Locomotive to the Past, George Schultz [snow like ashes series txt] 📗

much potential—for his eventual breaking out, of the low-paying, no-future, menial, cycle, either! Bleak, it was! His realistic outlook! Yeah—bleak as hell!

He continued his surprisingly-rapid walking. Past Telegraph. Past Outer Drive. Good heavens, could this be—Southfield Street? Southfield—that he was fast approaching? Already? This quickly? Could he have been walking long enough—that he’d actually made his way as far east, as Southfield? That was incredible—if not impossible!

He’d lost all track of time—and place! He’d, obviously, walked a very long way! And yet, he was not the slightest bit fatigued. Maybe lugging all those groceries, for all of those blocks—and for all of those years—had finally paid off. Had bestowed upon him—some kind of an endurance dividend! Well, it was about time! About damn time—that something good had come, from all those thankless, frustrating, exhausting, exercises!

Still—whether hauling those many bags had been an actual benefit, or not—the amount of time, that he had just spent walking, had gone so mind-bogglingly quickly! Too quickly! How can this be? Everything—everything—appeared so surreal! Appeared to be happening, almost, in slow motion—despite the speed, with which he’d arrived at Southfield! (That was Southfield!) He’d walked so far! And in such a short span of time! Incredible! The whole thing—the entire adventure—was unbelievable!

It seemed impossible! It was impossible! How could he have walked that far? And that fast? Everything—simply everything—was such a stupid damn mess! Such a totally-disjointed mess! Such an abominable—such a damnable—mess!

He wished—fervently wished—that Grandpa Piepczyk was still around. He would know what to do. What to say. How to act. He was such a neat guy! He’d always been so—so very helpful! So very helpful!

Grandpa—his hero—had, in his charity, spent a lot of time with Jason. Much time! The only father figure—that the boy had ever known. Such a wonderful man! And now—he wasn’t available. Sadly unavailable! Damn!

Equally sadly (almost, anyway) was the fact—that Grandma Piepczyk had become the next thing to a recluse! Ever since Grandpa had passed away! She remained holed up—in that dinky, dark, depressing, assisted-living apartment—way over, on Ford Road. Way out in Garden City. Jason almost never saw her. A totally regrettable situation! So sad! One of many—many, many—deeply-regrettable situations, it seemed.

Grandpa, now! He’d been so neat! He had owned the neatest set of old-time Lionel electric trains. Replicas of so many nifty train cars—and engines. All from out of the 1940’s. That must have been the neatest epoch! The forties!

Jason’s grandfather—he had owned the most overwhelmingly-complete set, of “railroad stuff”, that the lad could ever have imagined. A whole passel, of “ancient” locomotive stuff. Five or six engines—two that even puffed white smoke. (You’d had to insert a tiny white pill, in the top of the engine—and Grandpa, regrettably, always seemed to be running out of them. Well, they were kind of expensive.)

Plus, there was a variety of tenders. (“That’s where the ‘railroad guys’ kept all the coal, y’know… to shovel into the engine”, Grandpa had explained—more than once.)

And box cars? The old man had, literally, dozens of those—as well as alleged fuel-carrying tanker cars. Gasoline, they’d lugged. For thousands, of neighborhood gas stations. Old, cylindrical, cars. The yellow-and-blue Sunoco car had still displayed the company’s older logo. The one with the red arrow running from “west to east”—instead of heading down from “northwest to southeast”. That car—the one, with that intriguing logo—had, for some reason, always enraptured Our Hero. Right into his teens.

And then there were all those passenger cars. And (probably) 25 or 30 cabooses. Each one of those highly-interesting cars—had been entirely different, from the others.

The old man had even built a whole, miniature, “town”—with his own hands! His private, highly-unique, little village! Had placed the elaborate village—on an old wooden door! A huge—a very heavy—one! A 50—or 60-year-old former-bedroom door! One that he’d kept—for decades. He’d situated the entire, amazing, project—atop two ratty-looking, very-old, wooden sawhorses—in his constant-source-of-wonderment basement.

Jason and Grandpa had never been closer—than when those trains were buzzing around that half-mile, of curved track. The young man had been allowed to play, with these neat “toys”! To be an honest-to-God “engineer”—for, literally, his entire life!

When he’d been three or four, Grandpa had even bought him an authentic, blue-and-white-striped, engineer’s cap. Our Hero still possessed the shrine-like “chapeau”—despite the fact that he’d, long since, outgrown the beloved “classic”. The cap—was one of his most-cherished possessions!

Jason had often wondered whether—had there been any other grandchildren—would he have been permitted all those “engineering” privileges. Any of those priceless, precious, indulgences?

Oh, probably. But, then, he was certain that any other grandkids would’ve been permitted those same cherished entitlements. Good old Grandpa Piepczyk! The man had never seemed like the type of person—who would ever show any favoritism. To anyone.

Would Jason, himself, have been jealous—of having to share all of these “adventures” with others? He’d hoped not. He’d always felt as though he was not a jealous person. Still, naturally, he had often wondered.

Trains! Those wonderful trains! Those glorious trains! Those supposed “toys” had always intrigued the boy. Even once he’d become a young man.

On the tragic occasion, when Grandma and Grandpa wound up having to sell their house—once Grandpa had gotten so terribly ill—Jason had wanted the remarkable train collection! Had yearned for it! Had lusted for those wondrous trains! All of them! Every last one of them! Especially the one—with that Sunoco logo! Those cars—and the surrounding scenery—that Grandpa had, so expertly, created! Even that stupid old bedroom door! The one—on which that wondrous conglomeration had sat, for lo those many decades!

Grandpa had been agreeable—to the transfer, of ownership! More than simply agreeable! Even Grandma was ready to go along with it. But, their daughter—the sainted Sheila—had put the kibosh on it! Our Hero guessed, glumly, that—“It figures”.

Well, hell, it was true, that they didn’t have nearly enough room—“for hardly anything else”—in the stupid, one-bedroom, apartment.

Jason had, grudgingly, also figured that he was probably pretty lucky to even have that stupid, creaky, old Murphy bed! The one—which swung out, of