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

hand in his! And—voila!—she did not wretch! Nor did she try and pull it (yank it) away! They stood, on the porch. His troubled mind—already fevered—was really beginning, to really overheat! Overheat—hell! To melt down! He’d had not the slightest inkling—as to what he should say to her! To try and consider what he ought to do—was totally out of the question! Totally!

“It’s been nice,” he heard her coo. “I’ve thoroughly enjoyed myself, Jason. And thank you again… for the Boston Cooler.”

“I can call you, can’t I? I mean… you did give me your phone number, and all. And you said…”

She smiled warmly—and replied, “Of course! Of course you can. I’ll look forward to it.”

“That’s great! That’s wonderful! Look… I’ll call you. Maybe the minute I get home.”

That had been the wrong thing to say. The look on her face—the indescribable expression—told him that he was, plainly, rushing things! Plainly! The best thing he could do, he reasoned, would be to “just shut-the-hell-up! And get the hell out of there!” Before she would rescind phone privileges.

But, how? How does one disengage himself—in this situation? From this situation?

He didn’t think that boys and girls shook hands much—if at all—in 1942. He seemed to remember Grandpa telling him that the handshaking came in—when women began to become more dominant (well, less subservient) in the workforce. The birth—of “The Women’s Movement”!

He’d never felt like such an inept “schlump”! Not in his entire life! Despite the fact—that Manny was always telling him what an idiot he was. Well, more accurately, constantly “reminding” him—of what an “asshole” he, undeniably, was!

Valerie took it upon herself to dictate the parting: She reached up and kissed him—lightly—on his left cheek!

Our Hero—obviously—did not quite know how to react! His first really meaningful kiss! And—sadly—he did not experience “The Thunderbolt”! Nothing close to the overwhelming rush of emotion—that had consumed the “Michael Corleone” character, in The Godfather! (Another of Grandpa’s favorite flicks). Al Pacino had always spoken—of “The Thunderbolt”!

Jason was nearer, he thought, to the Gene Kelly character in Singing In The Rain! “Don Lockwood”, who—after having been kissed, by Debbie Reynolds’ character—had gone dancing down the street, in the midst of a drenching cloudburst! But, wasn’t even that—a bit too hokey? Even for the, schmaltz-driven, early-forties?

“Goodnight, Jason.”

Her voice was like silk! Well, maybe not actual silk! That description really was too hokey. Still, that was exactly the heavenly fabric—that the tone and texture, of the “impossible” scene, was made up of. (Pure silk.) Why did he feel like a panting, tail-wagging, puppy dog?

“G’night, Valerie. Thank you for today.”

“My pleasure.” (The reply further rattled our boy. That had been one of Grandpa’s favorite responses—for as long back, as the rattled young man could remember.)

She turned, and seemed to out and out disappear! Vanish—through that bright-red front door! Surely, she had opened the door! Surely, she must have! And she’d had to have stepped through the portal! Then, she’d had—to have closed it! To have shut it—silently! Yes? No? But, to this love-sick—“puppy dog”—of a dazzled young man, she’d just seemed to have vaporized! Had done simply an—almost-sensuous—“fade-out”! Almost-sensuous? Naw! That couldn’t be! Could it?

It had been quite a day!

THIRTEEN

On Monday, work seemed to be—well—different. Jason didn’t really know why. Probably some unlikely combination of—mostly inexplicable—things. Schlepping around—with all of those bricks—didn’t seem to be nearly so back-breaking. Obviously, his body was, at least, beginning to adapt, to hauling what had previously been a staggering—an almost-overwhelming—load! Plus, he was now, of course, more familiar with what was expected of him. The fact that he’d already collected a more-than-substantial paycheck had also, undoubtedly, entered into the glorious mix.

An important—a critical—consideration: He now had a wonderful second stipend coming! Even if he didn’t work one more day! All this—despite the fact, that the next “Tidings Of Comfort And Joy” paycheck wouldn’t be quite so opulent. The “shortfall” would be—thanks to his not having worked, that second Saturday. Still, there was a certain “warmth”—well, a profound “warmth”—to be found, in the secure knowledge that the money was already earned! Was awaiting him. That coming Friday! Just five hod-carrying days away! Was that great—or what?

Probably, though, the fact that the past weekend had produced such a calming, “warm”, effect—on what had been such a, most-turbulent, period, in his life—would figure into the equations! Figure prominently!

Most important, of all these factors—was the blissful realization that he’d seemed to be becoming, more and more, an accepted fact—in the life, of Susan and Eric Atkinson. Eric had even invited him to attend a Detroit Red Wings hockey game—on the following Thursday.

And—not the least of these calming considerations—he’d been completely enraptured, by one Valerie Krenwinkle!

He’d called her—on Monday night. And on Tuesday night. And on Wednesday night. He’d have called her on Thursday—but, he’d been so completely honored, that Eric had invited him, to attend the hockey game.

He knew that Eric was a “hockey nut”. This was well before Detroit became known as “Hockeytown”.

In the early-forties, the team never came close to selling out. Well, not very often, anyway. The only teams—the ones that were considered to be “The Original Six”—that were consistently selling out, were the Toronto Maple Leafs, and the Montreal Canadiens. In the latter case, Montreal, season’s-ticket rights, had been—for years—handed down, from generation to generation.

In truth, the Wings games were not even broadcast, on the radio, in 1942. In another year or two, Al Nagler would begin doing his, moderately-successful, play-by-play broadcasts, of the team’s home games, on station WXYZ. Jason’s grandfather had told him—often as could be—of the bright day, that had been!

In 1942, the only hockey games—from any local radio source—had come, every Saturday, night! From CKLW, in Windsor—across the Detroit River. The CBC had broadcast Hockey Night In Canada—each and every Saturday night! The Windsor outlet had always picked up the Toronto games. The outlet had, occasionally, done the Saturday games from Montreal—featuring Danny Galivan (in English) and Rene LaCavalier (in French). Grandpa had—for years—thought the latter’s name was