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

wind up being a true-to-life Shangri la. He would make it so! Make certain—that it would be so! He’d never been so certain—of anything—in his life! The transaction had left him with that lone ten-dollar bill, in his wallet—plus that surprising amount of change, in his pocket. An obviously-precarious financial situation! (An obviously precarious one!)

What else was new? Did they say that—in 1942?

“Listen,” observed his new landlady, “it’s just too darn late for you to go out… trying to find, something to eat. Why don’t you have supper . . . with us? I’ve made a casserole… scalloped potatoes, and pork chops. Have had ’em cooking, all day. We’ve got more than enough. Why don’t you join us?”

Her husband hadn’t commented—on the dinner invitation. But, the man’s demeanor suggested that Jason would probably do well to turn it down—but, with thanks. The young man tried! Made three attempts to decline! But, Susan would not hear of it. So, Our Boy wound up (most-gratefully) breaking bread—with his new (and most-appreciated) benefactors!

His new landlord spent most of the meal, however, trying to pump—well trying to trap—Jason!

“How old are you, Son?” he began.

“Twenty-two, Sir.”

“How come you haven’t ever been drafted?”

“Oh, Eric,” injected his wife. “That’s no question to be asking. We just sat down… to eat… for heaven’s sakes. Besides, they’ve just cranked up the draft thing… haven’t they? Didn’t they?”

“Dunno,” he’d muttered. “I think that the draft’s been, on the books… for better’n a year now. For a good while. Close to eighteen months… as I remember. They certainly ought to have everything… everything . . . in place, by now.”

“Well,” responded the young man, “I think that the draft boards… I think operate a little differently. In all different parts… of the country… y’know. I’m sure that the one down in Tennessee… is nothing, like the one they’ve got up here.”

Eric kept probing his guest—about the upcoming Tigers season. For one thing, he asked if Jason thought that—because of the war—they’d even play the 1942 season. The younger man knew, of course. (thanks to Grandpa Piepczyk) that each and every campaign had been played, during WWII. But, he was not free, he felt, to put his host’s mind—all that much—at ease.

“I sure don’t know, Mister Atkinson,” he’d said. “I sure hope they can continue. Like to think . . . that they can.”

“Why don’t you call him Eric?” asked Susan. “And call me Susie.”

“Oh, I don’t know… if I could do that, Mrs. Atkinson.”

“Just close your eyes,” she suggested—laughing, “and grit your teeth. Then, just go ahead… and say it.”

“It doesn’t… it really just doesn’t fit right now, Mrs. Atkinson. Hopefully, I’ll be comfortable enough, to get into that… ah… into that habit soon. I’m honored, though! Greatly honored! You do me great honor.”

Susan seemed moved—by the “great honor” comment. Her eyes had begun to moisten—ever so slightly—which, in turn, moved Jason. He’d never seen anyone react, that way, to something he’d said—ever before! Anything he’d ever said! Never! Certainly, not to some off-handed remark. Not like his new landlady had just responded. This was incredible!

Eric, however, continued unabated! Unrelentingly, pumping the young man! He asked his new boarder how much the young man knew about the University of Michigan football team. Jason, of course, knew virtually nothing. Didn’t know any of the players. Didn’t even know the name of the coach. He’d thought it was Fritz Crisler. (It was.)

But, to Our Hero, it could’ve been Fielding H. Yost, who’d coached Michigan’s famed “point a minute” teams, from the turn of the century—and up into the late-twenties.

Fortunately, the new landlord knew absolutely nothing—about the University of Tennessee football team. Which was a good thing—mainly, because Jason knew even less, about UT. He’d had no idea as to whether the famous General Bob Neyland had, in 1942, even arrived, on the campus, down there. No idea!

After dinner, Jason was shown—to his room! It was the most delightful billet—that he could ever have imagined! A double bed! There was not a Murphy bed-on-a-stupid-swivel, to be seen! There was, though, a matching chest and vanity! All of this—his very own! Well—hopefully—to be his very own! The latter, rather-ponderous, piece of furniture—sported a huge, round, bevel-edged, mirror.

More deliciously, he was the startled (the astounded) custodian—of an immense closet. Bigger, actually, than the large one—into which that stupid, hokey, Murphy bed had always swung. The fact that he’d had nothing to put in the glorious facility, was of no significance. Not to him! Not then!

And there were windows! Windows—galore! Windows—lots of windows—lining two walls. The north—and the east! All featuring stiff-starched gauze curtains. This must be the brightest—the sunniest—room, in the history of the world!

There was a nifty nightstand, next to the bed. And a reading lamp—affixed to the headboard. Sure beat his Murphy bed-dominated digs—almost 60 years, in the future! He’d not realized—not until that very moment—exactly how much he’d really hated that stupid damn bed! And that stupid damn closet! And—truthfully—that whole stupid damn apartment! His entire—stupid damn—existence, in 21st Century Dearborn, Michigan! Hated it! Hate, hate—hate!

Before his hosts had departed, Eric turned—to his new boarder—and asked, “Do you want a job, Kid?”

“YES! Yes Sir! Yes! Yes, I’d love a job, Mister Atkinson. I’d be most grateful if…”

“Do you know what a hod of bricks . . . looks like? Do you know how many bricks… even go, onto a hod? Do you know how heavy the whole thing is? How hard it is… to lug one of those things? Once it’s full of bricks? Do you know any of this?”

“No, Sir. No. Quite frankly… I don’t! But, I’m in good health! Reasonably good shape. I’m positive . . . that I can lug one, of them. As far… and as often… as you’d want!”

For the first time, Eric Atkinson smiled. Well, it was terribly fleeting—but, it was a bona fide smile!

“All right, dammit” he said. “Over there… on top, of the chest… is one of those Big Ben alarm clocks. Set it for six o’clock. It’ll deafen you… when the damn thing goes off. But, set