, after the Japanese sneak attack!

Equally as amazing: A tune, played—upon that wondrous/garish-looking thing—cost only a nickel! Imagine!

Across from the juke box—were situated five ponderous-looking booths.

To the immediate left of the entrance—across from the magazine rack—sat the immense, metal, manually-operated, crank-style, cash register. It was positioned atop a large, glass-enclosed, counter. One that offered candy, cigarettes, pipe tobacco, Life Savers, gum, cough drops, and a large box of R.G. Dun cigars—as well as a smaller box of Phillies.

Next to the monster—which was the cash register—sat a large 16X24-iinch, cardboard, display “card”. A very-hardy one! It held 15 or 18 Yello-Bowl pipes. Smiling, Jason remembered Grandpa talking, fondly, of those “wonderful” pipes. He’d acquired a number of them, through the years. All seemed to cost $2.50!

The old man had had all kinds of trouble—finding those “classics”, over the last couple decades, of his life. He’d eventually figured—that they’d stopped manufacturing “the durn things”. In his later years, most of the old man’s pipes seemed to have been Dr. Grabow’s. He’d smoked them, he’d always proclaimed—“under protest”—till he’d finally quit. But, he’d never really liked the Grabow’s—nearly as well. Of course, there had—always—been that revered, gorpy-looking, old meerschaum! (A glorious “when-in-doubt” back-up!)

Across from the cash register-dominated facility, there it stood! Ta-DAH! In all its splendor! The soda fountain!!! The long counter, pretty much, took up the rest—of that long right wall. There were (count ’em) 16 high-topped, leather-covered, stainless steel, stools—all firmly secured, into the unyielding, cement, floor—located on the customer’s side, of the formidable, marble-topped, counter.

Behind the beautiful red-haired woman—who was the lone “soda jerk” (a term he’d heard his granddad use—with great affection—a bountiful number of times)—stood an overwhelming