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

all the currency, that he’d possessed—was that stupid ten-dollar bill! Virtually all the money, that he’d possessed—was that same damn ten-spot! Well, the “tenner”—and that surprising number of coins!

It could possibly—would probably—be terribly foolish, to try and pass that particular, from-the-future, note! A most-troubling situation—with which to have to grapple!

It took him almost two hours, to get back to sleep—the luxuriating comfort of that wonderful mattress notwithstanding. Once he’d managed to get back to sleep, however, it seemed like mere minutes—before the inconsiderate Big Ben alarm clock began its deafening, earthshaking, clanging! Time to get up! Time to “get moving”!

Susan had—obviously—heard the clock go off. (Who hadn’t?) She’d knocked, on his door—and asked if he was “decent”. When he’d responded that he was still under the covers, she’d entered—and turned off the ear-splitting, firehouse-type, alarm.

By then, Jason’s eyes had “un-blearied” sufficiently enough—that he was able to discern the fact, that she was carrying some clothing.

“My son, Jeff,” she advised him, “when he moved out, you know… he left a number, of these clothes, in his lurch. Here are a few.” She’d set a flannel shirt, and a pair of hardy, khaki, workpants, at the foot of the bed. “I think you can probably fit into these. It gets kind of messy… out there, on the job, y’know. So, if these things don’t look completely outrageous, on you… you might want to put them on. Maybe wear them today. Wear them… to work.”

With that, she swept out of the room—before our bedazzled hero could utter a word.

What a nice lady! What a wonderful lady!

Breakfast went well. Much better than Jason had feared. He’d not realized how much apprehension had built up—in his fragile, precarious, subconscious—over the manner, in which the second day, in his new epoch, was going to turn out. For one thing, he knew that he was not entitled to the meal. To any meal! So, he’d been overwhelmed—with pure delight—when Eric had asked him, to join them.

For another, every time that Susan had opened her mouth, to speak, her new boarder found himself, on the brink—of out and out panic! He, of course, was expecting her—to ask him, how he could’ve given her money—currency that had been printed way far, in the future! But, each time—to his immense relief—she’d never mentioned the bills! Even so, he felt, she still just might! Next time! Any time!

Her husband, thankfully, had seemed to have softened his rather-obstinate attitude! Moderated it—a lot! At the breakfast table, he was, in fact, quite gregarious! Especially, it seemed, when/where it came to Jason! The presence of the new boarder! The fact of him!

The latter had, tremulously, expected a few (maybe more than a few) good-natured—but, somewhat disparaging—remarks, from his new landlord. Along with a goodly amount of, serious, further probing—into his past!

After all, the young man was wearing Eric’s son’s clothing. That fact, alone, should have registered—somewhere—within the man! The clothing’s fit, surprisingly, wasn’t all that bad. His legs were, quite obviously, a little longer than those, of Jeff Atkinson.

There was one more reason, for Our Hero to be glad, that he’d been, so suddenly, plopped down—for whatever far-fetched reason—in this, strange-to-him, epoch! For, in 2001, if you were considered to be wearing such “flood pants” (a term, he’d thought, had been coined in the seventies) you were considered to be “socially out to lunch”.

Thankfully, people seemed to be far less judgmental—in the early-forties. Well, that judgment had come, from what little experience he’d accumulated—in his new/old era. Far less critical judgment, here, he fervently—sincerely—believed! Again, something for which to be thankful! Probably extremely thankful! Well—hopefully—extremely thankful! Were his infinitely-limited views—of the era, that his granddad had always spoken so highly of—were they badly-inflated? Could the denizens—of any epoch—actually live up, to his expectations?

There had been more than one time, in his “other life”, when his own trousers had, actually, given out. Split at the seat—or something equally as embarrassing! Sheila certainly couldn’t be counted upon to sew them up. To effect any sort of repairs. On any article of clothing.

There had only been one good solution, at the time! Actually, one glorious answer: That had been dear, sweet, Grandma Piepczyk! She could always be counted upon—to “make him decent” again! It had been a regular occurrence!

Every now and then, a knee would wear through. When that had happened—after Grandma had, so sadly, become “unavailable”—he knew that he was, almost always, in great trouble. He’d had to live with the wounded frock—until he could, painstakingly, save up enough cash, to (finally) buy a “new” pair. (Most always—at The Goodwill Store).

Well, there had been some “relief”—in a couple, of the more flagrant cases, when he was a smaller kid. He’d been able to persuade his mother—into springing, for some cheap duds! Most always, happily, they’d been new (if cheap) ones! But, for the most part, he’d usually had to make do—with his well-outdated, usually-ragged, pairs of pants. (Or almost the same variety—of “classic” clothing—from dear old Goodwill.)

Whatever the selection. they were, for the most part, substantially-well-aged trousers. At least, in some of the more flagrant cases. Many times, these were slacks, that he’d had to wear—at a much younger age. His legs had been a good deal shorter, in a goodly number of those instances. Even so—showing any amount, of stocking, had always earned him many belittling, degrading, taunts! From just about anywhere! From just about everywhere!

I’m like some kind . . . of damn magnet, for shit like this, he would fume, to himself. Constantly fume! Always, though, to himself!

He could have had absolutely no idea, how this-much-sock-showing, at the bottom, of Jeff’s pants, would actually be received—in the forties. Grandpa had always maintained that “The last true romantic period”—had been during World War II. Well, here he was! Smack-dab in the middle of WWII!

So, we shall see just how romantic . . . everyone is!

Was this, indeed—as his grandfather had continually maintained—a most “kinder-gentler” age? At the Atkinson’s breakfast table, Our Hero’s main concern had, logically,