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

Once out of the sprawling depot, Our Hero was taken completely aback! He’d gotten—at long last—through the taxi exit! The cabs? The cabs! They were all late-thirties/early-forties model cars! Incredible! (How many times had he had that reaction?)

Mostly Plymouths, they were. Well, there were a couple DeSotos. (Grandpa’s first car had been a 1946 DeSoto—one that he’d bought used. “Well used,” the old man had always maintained.) These automobiles, though, seemed to be not nearly that “new”.

The Briggs body styles, of the day, were basically the same for all four Chrysler models. The DeSotos and Chryslers were simply somewhat larger—than the Dodges and the Plymouths. All Chrysler Corporation dealers had, at one time—one and all—sold Plymouths. Each one was either—without exception—a Chrysler/Plymouth, DeSoto/Plymouth or Dodge/Plymouth dealer. He’d learned that “priceless” piece of information, from Grandpa Piepczyk. (Who else?)

Jason wondered why that goofball statistic had, so quickly, bounded out of his still-churning psyche. (Or in to it!) He could close his eyes, however—and visualize the old man’s smiling nod, of satisfaction—at this trivial recollection. The entire, mind-warping, episode had, by then, driven home the cement-like conviction, to Our Boy—that he’d long since “gone over the edge”! Way over the stupid edge! When was this tumbling—this hurtling, through uncharted space—going to wind up? And where?

The “departing passenger” decided—instantly—that he could not afford to take a taxi. He figured that he’d had, probably, all of $17.00 or $18.00 in his pocket. That much in “folding money”—and, maybe, a buck-or-two more, in coins! It had been highly-unusual—for him to (ever) be that “flush”.

Even if he could afford such a luxury—as a taxicab—where would he go? Where the hell would he ever go? Where could he go? What would he tell the driver? He knew, by now, that he was actually—in Detroit. Certainly, all the Michigan license plates would seem to indicate that fact. And—seemingly—he did recognize the outside of the massive depot! As much of it—as he could see!

He walked back, into the terminal—out of the chilly weather—and made his way toward the front door. Taking stock, of all the taxis, had—for some remote reason—served its purpose. (Whatever that had been!)

Once he’d made his way back outside, he turned and looked up at the building! It was! From the full-on view—from the front—there could be no doubt! This was the storied, old, Michigan Central Depot! Only it wasn’t, maybe, quite so old! And—quite possibly—not nearly so “storied”! Not yet! Maybe not close—to being that “storied”! Yet!

Actually, he probably would have recognized the building, anywhere! He had seen it—in the flesh—more than once. Grandpa had driven past, on those occasions, when he and the old man had attended a Tigers baseball game—at close-by Tiger Stadium. But, at that point, in his life—in the late 20th Century—the terminal hadn’t been in use, for—literally—years! For decades—probably! At least he thought so—as he stood, in front of the compelling facility!

Passenger train travel, by the nineties—except for the many, money-losing, Amtrak routes, mostly on the East Coast—had been ka-put! No one “rode the rails”—into, or out of, Detroit, anymore.

Yet, on this day (whenever “this day” was) here it stood! This remarkable building! This exceptionally-busy, remarkable, building! Thriving, it was! In what had to be the 20th Century! Those many cabs had confirmed that fact! Jason was—at some point—in the 20th Century! Bustling—as it had obviously bustled! Had bustled—in the past! Dear Lord! In the past! Is THIS the past? Is the past . . . NOW? It HAD to be! Simply had to be—the real-and-true PAST!

How could all of this be? How can all of this be? How can any of this be? How could this fabled old train terminal—be so damn busy? So totally vital? So patently tumultuous? So obviously teaming—with all these people? And the cars? And those taxicabs? And, for heaven’s sakes, trains? Old—out-dated—trains? Automobiles? Buildings? How?

And every car—every single one—at which he was looking! At which he was absolutely staring! Why should that be a vehicle that was so hard to identify? One automobile, on which he’d zeroed in—it had been stopped, in front of the terminal building. It was a Hudson! That’s what the chromium nameplate said! He’d heard of those—but, had never actually seen one! The same held for a pretty, dark-blue, Nash. One that was dropping off a lady—clad in a large hat.

Right behind the Nash was a Packard. To the rear, of those autos—were two Studebakers. This whole scene—this entire situation—was incredible! That word again! How could any of this—any part of this—actually be? What was going on?

He walked the short way—across to Michigan Avenue. Looking to his right—toward downtown—he could, for real, see Tiger Stadium! The grand old ball-yard was just a few blocks away. But, somehow, it looked different. At least, from that “strange” vantage point.

Jason decided to walk—toward downtown. As he’d gotten to Trumbull Avenue, he stopped—and looked across Michigan Avenue. Looked directly—at Tiger Stadium. Only it was not Tiger Stadium! It was Briggs Stadium—according to a huge sign, painted over the box office area, on the corner. Briggs Stadium!

He’d heard Grandpa talk about. how Tiger Stadium used to have a different name. He’d thought that it had probably been Briggs Stadium. But, that would’ve been back in the 1940s. Or maybe even the 1930s. Well, quite possibly, the 1950s.

If he’d been “transplanted” back, into the thirties, all those taxis—as well as the autos passing him, at that very moment—would, seemingly, not exist! If he was in the fifties, they’d look a helluva lot older! Wouldn’t they? He’d thought so! His guess—and it was only a guess—was that, somehow, he’d found himself, in the forties! The forties? How had all this happened? (We were back to that! O course we were!)

And since it obviously had happened (pending his probable awakening—to find himself in “his own stupid little bed”, in Dearborn) what was he going to do? Going to do—now? What could he do now? He knew absolutely no one, in whatever the outlandish epoch—in