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

to the studio’s lobby. Our Hero was completely wrapped up—as to how he was going to explain his “abject failure”, to his, highly-anticipatory, wife! His wonderful wife! This loving, highly-devoted, woman, who would be anxiously waiting for him—ever so patiently—below, in the “beautiful” Dodge!

In this, self-brought-on, fog, the downhearted, freshly-rejected, applicant had failed to note the well-dressed gentleman—who had just opened one of the monumental, afore-mentioned, doors, and was entering the facility! Failed to note the late-comer, till—with his cane flying, in what looked to be a thousand different directions—he’d, literally, bowled the gentleman over! Literally!

To make matters worse. he had landed—most unceremoniously—atop the man! The individual—who’d, as a result of the spectacular collision, had had practically every ounce of breath knocked, out of him!

“OH!” exclaimed the frustrated—and highly-embarrassed—job-seeker! “Oh… I’m sorry! So sorry! Oh . . . please forgive me! I’m so sorry! Are you all right?”

With Jason’s help, the rather-portly fashion-plate managed to regain his feet—and to begin, to brush himself off. After a few (endless) seconds, he’d force-managed a slight smile. Very slight!

“That’s quite a wallop you pack there, Young Fella,” he finally rasped, his voice not unlike an abandoned foghorn—one badly in need of repair. “Especially for someone, needing a cane… with which to get around.”

“Uh… old football injury.” It was Jason’s best attempt at humor. None too good, he’d felt.

Our Hero had not the foggiest idea—as to why he’d responded, with that particular old bromide. Well, it might not have been all that old! The expression had been a common saying—to him. Mainly because Grandpa Piepczyk had always muttered it. Literally thousands of times. The younger man had no way of knowing—whether his instant response had come from “the future”, or not.

He’d, of course, become overly sensitive, to his vernacular—ever since his bride had begun, consistently, to analyze the “strangeness”, of many, of his words and phrases. And his many, unheard of, responses. Especially his, “out-of-the-blue”, responses!

“Heh-heh.” That happened to be the muted response, of his fellow collision partner. “Are you all right, Young Man?”

“Yes, Sir,” he’d answered—retrieving his cane, with as much grace as possible. “I’m awfully sorry, Sir! Really sorry! Got all wrapped up, y’know. All involved… involved too much… in my own little world. Should have been watching, don’tcha know. Looking out… at where I was going. What I was doing.”

“Well,” laughed the stranger—having caught his breath, “I’m all right… if you are, Young Man.”

“Yes, Sir. I’m fine. Again, I apologize. All over the place.”

Even in that “kinder, gentler” epoch, Jason’s overwhelmingly apologetic demeanor—seemed to impress the older man. Once Our Boy had made his, wildly-embarrassed, exit—the older man approached Marjorie. He asked, “Who was that young fellow? And what was he after?”

Miss Cullenbine explained that his young “adversary” had been applying for a job. Then, she handed Brooks Garback—the station’s president—the impressive, resultant, resumè.

In the parking lot—15 stories below, the embarrassed Jason did his best to explain, to his wife, what had happened, during the interview—and ended the dissertation, with an, in-depth, description, of the “humiliating” collision, in the station’s entrance.

All the way back—to the Marcus, on Grand River—Valerie did her best to convince her, still-distraught, spouse that “It could happen… to anyone”!

The succulent, expensive, frankfurter-shaped, hamburgers were a “tad” (new word—she’d learned from him) expensive, she’d felt. Given their limited resources! But, in this stressful situation, the delicious delicacy was “cheap,” she felt! Cheap! “At twice the price”!

The following day, the same tandem made a trip to “Beautiful Downtown Detroit”—where Our Boy applied at station WJLB. He’d wound up meeting—spectacularly—with much less success (if that had been remotely possible) than had been the case, on the previous, collision-dominated, day.

Station WEXL was to have been the next-projected employer, on the, well-thought-out, list—but, that part, of the project, turned out cancelled. The destination was deemed “simply too far to travel”, on that particular Tuesday. The entity was located, in suburban Royal Oak.

That afternoon, Valerie drove, over to the Atkinson residence—and, once again, borrowed the hallowed Underwood.

On her way back, she bought a ream of plain, letter-size, paper. Jason had presented the folks at WJLB, with the first carbon copy, of his resumè. It had been no bargain. The second copy had turned out, a good deal more “fuzzy”—than the first. The document—as well as the two subsequent, even-more-difficult-to-decipher, carbon copies—were (accurately) considered to be unworthy of submission, and discarded.

Since there were no “Control-Save” procedures, for the valiant “hammer-and-chisel” typewriter (nor a Kinko’s, just around the corner) the dedicated woman spent the entire evening (and well into the night) typing up—literally—dozens of “originals”, of the critical resumè.

There was one thing—that she’d, purposefully, neglected to advise her, getting-more-and-more-anxious-by-the-day (or, more accurately, by-the-minute) husband: On her way back from purloining the typewriter, she’d seen a Help Wanted sign, in the window of a local business—The Donut Hut! She’d, immediately, gone in—and applied! She was accepted! On the spot! Not incredible—for that era. According to Grandpa Piepczyk, many hires were made—on the spot! On nothing more, than a “hunch”!

The charming little storefront was, pretty much—a forerunner of entities, such as Dunkin Donuts. The little outlet was located—on the corner of Indiana Street, and Grand River. Three blocks from the apartment.

Jason was familiar with the place. Grandpa Piepczyk had—as a boy—visited the family doctor, directly across Grand River, from the “keen-smelling” place. He’d always been in love with the storefront—although it had been “eons”, since he’d actually “visited the joint”!

Our Boy was to become not quite so smitten, with the place—once his “better half” had informed him that she was going to work there, “starting tomorrow morning… at eight o’clock”.

His initial reaction—one of extreme upset—was more, from feeling “demasculineized”! From the “knowledge—of being unable to provide, for his wife! As any man should! But, his spouse explained to him—as she, naturally, would have—that this was only a temporary situation! Simply, till he’d be able to “get back on his feet”! He’d—eventually—calmed down! (“A shade”. Eventually!)

The following day—while his spouse was at work, Jason tried a few