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

“Nah. This is the first time.”

“Well, welcome to our humble neighborhood. I hope it’s not the last.”

“Believe me… it won’t be.”

The exchange—with this beautiful woman—was incredible: This dear, wonderful, young lady managed to carry on a conversation, with Our Hero—for the better part of a, still-busy, half-hour. She’d, of course, had to excuse herself—from time to time—to wait on this patron, or to sell something at the cigarette/cigar/candy counter.

But, then she would always return! It was as though she’d never lost a step. Jason was unable to recollect when he’d ever witnessed such complete, continual. uninterrupted, efficiency. She’d have dazzled everybody—including the wait-staff—at the stupid coffee shop, in 2001 Dearborn! Would’ve put ’em all to shame.

That’s if anyone . . . back there . . . ever HAD any shame! (He was unable to explain—even to himself—why that thought should have struck! And so quickly! And almost violently! And would not go away!)

This remarkable young lady’s name was June. June Hunter. She was 23-years-old. Attended Wayne University—close by “Beautiful Downtown Detroit”. In the fifties, the college would become Wayne State University. She had graduated from Cooley High School—four years before. Had waited a couple years—before entering college.

Her parents, frankly, could not afford the tuition till then. Were barely able to come up with the money—even at the point, of Jason’s visit. A tribute to their unselfishness—and their sense of sacrifice. A point which rated exceptionally high—on Our Hero’s mental/emotional scoreboard.

Dan and Helen Hunter, she’d explained, had bought the confectionary six years before—when June was still in high school. Had worked hard—for years—to, slowly, laboriously, put aside enough money, to buy the place. June was their only child—and Dan had always been very possessive, of his daughter. His “Baby”! The young woman had confided, to her enraptured customer—that he’d “already run off” two potential suitors.

“You wouldn’t want to cross him,” she opined, smiling. But, there was a concrete seriousness, in her tone of voice. “You really wouldn’t want to… ever . . . cross him!”

After having informed Our Boy so much—about her own self—June began to ask Jason, about his life and times. He was afraid—after only a fleeting minute or two—that he was coming off, as slightly evasive, in his slightly-hesitant responses, to her, surprisingly-many, highly-probing, questions. More—than merely somewhat evasive, he felt! To her rather direct inquiries!

He’d done worse, he was positive, in dealing with this beautiful redhead! Much worse—than he had fared, on Tuesday! That magical Tuesday—when he’d, so-feebly, attempted, to explain his circumstances, to Susan. This “soda jerk” young woman seemed to be getting more and more distant—as their conversation was going along!

Finally, Jason felt as though he’d needed to do something! Anything—to get away from the direction, in which the troubled discourse was headed.

“Do you know of a family around here,” he finally asked—more out of desperation, than anything else. “One named Piepczyk? They’d have a kid. A young son… named Richard.”

“Piepczyk. Piepczyk,” June muttered. “Hmmm… Piepczyk.” She almost seemed to be rolling the name around, on her tongue. “Nope. Can’t say that I do. Are you sure that they live around here?”

“Uh… yeah. Well, at least I think so.”

“What street do they live on?”

“Ah… see, I don’t know. I was really hoping… that you’d be able to tell me.”

“Nope. Can’t do it. Can’t picture them… or him. I’ll ask around, though. If I can narrow anything down on ’em… on a Piepczyk family… I’ll let you know. Are you going to come back… next week? On next Saturday… or Sunday? They’re the only days I work here, y’know.”

“Oh, yeah! Definitely! It’ll probably be… on Sunday, though. Might have to work next Saturday.”

“Oh? Where do you work?”

Jason filled her in on his much-appreciated job—and how vital the factory would be, to national defense, once the project would be finished. She seemed impressed. Maybe—quite possibly—he might be gaining back some ground! He didn’t go out of his way to advise her—that he “only” carried bricks, for a living. If she thought his occupation was more critical—to the defense, of the country—well, he couldn’t help that, now. Could he?

Our Hero—once he’d finished the encore Vernor’s, and those “decadent” potato chips—got up, and left the confectionary. He was thrilled—with having met June. He might even have a bit of a crush on her. Oh, nothing, of course, like the torch he’d always carried for ravishing “Aunt Debbie”—over lo, those many years. But, he’d been captivated—totally enchanted—by his new acquaintance. Without a doubt! Especially with her many surprisingly-adventurous tales—of having had to work, at the immense Big Bear grocery store, on Plymouth Road, for almost two years.

Her parents had not, at that point, been able to afford to pay her, to work at the confectionary—although she’d always (“forever”) put in numerous hours. All gratis. And, of course, she’d needed to “put-by a significant amount of money”—for her upcoming college education.

She’d started out, at the colossus of a grocery store—as a stock girl. “Usually male stuff”, she’d maintained. Cutting open cartons—and stocking the shelves. “Hauling blinkity-bankety can-goods!” She had—after three or four months—worked her way up, to being a full-fledged cashier.

The store had featured only four, immense, manual, mechanical, difficult-to-operate, registers—at that point. But, in those days, that number—of the huge machines—was considered “big time”! Her times—in the new, exalted, position—had, day after day, been “a bit of a tough haul”! Inasmuch as the market had always boasted—a massive customer base. Those “pitiful few” cash registers had, continually, had to deal—with tremendously long waiting lines.

June, one could be sure, had come out of “those many battles”—as the fine, highly-efficient, totally-dedicated, young lady—who was standing across the counter, from this flush-with-admiration, bewitched, young man.

To have done all that, had taken a helluva lot of moxie, thought Jason—as he’d walked back toward the Atkinson home. Her attitude had turned out to be a bona fide remedy—for his no-longer-aching legs!

I wonder if I’m gonna need a prescription . . . next time I talk to her!

Our Hero was hoping—fervently hoping—that he was not