Locomotive to the Past - George Schultz (famous ebook reader .txt) 📗

Our Hero came close—had almost “spilled the beans” to Susan—when he’d almost advised her that, soon, shoes would also be rationed. Two pairs a year. That would be it—footwear-wise—for everyone! That memorable phase, however, would not come to pass—till February of 1943. Again, the young man had believed—that the, seemingly-implausible, program would come more quickly.

Susan’s observation—about meat, being in short supply—was accurate! Many people had already begun to horde it—figuring that rationing, of that “precious commodity”, was “just around the corner”. There’d been not nearly the selection—to which she’d been used—at the neighborhood butcher’s shop. Ergo, tuna casserole.

Jason also remembered Grandpa telling him that—for some reason—Breast O’ Chicken tuna would become hard to get! Maybe it had been, that the old man had advised—that it would be impossible, to get that particular brand! Possibly, the old man had advised—that the product would disappear altogether! For the entire duration! The younger man now wished—fervently—that he’d have paid more attention, to many more, of the old man’s “ramblings”! Had paid much more attention! More often! Way more often!

Before sitting down to the perfectly delicious tuna meal, however, Susan advised Our Hero that, “if he wanted”, he could take a shower beforehand. The casserole meal, would remain hot, she’d informed him. Would stay hot—indefinitely.

“I left a towel… and a washcloth, for you, up there,” she advised. “It’s on top of the toilet seat. Don’t worry,” she’d added—laughing heartily. “I’d put the seat down, first.”

Even Eric thought that was funny.

Jason felt as though he’d need a hammer and chisel—to chip away the “mountain”, of caked-on mud. And, as the unmistakably-brown water had continued to cascade—down the drain—he was certain that he was, undoubtedly, clogging up every drainpipe, in the house. None of those, imagined-emergency, situations occurred, though—and, by the time the three sat down to eat, Our Boy was absolutely convinced, that he’d not had remaining strength enough—to hoist a fork to his mouth.

That despair-laden prospect also “went up the flu”—when he’d discovered, once again, just how famished he’d become, over the afternoon. This monstrous hunger pang, had “risen its ugly head”—despite the almost-forgotten “heft”, of that glorious lunch pail! That—plus how delicious the evening meal had turned out to be!

At eight-thirty, as his host and hostess had sat themselves down, in the living room—to listen to the radio—their boarder decided that it was time for him, to drag himself up to bed.

He’d had no idea what had possessed him—but, he kissed Susan on the cheek. He was petrified—after the “peck”-type buss! It suddenly occurred to him—that, quite probably, in the early-forties, such a “forward” (uncouth?) action could, very well, be considered completely intolerable! But, his landlady had just smiled up at him! Eric had appeared—to not notice!

On his way upstairs, Jason found himself reminiscing—sadly—that he’d never kissed anyone goodnight anymore! Anyone! Least of all his mother! The, less-than-welcome, thought—literally—made him shudder! Twice! Fortunately, a few happier thoughts managed to invade—even take over—his still-fragile psyche:

When he was more-than-a-few-years younger, he’d always delighted in bussing his gorgeous “Aunt Debbie”! But, tragically, she had always averted her lips, from his! Always! He’d invariably wind up kissing her—“on the damn cheek! Damn! Damn, damn… DAMN!”

Well, the thought was a little better—than visions of ever kissing his mother! A much nicer (if slightly more esoteric) image did appear, though:

Thankfully, “Aunt Debbie” always did wind up—patting him, on the fanny! That had always been a dazzling thrill! A distinct, mind-warping, charge! Each and every time! One had to take one’s small victories—wherever one could find ’em! Right?

Another happy remembrance:

Years before—when he’d spend the occasional night or two, at his grandparents’ house—he’d always kiss Grandma Piepczyk, before going to bed.

Well, he’d also “kiss” Grandpa—but, that “operation” had usually taken about ten minutes, to complete. It was a tricky effort. And required about twice that many “approaches”. Each would “jockey for position”—so that he could apply the highly-liquid “raspberries”-type buss, to the other’s, well-defended, cheek! Always smack dab—and messily—applied, to the “adversary’s” cheek!

He’d probably won as many of those “battles”—as he’d lost—Jason had always reckoned. It had never failed—to be great fun! And, try as he might, he could not remember when that wonderful “ceremony” had ended! Sadly, it had, inexplicably. terminated—a goodly amount of time, before Grandpa had passed away. How sad!

Our Boy had sighed—heavily—as he’d entered “his room”. There, on the bed, sat a fresh shirt, and pair of pants! Plus a pair of plaid boxer shorts! He couldn’t be sure whether the latter had belonged to Jeff! Or if they did belong—to his landlord!

The new roomer was not a big fan of praying. In fact, he could not remember the last time he’d actually knelt down—and “talked” to The Lord. Heck, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d “spoken” to God—in any position. He’d—literally—never attended Mass any longer. He’d, long since, decided, that the Church’s teaching—that missing Mass, on Sunday, was a mortal sin—was fallacious!

His mother and he had—over the past few years—experienced a number of very-spirited “discussions”, pertaining to the subject. But, Sheila had never attended Sunday Mass! Not in years! So, her position (that missing Mass was a mortal sin) had always turned up—to be rather shallow. At least—in her son’s eyes.

Still, on that night—on that magnificent night—he’d actually knelt, and expressed thanks! Heartfelt thanks! Never before, had he ever had occasion—to experience that much pure, out and out, gratitude! For anything! Never! In his entire life! Ever!

Of all the places You could’ve sent me . . . You led me to this wonderful home. To this wonderful woman. To this wonderful family. Thank You! I can never thank You enough. Only You can know . . . how grateful I am! I probably don’t even understand . . . the remarkable gift that You’ve given me! I can’t . . . cannot possibly . . . understand the remarkable gift! But, thank You!

For the second night in a row, Our Hero had snapped—full awake—in “the middle of the night”. Only, as it turned out, this particular sequence was not taking