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

Avenue—up to Grand River Avenue. He continued gaping—in pure wonderment—at all of those glorious cars, trundling up and down the Detroit streets. Classics! All of them—out and out, pure classics!

He boarded one of the huge old, yellow, rattling-clattering, streetcars—about which, his maternal grandfather had so often paid tribute. The old man had talked about them—with great fondness. Always!

Sure enough, the immense car boasted both a driver—and a conductor. The latter was stationed about two-thirds of the way back—on the right side of the “monster”. He made change, and issued transfers—to other DSR (Department of Street Railways) conveyances. (They’d cost an additional penny.) He also enforced that adequate, five-cent, fares were being noisily dropped, into the box. And he opened and closed the rear doors. Neat!

Our Boy was surprised, at the way the car swayed, from side to side. The unit swayed substantially—from side to side—as the driver ripped along, at 25 or 30 miles per hour. There were real genuine-leather straps—that hung down, from the ceiling. They were provided, for those unfortunates, who would—during the morning, and/or evening, rush hours—be unable to secure a seat. Those straps flapped, noisily, back and forth—as the old trolley careened along the steel tracks, which had been permanently imbedded, in the cement, of the busy roadway.

The sound, though! That was what fascinated Jason. There was absolutely no engine sound. Mainly, he guessed—because there was no engine. Not as such, anyway. The car was propelled by electricity—provided by the cables, which were strung, above the tracks. It was Grandpa Piepczyk’s contention that the actual “trolley” was the gismo—that spanned upward, from the top of the car. The long, narrow, rail was hooked, onto the overhead cables. Jason didn’t know how true (or not true) that observation might’ve been. But, he could never have imagined such a vehicle. Not on his own. And yet, here he was—riding on one of these amazing conveyances! Incredible!

He was hoping, that he would be familiar enough—with the transit routes, in Detroit—that he’d be able to negotiate the trip, out to (hopefully) his new digs. Without, maybe, winding up—in Lansing or someplace. As the streetcar approached Oakman Boulevard—where Plymouth Road empties in to Grand River (at a 45-degree angle)—he exited the car, and went looking for a possible bus stop. One for the had-to-be-available coach line—that would head due west. Out Plymouth Road.

It didn’t take long to find it—and, within six or eight minutes, one of the equally-yellow DSR buses pulled up. Was this great—or what?

The time-traveler asked the driver—to let him know, when the bus would get to Sussex Street. The rotund man nodded—and his ultra-nervous passenger seated himself immediately behind the driver’s seat.

It took, only eight or ten minutes—for the “coach” to stop, at Coyle Street. The driver advised him that he’d have to walk one block further west. That would be Sussex Street. The bus only took on—and/or discharged—passengers, at every other block. Certainly not a problem.

As it turned out, the house for which he was looking was only slightly more than a block south—toward West Chicago. It was a neat two-story bungalow. An art deco home (as were, seemingly, all the houses, in the area). The charming dwelling was sided—all around—by gleaming white shingles. Most of the other domiciles, in the picturesque neighborhood, seemed to have been made of brick. Two dormers protruded out from the roof—facing out from the front, of his target’s second story. The lawn was neatly cut—and the shrubbery, on both sides of the small cement porch, had, obviously, been well-cared-for.

Our Hero sauntered up the rather narrow, “S”-shaped, walk. Once on the porch, he rang the doorbell. It clanged—much louder than he would’ve imagined. Almost immediately, he could hear some sort of rustling, inside—then, hurried footsteps, approaching the front door. His heart was, by then, palpating—furiously!

The pretty lady—who’d opened the shiny, gleaming, white-enameled, portal—was, he thought, forty-something, in age. She was so tiny! Could not have been much taller, than five-feet. Probably didn’t weigh more, than 105 or 110 pounds. And she was absolutely beautiful! Her long dark hair hung down to—and kind of nestled-in upon—her shoulders.

Jason had seen a familiar hairstyle—in a picture that his grandfather had hanging in the basement. The woman, in the hallowed photo, was a forties movie star—named Veronica Lake. The only difference between the “do” that Veronica had sported—and that of the, so-attractive, lady, who was smiling at him, (and opening the storm door)—was that Miss Lake’s hair had covered her right eye. Grandpa had informed him—early and often—that particular style was called a “Peek-a-Boo Bang”. The lady—standing in front of him—did not have one of those. And her shimmering hair—was a dark brown.

She wore a simple cotton dress—shirtwaist, and full-skirt. The classy frock featured short, puffed-up, cuffed, sleeves. It contributed—mightily—to the charming figure, standing in front of him. A lot like those—that Jane Wyatt had worn, in the TV series, Father Knows Best. Or the style of frock—worn by Barbara Billingsley, in Leave It To Beaver. Most attractive! Such a refreshing difference, from the seeming “uniform-of-the-day” jeans—worn by most women (young and old), in the epoch, from which he’d just come!

“Mrs. Atkinson? I’m Jason Rutkowski. I spoke with you, on the phone… oh… not quite an hour ago. About the room? The room you have for rent?”

“Oh yes. From speaking with you… I’d fancied, that it might’ve taken you a little longer to get here. You didn’t seem to know that much… about this part of town. Where did you say you were calling from? Michigan and Trumbull? I’m glad that you didn’t have any trouble getting here. You didn’t… did you? I mean, have any trouble… getting out here?”

“No Ma’am. Was able to catch really good connections. Got here a lot quicker… than I’d ever figured too.”

She bade him enter—then, as he stood in the small vestibule—she closed the door, behind him. She, then, led him up the small step, and into the tidy, bright, cheerful, living room—where she’d indicated a comfy, mohair, chair, next