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

well-used computer system—so graciously furnished, by the Dearborn Public Library System.

And his frequent playing—of that “schmaltzy” album—had never failed to really set off Sheila! Well, his constantly playing it—and the fact that he’d spent his money “so foolishly”, on the album. It had set him back all of six-and-a-half bucks—four-and-a-quarter for the CD. Plus a little more than two bucks—for, the traditional, inescapable, sanctified, “shipping and processing”.

To the young man, it had always been one of the best investment’s he’d ever made. Truly a bargain! Would’ve been a steal—at twice the price! One of the very few times that he’d felt, that he’d come out ahead, of the game—of any game! In any facet, of his life! One had to take one’s little triumphs—where, and when, one could ever find them. God knew, there weren’t all that many of them. Not for Jason Rutkowski! Never for Jason Rutkowski, it would seem!

The third or fourth time that he’d played the sound track, he’d gotten into another argument with Sheila. That had figured! She’d told him to “shut it the hell off.” He’d lamented the fact—that he didn’t have his own room. Some kind of “enchanted place”. “Where I could go ahead… and play my music! Without pissing you off!”

He’d gotten “The response”! The one—that he’d expected: “Well, if you’d have gone to accounting school… like I goddam well told you to… you’d be making a helluva lot more money. And we could probably afford somewhere decent to live.” It had become a programmed reply. He could have virtually “lip-synched” it.

Actually, the apartment was “someplace decent to live”. Pretty decent, anyway. (Fairly decent?) It would probably have been wonderful—for just one person. It was located in a nice, mostly-residential, neighborhood near Cherry Hill and Telegraph Road. The area was nothing close to being a “slum”—despite what Sheila Rutkowski thought. Or, at least, what she’d always said. Continually.

Well, if Jason actually was where he thought he was, his mother might actually learn, of the possible joys—that such a small apartment could bring! When you no longer have to share it, with someone!

Of course, that “parable” presupposed that Our Hero actually was somewhere, in the past. Somewhere—in the probably-long past. If that, truly, was the case, then the chances—of his ever seeing his mother again—were, he’d imagined, slim and none, as that pessimistic old saying went. (Well, maybe his newly-acquired epoch [whatever it was] wasn’t quite that old. Again—who knew?)

But, what if—as had happened in Somewhere In Time—he’d get sent, suddenly, back? Plucked out of a supremely-happy, time-travel, situation—and, horribly, transferred, in reverse? Back to the time and place—from where he’d come? As had, so tragically, befallen the shattered protagonist, in Somewhere In Time?

Christopher Reeves’ character had—to his extreme sadness—discovered a penny, in his vest! This after just having made love, to the woman of his dreams—in the early-20th Century! It had been a coin—minted in the seventies! The year—from which he’d been transitioned back! His blundering onto the coin, caused him to be, abruptly, picked up, and re-deposited, smack-dab, back (actually smack-dab forward) up, into the seventies! From where he’d traveled backward—those 50-or-so years!

Suppose Jason would meet—and fall deeply in love with—someone like the Reeves character had? What would be the sense—of even trying to pursue any kind of relationship? If things were that precarious? That tenuous? So, how “permanent” was his present situation? What if he saw a headline? Or, hell, a newspaper article? Or even some stupid science fiction book? Anything—that even mentioned 2001? Would that be it? Would he then be whisked back? Back to the future?

Well, of course, Somewhere In Time had been fictional. What was happening here—what had happened here—seemed to be total reality. Or was it? Had he, maybe, fallen down—in 2001? Perhaps, at the stupid coffee shop? Had he, possibly, fallen—and hit his head? Had he lain there—unconscious? For who-knew-how long? Was this all simply an illusion? An elaborate illusion? An out-and-out dream?

Would he be (POOF!) “coming out of it”? Returning to consciousness—and (sadly, for him) to sanity? Any moment now? Coming to? Maybe in some 2001 hospital? Maybe in a stupid 2001 ambulance? Maybe at home? To find Sheila? Glaring down, at him? That vision caused another—involuntary—head-to-toe spasm!

His head! Hmmm! He realized, anew, that “the old gourd” had been aching! Aching furiously! And, for a good while. Over the previous few minutes, though, the painful condition had reached a point—where the undoubted painfulness had been abusing the privilege. Erotic images—of “Aunt Debbie”—notwithstanding!

He’d never had a migraine before. None that he’d ever been aware of, anyway. And, he’d always understood, the fact that they never fail—to make themselves known! Could this—whatever it is—be some sort, of a side-effect, to whatever was happening to him? Whatever had happened to him? Had happened to him—in 2001? Dear Lord!

Still, if he actually was in the thirties, or forties, someplace—he probably never would see his mother again. And, surprisingly, that was a worry! As vituperative—as their relationship had always been—she was, after all, his mother.

And that maternal truth, alone, meant that she’d deserved some love! Some respect! And, even, some concern! A goodly amount of concern! Without his paycheck helping out—even being so “piss poor”, as his mother had always maintained the “pitiful” stipend was—how would she ever survive? It was tough enough, for her, even with his “insignificant” little contribution. Of course, with Jason “gone”, expenses would be less! But, how much less? Oh—for God’s sakes—who knew?

Again, was he really “somewhere in time”? Was he actually in the past? Once more, his mind—tortured as it was—couldn’t help but wonder. Wonder—and worry—about his lack, of actual knowledge, when it came to time-travel! Time-travel? In the real world! Was there even such a thing—as time-travel? In the real world? Or anyplace else?

“‘Aunt Debbie’ . . . where are you? Now that I really need you?” As had happened, on his way to the coffee shop, in 2001, he’d thought that he’d just uttered the question to himself.

Obviously, he had not. For—literally—dozens of people, in