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

sure that—at one time, or another—he’d actually tasted them.

The delicacy—well before the 21st Century—been filled, with some kind of, so-called, “creamy” substance. But, the stuff had never really thrilled Our Hero. Mainly, because it wasn’t “real true” whipped cream. These 1942 dandies, though, were not cream-filled. And—for some reason or another—they’d seemed much more delicious, than he could ever have imagined. And the cost! “Two for a nickel!” Amazing! Simply amazing! Would the wonders never cease?

The “shop steward” had come by—and had done the paperwork—enabling Jason to join the union. It took little more than two minutes. This particular union—was a significant part, of the CIO. This was long before the CIO had merged, with the AFL. Monthly dues would be $4.00. The steward told him that he’d collect the “staggering” stipend—once Jason would’ve cashed his first paycheck.

“But, be sure . . . be sure you have it, for me,” he’d warned—rather ominously. The recipient of said warning, had experienced an unexpected, sudden-and-pronounced, shiver—up and down the length, of his unsuspecting spine! Did such threatening things actually happen—in “kindler/gentler” 1942?

His first paycheck! He would be paid for Wednesday, Thursday and Friday—of that first week. However, he’d not receive that check—until a week, from that coming Friday. That meant ten whole—entire, drag-by, complete—days, without any money! Without any money! Other, of course, than that stupid ten-spot—burning a hole, in his, soon-to-be-moth-infested, wallet!

The more he’d considered the foreboding ramifications, of such an attempt, the more convinced he became—that trying to pass that bill would be sheer folly! A tour in jail would absolutely destroy this gloriously—albeit back-breaking—job! He could never afford—to “screw up” this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!

Still, sheer and utter desperation—can be a highly-motivating factor!

Looming in the back of his fevered mind—the damn, ever-present, proverbial, elephant in the room—was the fact that his agreement, with the Atkinsons, did not include food. That fact was—sooner or later—bound to be an overwhelming consideration! An obviously-troubling one! (Perhaps even—a deadly one???)

The, permeated-with-uncertainty, arrangement was gnawing at him! This was despite Susan’s—and Eric’s—obvious generosity, thus far. Certainly, he could not count—on such continued “charity”. Not indefinitely, anyway. (Nor should he expect it!) The Atkinson’s certainly could not/should not be depended upon—to continue, to be anything close, to the magnificent benefactors, that they’d shown to be, thus far.

As the days would draw past—and his hunger, he knew, would grow (grow substantially)—there was always the obvious possibility that his resolve, to hang on to the “stupid tenner”, would diminish. Would, possibly, evaporate! Would probably evaporate! Each time that the situation would “rear its ugly head”—the thoughts that the debacle inevitably generated, would send a head-to-toe, almost-convulsion, raging through him!

He’d had no idea. how he was—ever—going to handle the, fraught-with-uncertainty, “starvation” situation. Ten days is a long time! And, as ratty as his life had always been—under the domineering thumb, of Sheila Rutkowski—he’d never gone ten whole, complete, days, without eating! To be absolutely fair—there’d been nothing even close! His lack of funds—obviously—was posing a really severe dilemma! A really severe, inescapable, dilemma!

By the time that the physically-demanding first day, of gainful employment had ended, and Our Boy had (almost literally) dragged his behind, out to Eric’s 1941 Nash, he’d never been so completely exhausted! Never—in his entire life! Nor quite so dirty! Not actually filthy, you understand! Merely dirty! (There was, he realized, a difference! A vast difference! Mostly, he felt, because—in great measure—there was an obvious element, of out and out dignity, involved! An abundance of dignity—in being “honorably” dirty!)

He was caked with mud—seemingly, from head to toe. The stuff had even invaded his eyebrows. They seemed to weigh tons. So did each foot. Well, by then, everything was weighing tons!

Once they’d arrived at that beautiful house, on Sussex, Jason had been barely awake! He’d had to, visibly, “crank up”—merely to walk. To, unsteadily, make his way—from the car, to the side door, of his new, cherished, residence! Once inside, and on the landing—where the steps, straight ahead, had led down, to the basement (to the immediate left—four other stairs, had ascended into the kitchen)—Susan “directed” him, to remove his shoes.

She took one look at him—as he was complying. Laughing heartily, his landlady admonished Our Boy to: “Stay there! Stay right there! Stay right… where you are! I’ll get you one of Eric’s bathrobes. You can go downstairs… and get out, of those clothes. Just go ahead… and leave them down there. Over by the wash machine… in the rear of the basement. Stay right there, now! I’ll be right back!”

In a matter of two or three minutes, she’d returned! Bathrobe akimbo! It was a heavy, blue-plaid, flannel, number. She tossed it down, to the mud-infested lad.

“Here,” she ordered. “Put this on. It’ll keep you decent enough. Get out of those muddy clothes, downstairs. Put on the robe. Then, you can come on… can come upstairs.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” replied her grateful new boarder—as he’d caught the robe. He’d almost dropped it. The cargo was a good deal heavier—than he’d expected. Fatigue—most assuredly—had played an essential part, in the potential fumble.

His polite—almost subservient—response, seemed to strike a note, of some sort, in Susan. She smiled warmly.

Once he’d followed her instructions—obeyed them, to the letter—Jason, at long last, was able to make his way, unsteadily, upstairs.

Dinner was already on the table. His hostess had made a tuna casserole. She’d explained that—so soon, after the war had started—meat was already becoming very difficult, to come by! The government—she was positive—was, soon, going to begin to ration it. (As it turned out, that part of the massive government-rationing-program would not take place, until early-1943. But, at that point, who knew—for sure?)

Washington had already begun to ration rubber. Fortunately, Eric’s “simply beautiful” Nash—was only six or seven months old. And so the tires were in exceptionally good shape.

Gasoline rationing would not begin until May of 1942. Fairly quickly! But, it had always seemed to Jason—that Grandpa Piepczyk had “remembered” the program, as having started even much sooner than that! Much sooner! Of course, his grandfather had been