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

“That’s just it, dammit! I really don’t know! I don’t fucking know!”

About the time that Sheila was ending her “uplifting” conversation with Debbie, Joyce was being—literally—thrown out, of Manny’s “palatial” apartment! Physically!

She had—just moments ago—finished her X-rated, in-the-raw, “audition”. Her gracious host had, of course, gotten what he’d wanted. What he’d—specifically—required!

And there she was: Being—literally, bodily—shoved, out the door! Her freshly-donned blouse was still open! Her bra was badly askew! Her skirt had found itself located—barely—across her thighs! She’d long since lost track of her pantyhose! Draped across her left arm, was her six-year-old, olive-drab, cloth coat! The rather threadbare frock—which had barely kept her semi-warm, while the temperature had dropped! Had plunged—significantly—while she’d been on her way, to Manny’s Shangri La!

Clutched, tightly—in her right hand—she held her satin-like, black panties! Her host had actually—literally—thrown them at her! Well, to be truthful, the “classy gentleman”—had, thoughtfully, merely tossed them, in her direction! Chivalry was not dead!

The disgraced woman stood in the hallway—outside the still-open door—fuming!

“Whyn’tcha show up tomorrow?” Manny finally muttered. “I think I’ll probably have an openin’ for you! This asshole… that stupid-assed Jason . . . I really don’t think he’s gonna show up! Think he probably… he might have… sprouted some balls, today! At long fucking last! Enough balls, don’tcha know… that he’s probably decided that he ain’t gonna let his mother . . . let her, fuckin’, run his life no more! So, you go ahead, and you show up, at the ol’ coffee shop, at… say… quarter-after-ten, tomorrow mornin’.”

Then, he’d, tastefully, concluded the class-filled “closing ceremony”—by slamming the door! Emphatically!

Slithering her underpants, back up “into place”—and adjusting her bra (a major undertaking)—a sudden, overwhelming, chill consumed the prospective waitress. She began trembling—from head to toe—which was not helping, in her spastic effort, to “climb back into” her badly-twisted brassiere!

The shivering not only continued—but, accelerated! Mightily! The poor woman—was practically disintegrating! To the point that she was barely able, to don her coat! The entangled bra project—had to be abandoned!

Was it the temperature—causing all of this? Not likely. It hadn’t really gotten that much colder—than when she’d first shown up, for her “audition”! Her “try-out”!

Besides, she was still inside the building! Well, she’d fix that. She couldn’t wait—to get out! Be rid, of the cursed venue. The place itself was nice enough, she guessed. Nice neighborhood. But, that sleazebag apartment? The dump—from which she’d just been thrown out? It had been a foul-smelling, messy, filthy, pig sty! From the git-go! She now needed a, blistering-hot, shower, she believed—more than anything else!

She hurried down the flight of stairs—and out into the blustery night.

A few minutes later, the phone rang at the residence of Leonard Clarkson. The little man—who’d always reminded Jason of the “Mr. Foofram” character, in the old Hi & Lois comic strip (but, who was immensely more pushy, than Hi Flagston’s boss)—flicked to life, the high-powered lamp, located on the nightstand, on his side of the bed.

“Hullo?”

“Is this Mister Clarkson? The one who owns the coffee shop… on Michigan Avenue?”

“Yes. Yes… who is this?”

“I’m Sheila Rutkowski! You know… Jason’s mother?”

“Why, on earth . . . would you be calling me? And how the hell did you… ever . . . ever get this number?”

“Who is it?” murmured his wife—just awakening. “Who’s on the phone, Len?”

Covering up the mouthpiece—but not completely—he answered, “Some crazy-assed lady! Mother of one of the clucks that works . . . so-called… for me, down at the restaurant!”

The woman on the other end of the line, of course, heard every scorching word—which, obviously, saddened Leonard not at all. It had been quite intentional. Another—in a wholesome. lifelong, string of successes!

“How did you get my number?” he repeated—shouting the question into the phone. “How . . . goddam it?”

“I… I don’t know.” Sheila was fast coming apart—at the proverbial seams! “I think that Manny… he might’ve left something laying around here! Something, maybe… with your damn number on it! I don’t remember! Had to scour the whole freaking place, through… to find the goddam thing! Now, I wanna…”

“Well, you listen . . . Mrs. Rutkowski! I haven’t the foggiest idea… why the hell you’d be calling me, for God’s sakes! Especially at this shit-assed hour!”

“It’s only a little after ten, Mister Clarkson! Look! Listen! I need your help! Need your help… badly! Jason . . . my son, Jason… he never… he never came home, today! Never came home from… from work! And, look! I’m really . . . really freaking worried! Worried sick! At my wit’s end! About…”

“What the hell do you expect me to do about it? About anything? I’m not Dick Tracy, y’know. And he is a grown man… although he, sure as shit, doesn’t act like it, half the time.”

“I just wondered if you… if you knew . . . if there was something that would’ve happened today! Something that could maybe… that you’d, maybe, be able to tell me! Something that I could use! Could use . . . to try and be able to… something, to figure out, where it is! Where he might be! Where Jason might’ve… could’ve… could’ve gone!”

“Now, how the hell would I know? I saw him… at the coffee shop… this morning! And, I guess, maybe, during the early part, of the afternoon. Manny sent him home early, I think! Your son was acting like a total… and complete… horse’s ass! Outside of that, I don’t know! Don’t know anything! Not a damn thing! Haven’t the foggiest idea… why the hell he didn’t go home!”

“Please, Mister Clarkson! I need your…”

“Look, Lady! It’s not my goddam problem! He’ll… he probably… oh, he’ll come home! Sooner or later! I don’t think… never thought… that he’d have balls enough, to where he wouldn’t come home! That he wouldn’t drag his sorry ass home… eventually! Sooner… or goddam later! Now, hang it, the hell, up! He’ll likely get his ass home! More than this . . . I couldn’t tell you! Now, get the hell off the goddam line! It ain’t my problem!”

With that, he slammed the receiver, into