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

“put the seat down”. Despite that rather-risqué statement—for the era, anyway—he was positive that he’d turned “six shades of red”, when he’d had to ask her, for directions to the john. It didn’t help that the facility was located—on the second floor. For some reason, the hike up that one flight of stairs seemed miles long. Like everything else that had happened that day! The “simple” trek, was totally disjointed! Frighteningly surreal!

Not helping, was the fact that it had also appeared as though he’d wound up spending hours, in there. Why was this afternoon—hell, this whole, entire, episode—so wildly Picasso-portrait-like? Our Hero didn’t even know whether anybody had even heard, of Picasso—in his new epoch.

Well, he supposed, being transferred from 2001 to 1942 would come under the heading of being—more than merely-slightly surreal! Especially when something so “far out”—yet another expression that he was going to have to avoid using—had been the furthest thing from the lad’s fevered mind, just mere hours before.

The fact that he’d had no luggage, just the clothes on his back—and very little money—was far, from contributing, to his emotional wellbeing! And, apparently. to that—of his, hoped-for, landlady!

Once he’d gotten back downstairs, Susan was absent. He could hear her, puttering around—seemingly, in the kitchen.

Plopping himself back down, into his assigned chair, he found himself staring at the picture on the far wall. The wall which divided the living room and dining room.

The intriguing artwork—a huge one—was painted on black velvet. This was, of course, long before anyone had ever heard of Elvis. Inside a rather-ornate, pewter-colored, frame, the painting depicted a dazzlingly-white light house, on the left side, and a not-so-dazzlingly-white-sailed ship, on the right. The boat was heading toward the tower. In the middle of the picture—was a bright-yellow full-moon! Jason found himself staring at that stupid moon. Had lunacy totally taken over, by that time? A question—which was not that far-fetched!

He’d almost reached the point of being hypnotized—by the nondescript artwork. Definitely so immersed, in the thing—that he’d not been aware that his hostess had reentered the room. She was carrying a tray—one containing a large white mug, filled with steaming hot chocolate.

This was in a time, when you couldn’t merely open a small foil envelope, empty it into a mug or cup, and simply add boiling water. This gracious woman—had concocted the tasty drink. Had made it “work”—totally “from scratch”. She’d built the beverage—using Hershey’s unsweetened cocoa, plus an abundant amount of sugar—and freshly-heated (but not brought to a boil) milk.

By the time she’d placed the cup, on the table—next to his chair—a slight film had formed, on the top of the magical potion. Alongside the steaming cup, she’d placed a large bowl—of potato chips. Then, she’d smiled, at him! Actually smiled at him! And then, made her exit.

Our Hero remained, steadfastly, in that chair—all afternoon! Nipping on the hot chocolate—till it was gone—and munching on the chips. Those chips! They were the most delicious “munchies” (another verboten term) that he’d ever tasted.

He had lamented—for, literally, years—that all the potato chips, in his “home epoch” had always seemed to taste exactly the same. No matter the brand name, they had all tasted precisely alike. These unimaginable delicacies, though! These were definitely different! Deliciously different!

Maybe she’s poisoning me! The way the day’s been going, it wouldn’t surprise me! It might actually turn out better, this way!

When the lovely lady was passing through the living room—dust mop, in hand—he’d asked her the manner of chips, on which he was stridently munching. She’d smiled—such a warm, genuine, smile—and advised him that they were Krun-Chee brand chips. “Just regular old Krun-Chees.”

He’d never heard of the brand. They must have gone out of business—somewhere between the forties, and the eighties or nineties. What a shame! What a God-awful tragedy! Grandpa had never mentioned the supreme delicacy. They were out and out delicious! Much more delectable than anything—simply anything—to be found, in 2001. Nothing even close—from where he’d come.

At long last—at long last—Eric Atkinson had arrived home. It was a few minutes after six—when Jason heard the side door being pushed open! There ensued a few back-and-forth, unintelligible, low-volume, utterances—directed to and from his wife, who’d pretty much remained, in the kitchen. For almost all of the, ever-so-slow-moving, afternoon.

“Eric, we have to talk,” he’d finally heard Susan say, to her husband. She was, at that point, speaking slightly louder.

The man—Jason could tell—had come up the few steps, from the landing, just inside the side door. The couple had wound up—standing, in the middle of the kitchen. Our Hero—two rooms away—had to really strain, but he was (barely) able to make out most of what was being said.

The woman was in the process of explaining, to the man—in much more charitable fashion, than Our Boy had any reason to expect—the situation, vis-a-vis the young man, seated (and fidgeting—noticeably) in the living room.

Eventually, the lone fallacy in that scenario—became the fact that their guest wound up, no longer “sitting in the living room”. As the conversation had become a good deal more intense, the ultra-worried subject, of the crucial exchange, had slowly (hopefully, silently) crept—to where he was standing, just inside the dining room.

He didn’t want to actually peer into the kitchen—obviously, for fear of being discovered. So, he was unaware of exactly where the pair might’ve been standing, at that point. Or whether they might even have been seated, by then.

“Susie!” Eric was getting more and more upset—seemingly by the second. And a good deal louder! “This kid, Susie! He’s got nothing? No luggage? No kind… of an even-halfway-plausible story? As to where he’s been? And where he’s come from? No job? No money? Nothing? And you want to… you want to let him move-the-hell in? You want to let him… let him live here?”

“Not live here, Eric Well, yeah… technically… live here, I guess. But to just, merely, rent the bedroom, upstairs. He says he’ll give me the six bucks right now! Tonight! Look, Eric. Listen to