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

believed he’d ever been! In his entire life! He simply had to eat! Had to eat something! And quickly! It might simply be an avenue of escape—from the dreaded What do I do now? syndrome! Probably true! But, he was still “hungrier than hell”!

He hurried over to the restaurant. It looked really nice inside. Kind of like a place—one in which a young Richard Piepczyk could’ve been found, in his youth. Jason pushed his way in—and, immediately, ordered a hamburger and coffee. It cost him 60 cents. The price would’ve been almost six bucks at “genial” Mr. Clarkson’s sainted establishment. His eighteen dollars would sure go a helluva lot further—in his new age. Good thing!

This really was a nice place. From the beginning, the new-arrival loved the tantalizing aroma, of the joint. It had, wondrously, wafted out—from behind the enormous, “U”-shaped, counter. Had “seduced” him—the minute he’d entered. Was still effectively seducing.

He was totally unprepared—for what was, almost immediately, set in front of him. It was a hamburger all right. It took him more than a few seconds, to determine that fact. But, it was an actual, bona fide, burger! For sure! However, this was a long, succulent, what-you’d-call-slender, piece of well-cooked, Grade-A, meat! And it was served—in a hotdog bun! The fragrance arising from this mystical work of art—was wonderful! Captivating! It would’ve been every bit, as glorious—even had Jason not been so flagrantly famished!

Before even tasting what he’d hoped would be a purely-delightful delicacy, he ordered another. It only took a few seconds—and another 55 cents—before the second “treasure” was set before him. They’d been “brewing”—literally dozens of them—in a sort of “greasy gravy”! The waitress merely had to use a special spatula—to, immediately, “fish out” a second delicacy.

It was then that he remembered! Grandpa had—indeed—regaled him, in story and song. At least, about these delicious hamburgers! Jason had not remembered the word “Marcus” being bandied about—but, these aromatic wonders truly fit Grandpa’s rhapsodic description! To a tee! The transplanted lad was absolutely thrilled—that he’d blundered into one of their to-die-for restaurants.

The hamburgers proved to be every bit as remarkable—as the old man had advertised. Jason was sorely tempted to order a third one—but, felt that he’d have a bit of a problem, trying to force an additional one down. He did order another cup of coffee—and, surprisingly, it cost him another nickel. No free refills. That caught him, a bit, off-guard. Gee! A whole nickel!

This sounds as though his luncheon, was a fast-paced thing. Not so. He more than took his time—savoring each and every morsel. To say nothing of that ever-present aroma!

He devoted himself—to reading his paper. An hour, in fact, had swept by, before he’d finished devouring this remarkable—this absolutely glorious—first meal, in his new “location”. Again, most of the deliberate languishing—probably amounted to some indefinable form, of pure escape!

On the other hand, his mother had—always—gotten on him, for being such a slow eater. That had been the situation, for—literally—all of his life. Jason had, almost, seemed to have, inevitably, taken a special, probably-warped, pride—in continually proclaiming, “I’m one of the slowest eaters… in the Western Hemisphere”. Although he really didn’t know why. Was it, maybe, one of the few, in-your-face, situations—pointed in the direction of his mother—with which he felt he could get away? And, truth to tell, he usually could! Most often, anyway!

He’d been somewhat embarrassed a few years before, when “Aunt Debbie” had invited him—and Sheila—to dinner, at her surprisingly-large home, in Livonia. Somehow, the hostess had gotten mixed up—and one of her dishes hadn’t finished cooking, when the rest of the meal had been ready. That had been a shocker. This woman—in addition to being “The Family Sex Symbol”—was the consummate chef. “Aunt Debbie” had apologized profusely—warning Sheila, and Jason, that she was afraid that most of the main course might wind up being “a little cold”, by the time everything had been fully-cooked.

“It doesn’t ever matter to him,” his mother had advised, sardonically. “By the time he ever finishes anything . . . everything is fucking cold.”

“I don’t think that it’s that big a deal, Sheel,” her friend had responded. “You make too much out of how slowly Jason eats. I would imagine that his stomach’s in a helluva lot better shape than yours… and mine… simply because he does go ahead, and take his time.”

Again, was it any wonder—that Our Boy had always maintained such a monumental crush, on this gorgeous lady? The lady, who—on that very special night, in his past—had been wearing an especially short, exceptionally tight, skirt! Jason had always remembered—and revered—that particular frock! The one—that his “aunt” had been “almost wearing”!

At the Marcus eatery—on this, his first day, in 1942—the young man was eating even more slowly than normal. He’d been savoring—with great deliberation, and purpose—the glorious repast. Each and every morsel, of both of those wonderful—simply delectable—hamburgers. And—as a more-or-less bonus—just sipping, at the fragrant, delicious, coffee. Even that seemed to taste better than any of the 2001 varieties—for some reason or another. It would be well over an hour—before he would even think of getting ready to leave. Reluctantly think of departing! In spades!

During the prized meal, he’d, patiently, poured through his prized three-cent newspaper—surprised at how, shockingly, little war news had been featured. Well, he guessed, the Americans hadn’t had much of a chance—yet—to have, sufficiently, thoroughly-trained that massive influx of raring-to-go inductees. Those brave, patriotic, volunteers—about whom Grandpa Piepczyk had always, so glowingly, spoken. Certainly, the country had not nearly the forces required—to go over to Europe! Or hardly anywhere else!

What would they do there, anyway? Jason knew—or, at least, he thought he knew—that it would be a couple or three years, before the Allies would invade Normandy. Wasn’t it—in 1944? He’d thought so. But, dammit, he was not absolutely positive. He wished, now—that he’d paid more attention, in American History class.

Well, upon reflection, that might not have been all that productive. The course—as he was now remembering it—had, actually, been no bargain. The