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

And his new employer was not in love, with the prospect of pizzas being delivered by “some snot-nosed kid. Certainly, not on a stupid-assed bike”. (Especially a bicycle that was—most assuredly—on its last legs.)

Eric drove Jason—once the quitting whistle had blown, on that wondrous Friday—to a local branch, of the Industrial National Bank! There to open a checking account! Our Hero also opened a savings account! Eric had insisted upon it!

That was something else that had just about floored the now-flush employee! His landlord was commanding him—no mistaking the staunch order—to save! At least 20%, of his pay! Every week! This was, patently, arbitrary! He’d had no choice!

Another surprise: His checks! The paper checks themselves! They would not have his name and address (and driver’s license) neatly printed, in the upper left-hand corner. There was no magnetic ink number, at the bottom.

The courteous lady—who’d opened his accounts, for him—had not asked him for any sort of identification. A distinct relief! Much different than, in his “home era”—where you needed two or three sources of ID! Then, they’d had to call some stupid 800 number—merely to get clearance! Permission! Obtain “proper authority”—to accept your money. The “high tech” process—had always taken 15 or 20 minutes, to muddle through! At best!

The realization that he’d actually had no ID had not occurred to the 1942 applicant. Not until the elegant lady—had begun, to fill out the forms. He’d wondered—fretfully—what Eric would say, when the fact that he was bereft of any form of identification would be made evident. But, thankfully, that particular crisis never developed. As indicated—yet, another, head-to-toe, relief!

Even though the checks that the woman had given him were temporary, there’d been no indication that any of his information would ever appear, on the permanent ones—once they’d arrive. Somehow, he’d doubted it. (He would be vindicated—in his belief.)

These dandies—were printed, on a, sort-of-yellowish, paper. No pictures of flags, or battleships, or panoramic scenes! No Charlie Brown! No Mickey Mouse! No Superman! Nothing! (Well, to be fair, Charlie Brown’s Peanuts strip was still a decade away.) But, still—there were no Li’l Abner or Blondie or Red Ryder or Dick Tracy or Flash Gordon—or anything else—available! Just those plain-looking, pedestrian, yellow checks. A bit of a downer—for Our Hero.

That night at dinner, Jason (“generously”) offered to pay $10.00 a week room and board—$12.00 if necessary. Even $15.00 or $20.00, if need be.

His landlord and landlady—the latter of whom did accept $12.00, for his second and third weeks’ rent—politely declined.

But, they did reiterate (both of them) that he put a minimum of 20% in savings—each and every week! No exceptions! A stipulation—to which he’d already, readily, agreed. He was, once again, “strongly encouraged”—to buy a goodly amount of clothes, and shoes, of his own.

On Saturday, Eric and Susan took him up to where Plymouth Road ended—a 45-degree angle—at Grand River Avenue.

On the way, they’d stopped at a gas station—at Wyoming and Plymouth. A Speedway 77 station. Jason had remembered Grandpa Piepczyk talking about Speedway 79—which had become Marathon, in the late-fifties. He’d not remembered the old man—ever—talking about 77. The brand had always been—thought Our Boy—79.

The refueling experience—was just this side of amazing! The attendant—yes, the human being attendant—filled the nifty Nash’s tank! He’d also checked the oil—and the water, in the radiator! And he cleaned the windshield! Thoroughly! Courteously, he took Eric’s money (all of $3.50)—through the driver’s window—and brought him back the correct change, from the five! Even said “Thank you, folks… come back soon”! Incredible! Absolutely amazing!

The price of “regular” had been 24.9-cents a gallon. Once they’d pulled away, Jason decided that—in 2001 money—that low price would probably have computed out, to be about $2.50 a gallon. So, quite possibly, the difference in cost should not have been all that staggering. Not quite as monumental—as Grandpa had always, steadfastly, maintained.

It took only two or three minutes, for the trio to then drive—to the end of Plymouth, at Grand River. Located one block, past that busy intersection—on Grand River—was a very busy shopping area. At an even-busier intersection. The thriving group of stores (and a movie theater) was as busy as any, on the northwest side—in those days. Busier than most. Even the Grand River/Greenfield complex.

This, of course, was well before the many-thousands, of massive shopping malls, would ever be unleashed, on the public. There were numerous stores—stores of all types—lining both sides, of Grand River. And they would all be open till—huzzah!—nine o’clock, on that night! (Being as how it was Saturday.) The main attraction, down here, was the impressive Sears store, on the left side of the traffic-laden street.

His benefactors decided to leave Our Hero to his own devices—while they attended a movie, at the Beverly Theater, across from Sears. The double-feature would not let out till after five-thirty—so, Jason had the entire afternoon, to “schlep around”, by himself. That was fine with him.

As loving and as caring—as his new “family” had always been to him—the young man did enjoy his private time. There’d been precious few such moments—in his troubled, previous, “life”! Little solace to be found—in his mother’s small, dumpy, flat! And, of course, he’d hardly ever been blest with, anywhere-near-sufficient, funds—to ever go out and swing! Anywhere!

Eric had, graciously, given him the spare keys, to his neat-o Nash—parked behind Sears & Roebuck. He shouldn’t have to lug “a whole bunch of merchandise” around—for hours.

Our fascinated Boy spent well over an hour-and-a-half—just walking through virtually all the varied stores, on both sides of the crowded thoroughfare. Even the Miller’s Jewelry store—next to the massive Kresge’s “five-and-dime”.

Then, he began his “shopping spree”.

There were two or three clothing stores, in the area. Each offered quality clothing—in virtually every price category. He bought a suit, at Richmond Brothers. For a little less than twenty dollars. The coat fit fine—and, the salesman assured him, that they’d put the cuffs on the pants, within a half-hour’s time. (Cuffs were still allowed—on men’s trousers. That “peacetime luxury” would soon