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

place—in the actual “middle of the night”. His room was far too dark—to see the face of that overwhelming, deafening, Big Ben! So, he couldn’t know that, in less than 45 minutes, the “damn thing” would, once again, burst forth into “song”.

He had been so exhausted—that it would’ve been next to impossible, to have roused him, before then. But, his eyes did—suddenly—snap open! There were more than a few—absolutely-haunting—things that continued, to concern him! Hell—to out and out worry him!

First of all, the weekend was only a couple of days away. Presumably, he’d be “off”—job-wise! His schedule would be substantially less busy. Substantially! No hods-full—of heavy bricks!

He would have the time—and opportunity—to actually go out! Go out—and begin to eat, and do other things! “On his own”! And there was, sadly, only that stupid ten-spot—and those “piddley-few” coins—with which to facilitate all of that “social activity”! Any of that “social activity”! Well, the number of coins were more than he’d remembered possessing. How strange was that?

In addition—adding to the malaise—there was the matter, of his second week’s rent! That little obligation would come due—three days before he’d realize his glorious first paycheck! Should he give Susan the stupid ten-dollar bill? And then pray a lot? Or pray—and then hand her the ten-spot?

If the original singles (and even the coins) had slipped by her—and, apparently, they had—he was positive, that the sawbuck almost certainly would not! His whole, unimaginable, relationship—with this wonderful woman, and her kind-as-could-be husband—could (probably would) go, jarringly, up in smoke. He’d suffered another uncontrollable shudder—then another, then another—from head to toe!

What was he going to do? What could he do? Well, for starters, he dozed—then, dropped completely off, into the welcome arms of Morpheus. Only to be shattered, by the booming report—from that idiotic alarm clock! Time to rise, and shine! Well, rise anyway. One out of two isn’t bad.

He could barely move.

I never knew I had that many muscles!

How-ever-many of them there were, they were all protesting! Every ventricle! Every vertebrae! Every tissue! Strenuously! They all ached! Every one of them! Terribly! Even his hair hurt!

He never came close, though, to being tempted—to remain in bed. Still, he wondered, as he shuffled—with great difficulty—over to where the clanging clock was bellowing forth. Wondered if he’d have the physical dexterity to get through this—his second—day! This day! And then, tomorrow! He closed his eyes, once again! Then, he rubbed at them, gently, with his thumb and forefinger. Even that “strenuous activity” hurt!

He did manage to wash/shave/dress—and drag himself downstairs. He’d used Eric’s Gillette razor—the one with the “blue blades”! “The sharpest edges ever honed”, according to the often-played radio commercial.

He was deathly afraid, to enter the dining room—not having been extended, an official invitation. Maybe this would be the day—when his host and hostess would begin to enforce the dreaded “just the room… and no board” agreement. Who could blame them?

But, no! A place had been set for him! Susan had, already, placed a slice, of French toast—and four steaming pork sausage links! Alongside a glass—of, freshly-squeezed, orange juice! And a cup of that steaming-hot, indecently-delicious, coffee!

This lady was out and out remarkable. He’d never met anyone like her. Well, Grandpa Piepczyk used to talk—in glowing terms—of Jason’s grandmother. But, as far back as the lad could remember, Grandma had seemed to have “slowed down”—considerably.

There was—absolutely—no end to the beautiful, dedicated, enterprising, accomplishments, and extended talents, of this sainted woman! The one who was seated—at that thanks-filled moment—across the table, from him! She was incredible! Absolutely amazing!

And—sure enough—as Our Boy was ready to leave, she handed him his freshly-restocked, “hefty”, lunch pail! The sandwiches were of the salami variety. Instead of the Hostess cupcakes, his beautiful benefactor had put in, a different, cellophane-wrapped, treat. One that he’d never seen before: A Grennan Banana Flip. A very-popular snack, in that day and time. Plus, of course, another nickel bag of those glorious Krun-Chee potato chips. The obligatory sack of those wondrous chips??? The traditional sack??? He was fast becoming addicted to them. A condition—which, to Jason, would’ve seemed completely natural! Well, it was completely natural! What could—possibly—be more logical?

Fortunately, his second day, on the job, went a little better—than Our Hero had expected. Once he’d managed to have “gotten underway”, the aches and pains seemed to, thankfully, diminish. Well, to a point, anyway.

And, despite the fact that, at the end of Thursday, he’d wound up every bit as exhausted—as had been the case, on Wednesday—he’d come home to that glorious house, on Sussex Street, with a much greater feeling, of accomplishment! Much greater! More substantial—and satisfying—than, at any other time! Any other time—in his life! In his life! In his entire life! Imagine!

Plus, no one had remarked—on either day—about his wearing pants, that were too short. Not one mention of “flood pants”. Apparently, the term was not even—in the lexicon, of the early-forties. Grandpa Piepczyk, apparently, had been right. As usual!

This really is a “kinder-gentler” age! Much kinder! Much gentler! This is going to be great! A really neat time . . . and place . . . to live! If I can just only stay here . . . and not get sent back! Especially, all of a sudden! But now . . . if I can just only survive, till my first paycheck!

He’d spent the whole trip home—in Eric’s “really neat” Nash—happily ruminating! Aglow—in the fact, that this had been his most productive day! Again—in his entire life!. In his entire life! Amazing!

He’d been forced to face a stark, very disturbing, truth: In his entire existence, he’d never really accomplished much of anything! Ever! He’d always been aware that fact! Most of the time, he’d simply accepted that “known factor”! What was there—to ever dispute it?

Working for the stupid pittance—at the stupid coffee shop—had certainly been a stupid, run-of-the-mill, situation. Lorna—the classy waitress, at his sanctified place of 2001 employment—had, on one occasion, told him how much she’d admired him!

Imagine! Someone admiring him! Admiring him? Lorna had actually admired him—for giving the lion’s share, of his “pitiful” paycheck,