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

number of items! On an immense, ever-so-wide, mirror-backed, shelf:

A machine to make hot chocolate! Three electric mixers—for malteds and shakes! Five containers, of toppings—for sundaes! (One of which was heated—the better to build a superb Hot Fudge Sundae, don’tcha know!) There was a bevy of ice cream scoops! And six or seven cylindrical, shiny-metal, containers, in which to mix those magical milkshakes, and malted milks! Those really added a “whole bunch” of class—to the assemblage!

In addition, there was a clear-glass bowl, of candied cherries! As well as, literally, dozens of gleaming glasses! And an overbearing variety, of sundae/banana split bowls, of various sizes, and shapes. Plus, a whole squedabble of toppings—for incomparable sundaes! And for those—very-popular, in that era—always-creative, banana splits! Absolutely amazing! The apparently-normal-for-the-times display was absolutely incredible! Jason had never seen anything like it. Unimaginable!

So THIS was a confectionary.

There were, probably 10 or 12 customers in the place—busy enough, if the pace continued, to where the gorgeous redhead behind, the counter (the one who was working alone) would be highly unlikely to closely inspect his, tension-producing, ten-dollar bill.

If he was ever to make a move—to pass the damn thing—it would have to be, at this time! And in this place! At least, that was his initial thought! He decided to “set a spell”. His legs had, of course, required immediate relief, anyway—although his “introduction”, to this glorious venue, had caused the pain to abate! Substantially!

He was amazed, at the number of different items—large and small—which had gone into making up, this wondrous establishment. The entire place intrigued him. Mightily! Besides, he was getting a little hungry! And he’d had no idea—as to how much longer the free grub would be available, at the Atkinson household. Already, they had gone well above and beyond the call. How much more could he—reasonably (or unreasonably)—expect?

He noticed a rack of potato chips—sitting at the far end of the soda fountain—and, hurriedly, made his way back to them. Three different brands! Krun-Chee—the brand to which he’d already become “addicted”—as well as Wolverine and New Era. He’d never heard of any of those, in his “old” era.

Since the delightful Krun-Chee brand was a known entity, he plucked a nickel bag, from off the rack—then, seated himself, at the fountain. Right next to those glorious chips. (You never know when you’re gonna need a second sack—of those delicious wonders. Always pays to be prepared, he’d piously noted—for any emergency.)

Immediately, the young woman, behind the counter, asked what she could get for him. With all those people, in the joint, it took her, probably, all of 15 seconds—to wait on him! Incredible!

“Do you have any… ah… Vernor’s ginger ale?”

Vernor’s golden ginger beverage had always been his favorite, in his “other” life—despite the fact that he could never get Manny (or Mr. Clarkson) to stock “The Nectar of The Gods” (quoth Grandpa Piepczyk, once again) in their glorious coffee shop. However, Our Hero was not positive—that such a wonderful beverage would’ve been available, in 1942.

“Yes,” the young lady had answered. She was, Jason was positive, a true redhead. Her hair was that kind of an orange-ish color—and she’d sported a massive number of freckles, all over. Well, all over her arms and face—which was all her bewitched customer was able to behold. “Of course we do,” she affirmed. “Would you like a nickel bottle?”

A bottle of Vernor’s? For a nickel? I can’t believe this!

“Yes! Yes… please,” he responded. “That’d be fine.”

She pulled out a bottle from one of the refrigerated compartments—on the lower portion, of her side of the fountain. She opened it—with swift efficiency—on a little, curved, opener, affixed to the front wall of the storage unit. Then, she sat it in front of him. All—in what appeared to be one single motion. One which appeared to have taken a matter—of well-organized seconds.

“That’ll be ten cents, please.”

Well, of course, Our Boy had more than 10-cents in his pocket! Those mysterious coins! He’d felt as though he couldn’t possibly give this sweet young thing that stupid ten-spot! Not for a dime’s worth of stuff! And, obviously, the patron was not allowed to “run up a tab”. Everything had to be paid for—“cash and carry”—at the time it was served.

There was no way—in which he could order four or five dollars worth of stuff! Enough to justify paying this wonderful young lady with that stupid, unholy, tenner. So, he ponied up the ten cents.

Once the freckle-faced lady had hurried to wait on someone else, Jason found himself entirely wrapped, up in his newspaper. Naturally, the first section—to which he turned was the comics—referred to, back then, as “the funnies”. He’d heard his grandfather mention Jiggs & Maggie and The Katzenjammer Kids and The Phantom. Jason, himself, was familiar with The Lone Ranger, Blondie—and even Prince Valiant.

But, there had been other strips—that were out and out fascinating him. He’d never heard, for instance, of Tim Tyler’s Luck or King Of The Royal Mounted. This—despite the fact that the latter hero, had been created by Zane Grey! He found himself engrossed, in literally every page, of this amazing—this surprisingly abundant, practically-overwhelming, comic section. This “funnies” selection/collection dwarfed what had become commonplace—in his “home epoch”. Both in volume—and size of each and every panel.

He was about halfway through the Times’ Sunday magazine—The American Weekly—when the lady behind the fountain asked him if he’d like another Vernor’s. He’d been unaware that he’d downed the entire bottle of the “nectar”—while entirely wrapped up, in the “funny papers”. He’d also devoured his bag—of those glorious chips. Not much of a surprise there. So, he dug down deep and plunked down two more nickels, on the top of the fountain’s counter.

When the attractive redhead placed the second bottle of ginger ale, in front of him, she observed, “You’re new here, aren’t you?” Her voice was soft as velvet.

“Yeah,” he responded. “Live a good bit away from here. Sussex… down off of Plymouth. Between Plymouth, y’know… and West Chicago.”

“Hmmm, you are a bit of a way