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

his life—his “Aunt Debbie”—had, almost always, worn the short skirts! For years! (And years and years!) Jason had always reveled—in her choice of abbreviated clothing! (Also—for years and years.)

Sheila would always be “shocked”—at the “always-constant, the consistent, immodesty” of her “friend”. Still, his “aunt” definitely had the shapely “wheels”—and the requisite, elegant butt—required, for such clothing. It was probably one of the reasons that Jason had maintained his “undying love” for this beautiful “aunt”, of his. From such things—are massive crushes made. At least, in this case!

Especially since he’d always considered himself a “fanny man”! From the time that he was nine or ten! He’d always found himself staring at ladies’ bottoms! Any lady’s bottom! All ladies’ bottoms! Sheila was constantly haranguing him—for, what she had always maintained, was an “obscene obsession”! “I want you to quit staring… at women’s asses,” she had constantly admonished. (It was not about to happen!)

Sheila’s own father had always disagreed. Vehemently! “There’s nothing like a well-turned woman’s bum,” he’d always maintained. “Even at my age, that holds true!”

Of course this beautiful woman—“Aunt Debbie”—could always wear whatever she damn well pleased. She could, in truth, “go to work” in the nude! And rumor had it that she did—on many occasions!

That was because she was a writer. Mostly of steamy romance novels. She would never tell Jason her pen name. Sheila had once made the off-handed remark that Debbie had always written her spiciest sex scenes—while unclothed. She’d sit there, according to Jason’s mother, at her computer keyboard (which had, long since, replaced her trusty old IBM Selectric typewriter)—while she was stark naked! There—to create all of those celebrated, outrageously-lurid, sex scenes!

Our Hero had not the slightest idea—as to the truthfulness of this “legend”. But, the “spicy” images, that it had produced, never failed to play out—on numerous occasions—in the young man’s, possibly-overripe, imagination.

He’d made his way back—to the interior, of the second car. Same thing! That absolute-chilling silence! Everyone—male and female—was “dressed to the nines”. Apparently, for some other epoch. Or for some strange culture.

Virtually all of these people had their noses buried, in a book—or in a newspaper. Well, there were a few women—who were industriously knitting or crocheting. There was one lady—who was wrapped up, in what the newcomer thought he’d remembered Grandma Piepczyk calling “needlepoint”. Or maybe it was “embroidery”. As had been the case inside the car in front, no one was paying the slightest bit of attention—to the fast-unraveling young man.

The third car, as you might imagine, turned out to be exactly the same, as the first pair. This was flat-out incredible! Even for some far-out, far-fetched, dream! Or for some totally-stupid hallucination! Or even for some realistic-seeming mirage!

NO one was talking! The silence was mind-bogglingly eerie! He’d never experienced anything—quite so spooky! Never before! In his entire life! There was the sporadic, rhythmic, clicking of a couple knitting needles—and/or the, far-too-loud, sound of a page being turned. Or a newspaper being opened, or folded. Positively ghostly, it was! (Ghastly ghostly?)

Jason was halfway through the car—when he’d (finally) spied a vacant seat! It was located—well toward the back. Why not just simply sit himself down? Why not, indeed?

He’d not noticed an empty billet—in either, of the other cars. The train had, obviously, been filled—“to the rafters”. This was just one more creepy—unbelievable—element, he knew. Another inexplicable ingredient—in “all-of-this, what-ever-it-is”. He made his way, to the seat.

“Mind if I sit down?” he asked the man, in the window seat.

The guy was reading a rather large, hardcover book: Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte. And it looked to be rather new. That was another puzzlement: Wuthering Heights had always been one of his Grandfather’s favorite pictures.

The old man had bought the flick—on VHS. (He’d been unable to find it, on DVD.) Jason had watched it with Grandpa. Many times. Merle Oberon had been such a beautiful “Cathy” in the movie. And Lawrence Olivier had been so compelling—and so frightfully intimidating—as the macabre “Heathcliff”.

Our Boy had, subsequently, experienced a goodly number of bad dreams—starring “Heathcliff”—the half-dozen-or-so nights, after he’d first watched the movie. The repetitious viewings, though, had cured that problem. Had resolved it slowly. Ever so slowly. But, completely. Eventually, Jason had managed to—happily—come to grips, with the situation.

The haunting incidental music—from the film classic—had always been one of Grandpa’s very favorites. The score—especially the main theme—was utterly haunting. But, it was also very beautiful. The old man had always treasured a scratchy old 10-inch Decca LP record—which featured celebrated movie themes, from that era. All, on this album, arranged and conducted—by the very-talented, musical genius, Victor Young.

And the haunting theme, from this special movie—the theme, titled Cathy—had always held the old man spellbound. That “condition” would overtake his grandfather—every time the old man would play the well-worn cut.

The beloved album was, easily, 45 or 50 years old. Grandpa had played it—literally—thousands of times. It seemed to always be playing, in the Piepczyk basement. Shockingly, no railroad sounds—had ever come from the old record player, down there. Just background film music! Scratchy old background film music. Mostly, by Victor Young—and his orchestra.

Jason, personally, had always preferred The Tara Theme from Gone With The Wind—also featured, on the crackling, popping, record. Well, that lovely piece of music—as well as the theme, from Invitation. He’d read, in the album’s liner, that the brilliant pianist on the latter recording was a man named Ray Turner. What Mr. Turner did, to compliment that theme, was—in Jason’s mind—“beyond remarkable”!

In a world where rock—and rap (and who-knew-what-else)—passed for “music”, Our Hero had found—that he’d always had “a soft spot, in his head” for the revered stuff, on that, played-to-death, old LP. He had cherished, as well, the incredibly-lush instrumentals—arranged and conducted, for the most part, by Mantovani. His grandmother had always seemed to be playing those albums—upstairs.

Jason couldn’t be sure—but, he’d thought that the Wuthering Heights movie had come out, in the late-thirties. It had been released somewhere around 1939, it seemed to him. Well, maybe 1940, or 1941.