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

to inflict such an evil curse, on these poor, innocent, people? How could anyone . . . or anything . . . be so vile? So consumed by Satan? So demented—as to conceive, plan . . . and then to actually carry out . . . such a wicked, depraved, diabolical, demonic, atrocity? Upon so many? So many totally innocent people? How can this be? Dear Lord!

The young man could not imagine—could never have conceived—of having to, ever, face such a mind-warping, God-awful, certainly-fatal, dilemma! Who could—possibly—cope, with such a helpless, such a hopeless, choice? Who could do that? Who could—ever—deal with such a mind-twisting fate? It just didn’t compute! Jump? Jump—to your death? Or burn up? Man!

Jason was, himself, scared—positively fearful—of heights, as it was. Four or five steps up the old stepladder—and Jason had always turned to guacamole. Crawling up a story or two—outside the apartment building (or any structure) was, for him, simply unthinkable! Upon something—even as supposedly substantial as a metal ladder—would be totally out of the question. It had always been thus. And it still was. Dear Lord!

The unthinkable scenario—continued to make the young man out and out shudder! Literally! Continually! Two or three times, he’d had to fight back—the actual, all-consuming, head-to-toe, spasms! And without a great deal of success!

The realization that many hundreds—maybe many thousands (probably many thousands)—of poor, unfortunate, terrified, horror-stricken, absolutely-doomed, people were forced to deal with such an incredible, unimaginable, absolutely-woeful, decision was (and remained) completely beyond comprehension! Beyond Jason’s, anyway!

The lad had sat—virtually cringing (in some cases, literally cringing)—on the threadbare couch, in his mother’s apartment. In the City of Dearborn—just west of Detroit. He’d been, as he would reflect, “on my way out the door”! Preparing—“to go to work”, on that fateful day! He’d just started, to step into the hallway, when Jon Scott—the reporter on the Fox News Channel—had blurted something about a plane! A 747—flying in, to one of the WTC buildings! Crashing—into one of those majestic skyscrapers!

Well, he’d figured—at the time—it could happen. The fact that, in this situation, it might be a huge passenger plane—had far from registered! It seemed to Jason, that he’d read, from time to time, about numerous planes, having flown into The Empire State Building—over the decades.

Seemingly, it had been happening—“all the time”—back in the thirties, or forties. Maybe even into the fifties! Probably in all three decades! Maybe even later than that! Maybe more often than that! He was certain that he’d read about such things. Had read about planes flying into skyscrapers—seemingly, as often as could be. In New York—and, well, even elsewhere. Just not lately.

Possibly, it had been his maternal grandfather—Grandpa Piepczyk—who’d always been telling him, of such things. He missed his mother’s father. The old man had always been very nostalgic. Very nostalgic. He’d always seemed to have had some kind of real-life experience, to relate. Always something similar to current events—no matter what was occupying the national TV networks and/or the local newspapers. Always some adventure—from out of the old man’s “storied” past. Grandpa must have lived a very eventful life. To hear him tell of it, anyway.

Could his sainted grandfather’s life’s experiences have turned out much differently? Jason had wondered that, on many occasions. Could they, possibly, have been a good deal more eventful—than those, maybe, of his father’s father? Jason’s “other grandpa”? Who knew?

The still-absolutely-astounded young man had not really known either of his paternal grandparents. A hint—as to how adventurous (or not) they might’ve been. Well, for openers, Jason couldn’t remember his own father ever mentioning such things, as planes hitting buildings. Or ever relating anything from his father’s father—from Grandpa Rutkowski’s—life. Ever!

Of course, he’d never really seen (or heard) all that much—of/from his own, “real-life” father either. His “Old Man” had split, in 1982—when Jason was a mere three! So the whole paternal thing, had—forever—been a completely blank page, for/to him. Well,—almost literally—blank.

His paternal grandparents, seemingly, had never shown much use for him. At least, that’s the way it had always seemed. Of course Grandpa Rutkowski had died in 1986, or 1987—Jason could not remember which. Well, he’d only been a “snot-nosed kid”, at the time. It had never really made much difference—when his paternal Grandpa had passed on. To the youngster, he’d always been a total nonentity.

And Grandma Rutkowski? She’d always acted almost as though she didn’t even know him. Even when he’d shown up—at her husband’s wake. The spectacular snub had turned out to be a shattering experience, for Jason. It had taken him—literally—years, to get over the shattering (to him) put-down. To the point that—a few years later—he’d not attended any portion of the old woman’s funeral. (“So there, Grandma!”)

What had surprised him was the fact, that—according to two of his aunts—his own father hadn’t shown up, at any of the events, either. That had been a real shocker—although Jason couldn’t imagine why that should be so, given his lack of familiarity, with that entire side of what was laughingly referred to as “the family”

On September 11th, 2001, Jason had been, as mentioned, about to step out, of the apartment—heading to his job, at the “glorious coffee shop”—when “something” had made him go back! Backtrack—and sit down! The “something”, of course, was the gradual realization—as to how horrible the dastardly attack, in Manhattan, actually was!

His eyes were simply glued, to the unbelievable story—grotesquely unfolding, on the blotchy, sputtering, exceptionally-old, black-and-white Admiral television!

He’d not even gotten around to unzipping his two-toned blue windbreaker—a most-cherished gift, from Grandma and Grandpa Piepczyk, his mother’s parents. They’d bestowed the jacket upon him—more than six years before.

To be truthful, the garment was a little “snug”—and was beginning to look a little on the frayed side. But—thank heaven—it still kept him reasonably warm. That was, to him, the main priority. It was either that light jacket—or his big, bulky, “way too heavy”, winter coat, which he’d bought, for eleven dollars. At the Goodwill store. Four years previously.

“Aren’t you gonna be late?” questioned his mother—with more irritability, in her scratchy voice, than the words would