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

were letting Doctor Keltner screw you! Screw the hell out of you! To phony up that damn diagnosis! That so-called diagnosis! The one that said your stupid leg was completely mangled . . . or what-ever-term, what-ever-inflated-term, he went ahead and used! How many times… did you wind up, in the sack, with him? To get him… to come up with that bullshit diagnosis?”

“Well, I was, y’know, grateful . . . for all the, all the… all the trouble he’d had to go through! That he’d had to go through… for me!”

“Right! All the unspeakable ‘trouble’ . . . of having to take his pants down! And, of course, his drivvies too!”

“Oh, Debbie!”

“You see? You see… what I’m getting at? It’s never you! It’s always someone else! Somebody else! Or, it’s ‘The Fickle Finger of Fate’! Always someone… or something… else! Never you! Never Sheila!”

“Debbie?” Sheila was—definitely—sensing an advantage, slipping away! “Deb… I’m sorry! I’ve… you’ve given me a lot! A lot of things to… to think about! I’m truly sorry!”

“I don’t believe you, Sheel! Not for one minute! The only thing you’re sorry for… the only thing, that you’re sorry about . . . is that your conniving ass… is in jail!”

“Debbie? Debbie, listen! You can’t . . .”

“Oh… don’t worry! I’ll go your damn bail!”

“Oh… Debbie! Thank you! Thank you… so much!”

Sheila arose—and started to make her way around the table! To embrace her benefactor! But, the visitor—emphatically—held up her hand!

“Don’t touch me, Sheel,” she hissed. “Don’t even come near me! I feel sorry for you! But, not in the way you’ve devoted, your miserable life . . . to making people feel sorry for you! I genuinely pity you! You… and your totally-warped way of thinking! Your, simply-screwed-up, way, of living! I’d do the same for some poor, helpless, flea-bitten, mutt… in the damn dog pound! So, don’t feel so damn aggrandized!”

Debbie arose! The look she gave Sheila—the expression, on her face—was indescribable!

If Sheila Rutkowski had ever—in her entire life—had been completely and utterly bemused, this would’ve been the time!

NINETEEN

February 19, 1942

After three weeks of highly-gratifying “active dating”, Jason and Valerie found themselves, at The Olympia—“The Big Red Barn”—located at Grand River, and McGraw, Avenues. The couple was occupying two $1.25 seats, in the lower portion, of the balcony.

Grandpa Piepczyk had neglected to advise his grandson—that it was a four—or five-story climb, to the very top, of the upper level. They would, then, walk down to their billets—in the second row, from the railing. The brass railing—which looked out, over the entire ice surface. A fantastic view! And, of course, there were all those ghosts—of all those players! They haunted the balcony—as well as the lower level! Probably even more so! It was great!

This glorious happening was taking place, on a coolish Thursday evening—and the auspicious occasion was deemed—maybe far too happily—to be the couple’s “first non-movie date”.

Well, that “factoid” (another word from the future) wasn’t entirely true. Since, on the Thursday—a week before their looked-forward-to trek, to take in the Red Wings hockey contest (against the storied Chicago Blackhawks)—Jason had “taken possession” of his brand spanking new Hawthorn bicycle. Valerie had been right! It was beautiful!

Not only was she a fantastic authority—when it came to bike selection—she had also known of a real, bona fide, cinder-laden, “bike track”, at Rouge Park, located on Joy Road, at Burt Road.

The large cinder, oval was adjacent to a bike-rental stand—and on the Saturday and Sunday afternoons, that had followed “The Fantastic Hawthorne Acquisition”—the young couple had tooled their “two-wheelers” out, to the facility. The male half of that tandem had been quite hesitant—to enter the oval.

“Isn’t this a private track?” he’d posed. “It looks like a private track. I mean, won’t they… ?”

“Nah. I think it’s run, by the city. Nancy and I… and, sometimes, June and I… we used to come out here. All the time. That was before Nancy went on off, to Bowling Green… to college, y’know. And, of course, Junie… she went and got herself all wrapped up, in school. And in her parents’ confectionary. Back then, we rode here… all of us… all the time.”

The happy couple had ridden miles—and for hours—on both afternoons! They didn’t do much talking, given that—though they had “schlepped” side-by-side—they were, most often, three or four feet from one another. Made conversation a little difficult—and “too much like work” (quoth Valerie).

That had been fine with Jason! Just the fact of being—with this wonderful young woman—was providing him, with an abundance of happiness! Of pure pleasure!

How could he have—possibly—wondered, whether one of her progeny could’ve participated, in those ghastly Tate/LoBianco butcheries?

On Saturday, the distaff member, of the bicycling crew, had advised her male counterpart—on two different occasions (and, he thought, much too loudly)—he was free, to ride behind her. “That way… you can look at my fanny! I know that you’re dying to.” She had been wearing shorts, on that occasion. They’d seemed significantly tighter than the norm. Our Boy “knew better”—than to even attempt to explore her motives. His obvious philosophy was to, simply, “relax… and enjoy it”.

The outing, on the following day, did not require that Valerie’s suggestion be repeated. The young man had—immediately—taken up his, to-the-rear, position. The shorts had seemed—even—a “tad tighter”! He was, after all a young man!

Meanwhile, back at The Olympia, the couple was watching the teams—as they were going through their colorful warm-ups! Skating, for the most part, in gigantic circles—at their end of the rink—each member, of both teams, took practice shots, usually lobbing the puck, softly, toward their team’s goaltender.

Another surprise, for Jason, was his first glimpse of the Blackhawks’ early-forties uniforms. This was, of course, before one, of the teams, was required—for television purposes—to be decked out in white.

The Chicago uniforms were all black! As opposed to the red jerseys the present Blackhawks have worn—for decades! The Indianhead logo seemed to be the same. From the balcony, it was difficult to judge if that was absolutely true. Mainly, because the 1942 symbol was much smaller! And the, more-regal-looking, head of the Indian had been