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

sainted manager was, forever, informing her—as to how totally inept her son’s performance was. Always had been! And continued to be!

“Fortunately, Manny has kept Jason on, over there,” she’d announce. And, usually, add a “thank God” clincher. Most disconcerting!

The young man couldn’t help but wonder—consistently—about the nature of those occasions. About the many get-togethers, between the two! How-ever-innocent (or how-ever-otherwise) these friendly confabs might’ve been! During which—all of these lofty, highly-analytical, conversations would’ve taken place. If these constant “evaluations” had been other, than over the phone, they would’ve, he reasoned, occurred—at his, not-cherished, residence. That would have to have been the venue—for, probably, at least some, of these hallowed, “objective”, critiques. Sheila Rutkowski simply never left her apartment. Well, very seldom. Awfully seldom.

From the time he’d been ten or eleven, it had always fallen upon Jason to do the weekly family marketing. And, of course—to submit, to a strict (very strict) accounting, of the money, that he would’ve spent at Kroger’s. These weekly accounting experiences had—on many (well, on most) occasions—disintegrated, into nothing more than relentless exercises, in the Third Degree! A talent—at which Sheila was more, than merely competent!

Once he’d (“finally”) gotten a job, most of the cash for those groceries—well, a goodly portion of it—had originally been his money! It had come from him! Originally—anyway!

In addition, he’d—on every grocery-buying occasion—been forced to lug the four or five (or six) heavy bags, of groceries, the six long blocks, from the grocery store, to the apartment. Included in the almost-overwhelming, weekly, cargo were the traditional two 12-can packages of beer. For the benefit, of his mother. A burdensome portion of the freight, to be sure. One that he could—easily—have done without. (One Sheila could not do without, however! And she did not! Ever!)

Jason could never get over the resulting strange—physical—sensation, he’d always incurred. Namely, how “weird” his arms had always felt—once he’d been able to, at long last, set the stupid bags down! Happily, to—finally—unload the damn things. Onto the venerable old chrome-and-Formica dinette table. The resultant, highly-unusual—not-quite-numb-but-definitely-stretched—feeling was (forever) something, to which you never got used! At least, Our Hero never did! No matter how many times he’d repeated the “traditional” routine!

He’d, of course, never—ever—owned a car. Not even the traditional old “junker”. The almost-unavoidable “jalopy”. On 9/11/01, he still did not qualify! Nothing even close. He had, in fact, never even driven one. He was absolutely positive that wimpy ol’ Jason Rutkowski was the only young man—in the entire Metropolitan Detroit area—who did not have “a set of wheels”. Had never come close—to owning, such a contrivance! Ever! Such a thought would never have stood a chance—of even entering his head!

He had, however, owned a bike, at one time. The “conveyance” had gotten a good bit “ratty”—over the years. But—gem that it had forever been—the unit had always performed “above and beyond the call”. He’d gotten that wonder—a most-welcomed present—when he was nine or ten. A highly-prized gift—from Grandma and Grandpa Piepczyk. Richard and Evelyn Piepczyk! They were his best friends! Actually, they were his only friends—as he’d lamented, on more than one occasion.

The poor bike though! That forever-overworked dandy had—as time had gone by—simply flat worn-out. Obviously, on the stipend that Sheila deigned to bestow upon him—from his own paycheck—he’d been unable to replace the heroic “Old Reliable”. Not possible! A car? Hah! An actual car?

A car? Are you kidding? You’re kidding . . . right? Such an outlandish possession—was, patently, out of the question. Be serious!

To Jason, as one might guess, everything—always—had (without exception) seemed so desperately desolate! So absolutely bleak! Day in—and day out! His future? Again, hah! He had no future! None—that was not wrapped around, the sainted Manny! Or—possibly more accurately—around Sheila! Hell, maybe both! Double hell—probably both! Again, who knew?

Leonard Clarkson—who’d owned the stupid coffee shop—he was no bargain either. To him, Jason had always been a complete—a total, an utter—nonentity. Professionally, it was clear—to the owner—that the lad was “not going anywhere”. His potential—at the coffee shop—was, of course, exceptionally limited! At best!

Maybe his mother was right. Maybe he should have gone to the damn accounting school. But, it was difficult to figure out—where the money, for tuition, would’ve come from. And—as situations had always seemed to dictate—where would the time have come from? For dedication to unavoidable homework? As well as the time—for actually attending the stupid damn classes?

There was one other—not insignificant—factor: He’d, forever, hated school! Had always hated it! From as long back as he could remember! Third grade! Maybe second grade! Possibly first grade! Hate, hate, HATE! For all of his life, he’d out and out hated school!

He’d barely gotten through the twelfth grade! Sheila had made no bones—about the fact that she’d never really expected him to “get even THAT far, for Christ sakes”. She’d uttered that same, always-cutting, “projection”—many times! There was always the distinct possibility that her always-to-be-counted-upon “critique” might, possibly, have contributed—to Jason’s never-wavering, scholastic, dislike!

Of course, once “freed” from his “every damn day… to school” duties, he had always been loath—to ever “go back”. So, there went the accounting school fantasy! Consequently, he’d muddled along, since graduation, in three low-paying jobs. Clarkson’s Coffee Shop was probably as well as he could reasonably expect to ever do. “For now… and, undoubtedly, for the foreseeable future!”

Again, he mused, Sheila was probably right. Well, hell, she was definitely right. He really ought to go back to school. “Make something” of himself. But—though he’d usually refused to allow himself to think along such “no-class” lines—he’d, somehow, felt that going back to school, would be some sort of, out and out, “surrendering”! Nothing short of caving in—to his mother! And—probably—to everyone (and everything) else!

It probably doesn’t make any sense, he’d had to acknowledge—more often than he’d liked, but, that’s the way I feel!

Attending accounting school was a hurtful something—whether in his conscious, or subconscious, mind—that he could not permit himself to do. Not at the present time, in any case. Not as things stood. Still, obviously, the future didn’t hold