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

returning too quickly. His legs were, as indicted, “doing all right”. But, he was definitely not looking forward to the physically-draining prospect—of having to hike to anyplace else. Not right then, anyway.

The lights in the living room—and dining room—were ablaze. Darkness had pretty much set in. He was encouraged by what must be an indication of—non-private—action, proceeding inside the magnificent house.

When he entered, he found his host and hostess—fully clothed—sitting in the living room, listening to their floor-model Philco radio. It was 7:15PM—and Jack Benny’s show was playing. The show had started—at seven o’clock. It would be followed by The Fitch Bandwagon, which, at that point, had starred the, very-talented, Dick Powell—who was still a singer (a “crooner”), back then. He would, eventually, renounce his “croonership”—and become, strictly, a “straight actor”. (The word “straight” had an entirely different connotation, in the forties—and the fifties!)

The “Bandwagon’s theme: Laugh awhile/Let a song be your style/Use Fitch Shampoo. Don’t despair/Use your head/Save your hair/Use Fitch Shampoo. Our Boy loved it—from the very beginning. That opening—to the popular program was, of course, corny beyond words. But, as stated, Jason—who’d never heard the ditty before—thought that it was absolutely charming.

He’d sat—with Susan and Eric—and listened to The Chase & Sanborn Coffee Show, which had starred Edgar Bergen and Charley McCarthy, at eight. When the highly-entertaining show had played out—a half-hour later—and One Man’s Family was announced, Our Boy decided—to go to bed. His hike had, by then, caught up with him!

As he’d lain there, he realized that—hmmm—there’d been no Sunday night meal. Those two sacks of potato chips were going to have to tide him over.

Had that glorious Sunday breakfast—been it? Would that be the last meal—that Susan (well, and Eric) would ever feed him? Would he be sans his well-stocked lunch bucket, on the morrow? The morrow—and forever after? Would he now be on his own—when he would begin, to traipse off, for his second week’s work.

Dammit! he ruminated. I should have broken that stupid damn ten-spot . . . with June! How much of a threat could she have been to me . . . even if she’d picked up on the date on the note?

It suddenly occurred to him that he couldn’t use a phrase like “picked up on”—in his current epoch. This was simply another ingredient—thrust into the tremendously-confusing stew—that someone (or some thing) had conjured up, for this unsuspecting (and thoroughly-confused) soul! (This lost soul???)

Hell, I could never have stuck June . . . with that silly-assed ten-spot! Never in a million years!

What was he going to do, though? Especially if the free breakfasts, dinners—and those wondrous, hefty, lunch pails—were now a thing of the past?

Well, at least June might come up with something—vis-à-vis his grandfather’s whereabouts. That would be nice. That would be real nice!

On second thought, fat lot of good that’ll do! When would I ever get a chance . . . to see him?

Then, the sobering thought came crashing down! The sudden realization that he had never heard Grandpa mention—not even in passing—couldn’t remember his ever knowing anyone, with the last name of Rutkowski! Not until the old man’s daughter—had met, and married, Jason’s father!

What the hell did that mean? What were the ramifications of that sudden, unexpected, unrelenting, understanding? What did any of it mean?

Did the realization dictate, that the lad would never see—never lay eyes on—young Richard Piepczyk? Or would the perplexing “puzzlement” simply be not any sort of consideration. Could it possibly be, that they’d meet—someday? Somewhere? Eventually?

One way or another—whether they’d ever meet, or not—it must’ve meant that Our Hero would not have made enough of an impression, on Grandpa. Probably had not made any kind of impression! Jason had, he believed, been such a nonentity—in Grandpa’s eyes—that the old man had never seen fit to bring such a crossing of paths, to the attention of young Jason, some years ago! Some damn years—in the damn future!

Maybe, it would turn out that Jason—himself—would’ve decided to use a fictitious name, upon meeting up with young Richard. Who knew? Who could tell?

Who the hell knows?

The young man fell into a, rigorously-fitful, sleep. The dream—which kept recurring, again and again, for the entire night—found Susan (in a variety of scenarios) asking him to leave! Well, truth to tell, ordering him to leave! Always in a, God-forsaken, horribly-cold, tone! One of abject finality! End-of-relationship permeating her, otherwise-pleasant, well-pitched, voice!

When he’d awakened, at a little before five o’clock—in yet another cold sweat—he almost prayed for “that stupid damn alarm” clock to explode!

TEN

SEPTEMBER 11, 2001—8:45PM:

The phone, in the dingy apartment—of Manny Foster—was ringing. He’d been involved—in some “heavy-duty” petting, with a lady “guest”—when he’d been so “rudely interrupted”! His visitor, was a middle-aged woman—one who’d applied, for a waitress job, a week before.

She’d called—earlier that day, at the eatery—to inquire about her employment status! The smallish, far-from-well-groomed, weasel-looking, man was never one—to avoid pressing an advantage! So, “one thing had led to another”—as they say. And now, the pair was seated, on his smelly, thread-bare, couch.

The television had been playing—since before Joyce, had arrived. She, quite obviously, hadn’t exactly been resisting Manny’s “smooth”, “suave”, advances! He’d—immediately—made quite clear (had made exceptionally clear) the, carved-in-stone, criteria: What she’d be required to do—the specific services she’d be required to provide—to secure the over-generous employment, offered at the glorious coffee shop. Then, as things were (nicely) progressing, she’d become—quite obviously—more interested, in what the television was spewing out. Not a good move—to her host’s, highly-analytic, way of thinking!

“My God!” she’d exclaimed—at what was thought to have to have been the “height of passion”! “I guess they think… that it was than bin Laden guy! That he was behind those damn planes… flying into those buildings! Dear Lord! How could anyone possibly… ?”

“Shut up, Baby,” was Manny’s gracious reply. “Let’s get down to serious brass asses, here. I’m so damn sick . . . of this whole fucking thing! So, they flew some stupid-assed, damn, airplanes . . . into some damn buildings! Way over… in New York! Big fucking deal! It’s a long ways away from