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

Our Hero found himself totally incapable—of passing up this chance! The from-heaven-or-hell opportunity—to muster a closer look! To—hopefully—gaze, in depth, at such a remarkable what-ever-it-might-be!

As he approached the “train”, he was surprised—shocked—to find that there actually were tracks! Can you believe it? Tracks! Steel railroad tracks! Right there! Smack dab in the middle of some stupid grassy field! They’d just been hidden by the ankle-high turf!

How long had they been there? How long could they have been there? Years? Decades? A half-century? Longer? And when could they have been used last? There appeared to be no evidence—of rust—on the gleaming rails. None that was visible to him, anyway. This thing—this whole entire, train-dominated, situation! It was completely—and utterly—incredible! Totally inconceivable!

Yet, there sat—this old locomotive! Complete with tender, passenger cars—and ornate caboose! Seven passenger cars! Seven of them! And the engine? Yes—the engine was still pouring copious amounts of smoke, from its stack!

Jason was close enough, now—to even be able to peer through the windows, of one of the seven cars! He proceeded toward the rear of the train—looking into each car. He could see a whole host of “passengers”—inside of each and every car! Every one of the seven cars seemed filled!

Everybody inside—everyone that he could see, anyway—appeared to be completely preoccupied. Mostly, they were reading their newspapers. So many daily papers! He couldn’t imagine why—but a goodly number, of the people, seated near the windows—had their noses tucked, in The Detroit Times.

Jason had heard his grandfather mention The Times. On numerous occasions. Well, he’d more than merely mentioned the publication. It had been the old man’s favorite paper. And, he’d advised, he’d always missed it. The paper had folded—in 1960. Grandpa couldn’t remember if it had been just before—or shortly after—the election, of John F. Kennedy. “The Rag”—as noted—had always been the old man’s favorite. He’d really missed it!

It seemed to Jason that his grandfather had told him that the publication had been absorbed—by The Detroit News. Grandpa had always waxed nostalgic—about the “glory days”, when Detroit had been a three-newspaper town. Now, there were just two: The News and The Free Press. And they only published a single—combined—edition, on the weekends.

“And it’s just a shell . . . just a damn shell . . . of what the Sunday papers once were,” Grandpa had consistently lamented. “Just a damn shell!”

To Jason’s mind, the current-day, two-partnered, publishing effort must have turned out to be, a mere wisp—of what the city’s newspapers had been, in Grandpa’s heyday! And—from merely a cursory look, into the vintage passenger cars—that observation appeared to be completely accurate! He began to, slowly, understand—even from that distance—why the passing, of The Times, had left a monumental void, in the old man’s life. A void that had never come close to being filled.

Our Hero approached the engine! He actually touched one of the wheels! The locomotive did not disappear! He’d been positive—that it would simply evaporate! Or—POOF!—disappear, in a cloud of smoke. Maybe white smoke. But, it did not! It was real! Cold steel! Seemingly, anyway!

He made his way around the front of the train. He stopped, suddenly, to inspect the legendary “cow catcher”—at the bottom, of the lead part of the engine. Grandpa’s engines all had them—and the old man had also waxed nostalgic about those historic appendages! Had “blathered on”—in never-ending monologues—about “stupid cow catchers”!

After a couple of intrigue-filled minutes—having closely inspected this particular “cow catcher”—Jason continued to the other side. The engineer—standing on that side—seemed, also, to be raptly preoccupied. Like all those zombie-like passengers. This guy seemed to be studying something or another—inside the cab. Jason was unable to see the fireman—but, he could hear him. The man was, obviously, shoveling abundant amounts of coal—into the burner. At an ambitious rate. Adding to the engine’s still-mounting head of steam.

The even-more-confused young man hurried, once again, toward the rear of the train. Past the tender. And to the first passenger car! Hesitating—for only a moment—he hurriedly climbed aboard!

All these people! All these “preoccupied” people! It appeared as though they really were more indifferent—than anything else. Indifferent—to his presence, anyway! They were making not a sound! No one said a thing! It was a terribly spooky quiet, that hung—thickly—throughout the car. The passengers paid Jason absolutely no mind. The “intruder”—on the other hand—was completely absorbed! Totally wrapped up—in them!

Every one of those people! Men and women! They were all dressed, in the unusual fashions—of some other day! Some strange-looking epoch!

The men were all wearing kind of baggy, wide-lapelled, obviously-woolen, suits. Blue serge, in most cases. All wore ties. Really wide ties. And—without fail—all wore hats. He’d thought that he’d heard Grandpa refer to these particular modes, of headgear—as fedoras. Some of the “toppers”, seemed to fit the old man’s description, anyway. Hats! So many hats! Unheard of—in this day, and age!

Then, there were the women! They were all wearing hats too. Large hats! Huge, flouncy, chapeaus—in most instances—festooned, with plumes and ribbons and bows and a whole bunch of other stuff, that the stupefied young man could never have identified.

Without exception, these ladies were all wearing dresses. Well, dresses—or skirts and blouses. Not a pair of slacks (or jeans) in—literally—the entire carload. The bottom of every one of those seemingly-woolen frocks “plunged” down—and ended—well below the knee. Very modest-looking! Also unheard of—in 2001!

The tasteful garb was nothing—like the micro-minis, that some women still wore, in the early 21st century. To be sure, most females—that Jason had ever seen—wore jeans. Or, maybe, slacks. Or, in many cases, shorts. Usually very short shorts! And very tight ones!

Every now and then—in Our Hero’s recent-year’s experience—some lady, clad in very-abbreviated shorts, would wander into the coffee shop. Half of her fanny would be hanging out!

Jason always had to smile: Manny, his beloved boss, used to, just about, froth at the mouth—practically overcome, with sheer lust—every time a girl, dressed in such manner, meandered in. Such displays of delicious derriere—never failed to light him up. “Like a Christmas tree… or something. Lecherous bastard!”

Even the love of