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

How can these people just sit there? How can they just go on with their stupid . . . pissy-assed . . . little lives? A catastrophe . . . a damn catastrophe . . . has just happened! The bastards have even hit the Pentagon! A positive catastrophe . . . is coming down! Been inflicted on us! An absolute damn catastrophe! And no one gives a shit! No one! Not a damn soul! Assholes! You’re all assholes!

What would Grandpa Piepczyk say? What would he think? Jason bowed his head. It was probably just as well that the old man had passed away—three years before. He’d be beside himself. Richard Piepczyk would be—his grandson was positive—as upset, as was young Rutkowski. Jason was becoming certain that he, himself, was horrified enough—for the both of them! What is the world coming to?

“Rutkowski!” It was Manny, the manager. “Rutkowski! Get your head out of your ass! There’s an order, there… under the lights! You might consider actually delivering the goddam thing! Sometime before, fuckin’, springtime! Oh, and it was just simply sooooo nice of you… to actually show up, Sweetie! To grace us with your goddam presence! Even though you were twenty-five frigging minutes late. So goddam nice of you… even though we had lightning strike the shithouse, here! And we wound up… ass-deep . . . in all these customers! But, we do thank you… for finally draggin’ your lazy ass in here!”

“I’m sorry, Manny! But, you see . . . !”

“Get your head out of your ass, Kid! Unless you don’t really care! Care… about working here, anymore! What would your MOMMY say? Huh? Tell me, Jason-Baby! What would Mommy SAY . . . if I was to fire your tardy, totally-inept, ass? If you were to lose your frigging job? What would she SAY? What would she DO? Would she SPANK you? Is THAT what Mommy would do? Spank your widdle bottom? Now, fucking, get BUSY!”

Absently, Our Hero paid absolutely no attention—to Manny’s normal, probably-obligatory, obscenity-laced, diatribe. He picked up the three plates, from the shelf between the counter, and the kitchen. The procedure was performed, absently enough—that he’d almost burned the back of his right hand, on the ever-present, red, keep-the-food-hot, lights. The ones that had always hovered, above the filled orders.

He delivered the fast-food cargo, to the two men, and the lady, in the booth in the far corner. The trio didn’t appear to be inconvenienced. The three of them were jawing—about some seemingly insignificant matter, at their “thrilling” place of employment.

They were seated, directly beneath the east television—and would have to have been totally deaf, to not have been aware of what was taking place, in Lower Manhattan! The sounds of sirens, of general destruction—and of hundreds (maybe thousands) of terror-stricken people screaming—flowed, in never-ending fashion, from the speakers of the large set. Jason had to fight back an overwhelming urge—to crank up the volume! Turn the set up—even more loudly!

How can you people just sit there . . . filling your faces? And not give a damn? Not give a tinker’s damn . . . about what’s happening? About what the hell is going on? How CAN you? Assholes!

“RUTKOWSKI!” The “dulcet” tones—of Manny—filled the coffee shop, yet again! “You got another order, ready… Asshole! Get frigging with it!”

Jason schlepped back—and began to, mistakenly, pick up the order, of some other server!

“Jason! What the hell’s got into you?” It was Lorna, the rather attractive waitress—who was, probably, his mother’s age. Our Boy was, in the process—of plucking her intended cargo, off of the shelf. “Jason!” she repeated, in a half-shout. “Snap out of it, Babe! C’mon! You’re walking around… in a damn fog! In a freaking daze!”

Our Boy, finally, delivered the proper order, to the proper booth—although it took some deep pondering! He’d forgotten who’d actually ordered the two “fried chicken baskets”. In addition, he had not marked the booth number on the guest check—as he absolutely should have!

The besieged server managed to—in similar fashion—blunder his way through the, larger-than-usual, lunch crowd. His “service” was—at best—marginal. Marginable enough, that Manny wound up sending him home—at one-thirty! Another expletive-rich dressing-down! This diatribe was even more volatile, than his usual—universally-accepted—abundant-four-letter-word-filled, rant! A feat deemed impossible—till that “classic” moment, in time!

The “sainted” manager “advised” Jason, in his own inimitable fashion, that it would be “advisable” for the lad—to “Get your worthless ass, the hell on out of here”! This deathless, oratorical, “masterpiece” was delivered—once the luncheon crowd had, noticeably, thinned out.

The young man had been less-than-diplomatically-

dispatched—a full five hours before his shift should’ve ended.

THREE

Once outside, Jason found himself simply wandering down Michigan Avenue—heading east, toward Telegraph Road. He also found himself kicking a can—a stupid tin can, for heaven’s sake—any number of times. He’d had no idea how many “precise” shots he may have delivered—to the poor, defenseless, thing. Or from where the silly container might have come. He’d never done anything like that before. Well, he didn’t remember ever doing anything like that. This was, obviously, a day of abundant “firsts”.

Also obviously, he—most assuredly—could not go home. His mother would be a torrent! He’d “caught her act” before! Many times! Most recently—that very morning! Just a few hours ago! She’d be a veritable tsunami—of undiluted, four-letter-word-laden, out and out, rage! Maybe with good reason. Hell, probably with good reason!

He wondered if Manny—good old reliable, loyal, lovable, caring, sensitive, Manny—might’ve already called his home. Had, immediately, “narcked” on him! Had “reported” the obviously-terrible situation—to the ready-to-spring Sheila! Had played the all-too-willing role—of tattletale! That would be so like Manny! Bastard! Foul-mouthed bastard! He and his mother would make a good pair! Maybe already have! Probably already have! Many times! Oh—who knew? Who the hell knew? Who knew anything?

This whole situation (what-ever it might be)—between his mother, and his boss—was yet, another puzzlement. Had always been! Always! Sheila had never (as in ever) stopped ranting on, at him. Even when others were close by! Especially “Aunt Debbie”, dammit! Always belaboring the fact, that Jason’s