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

Money had long since become a worry. He’d had a little coin of the realm, in the bank—when that damned Lincoln Zephyr had put him out of service! And he’d had a small paycheck—which Eric had, personally, delivered to him—since his “accident”. Valerie had seen her final, less-than-staggering, paycheck—from Wards. She had “donated” it—to the cause. But, unless something—something wholly-earthshaking—occurred (and very soon) they were “fixing to be in big trouble”!

There was, of course, Eric’s and Susan’s loving (what else?) offer to help out, financially! But, Jason had depended upon them—almost exclusively—since he’d first stepped off, “that stupid train”! He was reluctant to have to depend upon them, any further. (Marked down from “determined not to”!)

However, the stark—the simple—truth was that, as glorious as the company benefits had been, regarding hospital, and medical, coverage, he would not be paid, for any hours that he’d not actually be, on the job! On the job—and performing! Eric would not be able to help him—in that area! Besides, it all seemed to go back—to depending on Eric and/or Susan! All roads appeared to lead—and to end—right there!

The weakness—the extreme weakness—of his injured leg had added an unpleasant (almost unthinkable) ingredient, to his troubled scenario: He’d been intending to go back to work for Eric! To earn enough, to “tide him over”, till such time as he could find his “rightful place”, in radio’s Parthenon! However, his weakened condition, obviously, was not going to permit that “logical” answer—to the, becoming-more-and-more-troubling, situation!

He could tell—knew full well—that Valerie was thinking (thinking seriously) of returning, to Montgomery Wards. He’d recoiled—at the thought! Public thinking—vis-a-vis such matters, as a man’s wife supporting him—would change, over the next number of decades. But, Jason had always thought of the idea—as abhorrent! And, in 1942, he knew that such a proposition was very much in tune, with his thinking!

Plus, there was always the prospect that his dear wife might be pregnant! Might be! There’d been no indications—at least no outward ones—of such a condition. But, they had been intimate! Numerous times! (There were other things, in 1942 life—other than listening to the radio, don’t you see.)

Things—as they now stood—were presenting a multitude of problems, for Jason! And—you can be sure—for his wife (although she wasn’t saying much of anything)!

THIRTY ONE

On Monday, May 11th! A “beautiful” 1935 Dodge pulled into the undersized parking lot—located, on West Grand Boulevard, just east of Grand River. This was the unsung gateway, to the very-opulent Lee Plaza Hotel—opened in 1927, and meant to serve (exclusively) the most affluent clientele, in southeast Michigan.

In these sobering, 21st century, days, this once-splendiferous, luxurious-to-the-rafters, facility stands—in, literally, heartbreaking ruins! (Literally—heartbreaking!) Alone! Abandoned! Horribly-looted! Desecrated!

The place is still present! On a massive plot—of what was, in the forties, highly-desirable, highly-expensive, almost-sacred, real estate! A green, highly-prized, manicured, expanse—that once had also accommodated the immense, long-since-reduced-to-tons-of-rubble, Northwestern High School, as well as the close-by, also-late-and-lamented, “sanctified”, Olympia.

This glorious hotel—the once-extremely-ornate, once-overwhelmingly-luxurious, 15-story, Lee Plaza—was, eventually, (in April, of 2008) declared a “Historic Site”, by The National Register of Historic Places, National Park Service.

It stands, today—as a lonely, tragic, God-awful, horribly-sacrilegious, highly-depressing, image! The relentless, the unrelenting, exceptionally-flagrant, ever-present, reminder, of the horrible, the absolute, disintegration—into which the once-thriving, once-incredibly-dynamic, City of Detroit has, tragically, unimaginably, fallen!

High atop this wondrous—this grand—edifice, of the 1940’s, sat the somewhat smallish, Spartan, studios, of radio station WXXD!

The feminine driver pulled the sainted ’35 Dodge—into one of the too-few parking spaces, behind the statuesque building. And encouraged her, obviously-nervous, husband—to “Go get ’em, Tiger!”.

To have gotten this far, the Rutkowskis had indulged in a massive, lengthy, totally-relentless—and, most-dedicated—intensive, campaign! The, narrowly-concentrated, devotion—had consisted of:

• Seemingly endless hours—spent each and every day! Intense periods—which saw Jason practicing his, satisfactorily-developing, “projection” techniques. His wife had, patiently, listened—and, patiently, critiqued—these never-ending, verbal, exercises.

• Three different trips to the home of Susan and Eric. The host couple had appeared to own the only typewriter, known to man. (A 15-year-old, still-very-serviceable, Underwood “classic”.) The purpose, of these intense journeys, was to compose a “halfway decent” work history resumè. This was a concept that Jason—himself—had thought of. In 1942, such “employment aids” were not that prevalent. However, in 2001, Our Boy had seen many people apply for employment, at the coffee shop. A surprising number of these people (including one young man, who’d aspired to be a busboy) had presented the eatery’s owner with a bountiful, varied, selection—of professional-looking resumès. In Jason’s current situation. Susan’s grammatical (and typing) expertise—had turned out to be most vital.

• There’d been that expedition to Fintex Clothes—at nearby Oakman and Grand River—for a brand-new suit. To say nothing of, specially-selected, shirt, necktie, and shoes. The voyage had completely depleted Valerie’s modest savings account. “It lays there… in smoldering ruins”, according to her grateful husband. An accurate summing up.

• Last—but, certainly, not least—were the many (many) hours, of unending “flight time”, that Jason had put in, in effectively learning how to put to good use—his freshly-acquired cane. He’d progressed magnificently! A tribute to his dedication—in improving the image that he would present, to a prospective employer.

The “interview” (so called), however, was not going well. Jason was having a distinct (and highly unexpected) problem—simply trying to get past the switchboard operator. Merely to be able to speak—with the receptionist.

After an extensive amount of almost-pleading, Our Hero had—finally—negotiated his way, to the desk, of the latter “obstacle”—a beautiful young redhead, named Marjorie Cullenbine.

She possessed “oodles” more grace—and compassion (plus a generous amount of sympathy, or empathy)—toward the totally-unexpected applicant.

Despite such sympathy/empathy/whatever, she managed to drive home the point—that the station had absolutely no openings, “from the janitor, to the general manager… to the president”. And, furthermore, any future openings “would be just that . . . way in the future.” She’d appeared, however, to have been impressed, with his polite persistence! His stick-to-it’veness! She’d even consented to keep his resumè on file.

That reaction, of course, was of little comfort—to the becoming-more-distressed-by-the-moment, plainly-disappointed, applicant!

He’d hurried toward the frosted-glass, double-doored, entrance—leading