Locomotive to the Past George Schultz (top 10 books to read TXT) 📖

Was going badly! Extremely badly! He tried to regroup! “See, I just got in… and I’m just tryin’ to…”

“Just got in? Got in… from where? Is that why… the reason, that you were down, at Michigan and Trumbull? Down near the train depot?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Came in at Michigan Central. And walked on down… down, to Briggs Stadium. I was supposed to meet this man there. He was supposed to have a room for me, y’know. Room… that was supposed to be all set up for me. The whole thing . . . all set up! Supposed to be! Set up, somewhere… someplace, out in Dearborn!”

Jason could only hope that his frenzied, off-the-seat-of-his-pants, invention—created, totally, from, panic-filled, whole cloth—was not completely, hopelessly, turning the woman off! Not alienating her—any further, anyway! Not accelerating the direction—the fatal direction—in which she appeared to be heading!

“And he didn’t?” she asked—her tone now reeking, of pure skepticism. “He didn’t . . . have a room for you?”

“I guess not, Ma’am. Y’see? He never even showed up.”

“Hmmmm. Did this… did this man… did he also have a job for you? Did he… supposedly… have a job for you? Part of a package? Is that it?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Supposed to have had a really good job, for me. Or otherwise I wouldn’t have come! Not all the way, up here.”

“Up here? From Where?”

Jason knew that he was, fast, digging himself into a hole! A monumental hole! And it was getting deeper! He going to have to think fast! Really fast! Where would he be “coming up from”? Obviously, he could not tell her he’d just blown in—from the future! That he’d journeyed, “From Dearborn… and from the year two-thousand-and-one!” Hardly a plausible scenario!

Who would ever believe a story—like that? The young man was still not positive—that even he believed it! Not 100%, anyway!

“Uh… up,” he answered, “from a little town in… little town in… in Tennessee. Yeah. Near… uh… out near Memphis. And things… the things down there… well, they’re not… they don’t…”

“You don’t talk . . . like you come from Tennessee, Jason. You talk, actually, like you come from right… well, right from here. And it really didn’t take you forever… to find your way out here. Not like you were negotiating your way… around some unknown city! Some foreign territory… or something!”

“Uh, yes. Right. Uh… well, you see… you see, Mrs. Atkinson… you see, I used to live, up here. Lived… out in Dearborn. Near Telegraph, and…”

“I don’t understand. I do not understand this! Any of this!” Obviously, she was becoming more and more upset! “Before… when you were talking about meeting this guy… this guy, who’d had a room, and a job, for you… you made it sound like Dearborn, was some sort of vast unknown, almost-mythical, kingdom, somewhere. Now you’re telling me that… ?”

“I didn’t mean for it to come out that way, Mrs. Atkinson. Didn’t mean for it to sound that way. Y’see, I’m kinda… well… I’m kinda all upset! Really upset! Nothing’s been goin’ right… goin’ right, for me, today. Absolutely nothing . . . and I’m just kind of… kind of…”

He was going to say “screwed up”—but, he’d managed to catch himself! Barely! Just in time! Somehow, he knew that you didn’t—ever—use a word like “screwed” in mixed company! Not in the early-forties! Culture shock! And it was fast catching up to him! Probably had already overtaken him!

“I don’t know, Jason.” He was relieved that she, apparently, was not going to let him finish the extremely-labored sentence. “What you’re telling me… well none of it sounds very… very… well, very truthful! None of it! I’m sorry to say this! I really am! But, look! Maybe you’d just better look for… try to find some other . . .”

“Mrs. Atkinson… please!” Jason’s eyes had—to his extreme surprise—become terribly moist! Suddenly! A tear, in fact, had begun spilling, down his right cheek. “Please! Please, please, please . . . PLEASE! I do need a room. I’ll pay you what-ever you want! Whatever you need! But… please! I’ve got to have a room. I really do! And this place is… ! Please!”

Susan Atkinson sighed—deeply! And peered down, at her hands—which had, by then, found themselves interlocked, in her lap.

“Ohhhh… listen. I don’t know, Jason. This is awfully…” Her voice sounded completely drained. Weak! The applicant found himself wishing he could do something—to comfort her!

“I’m begging you, Mrs. Atkinson,” he pleaded. “Begging you! I won’t be any bother! I wouldn’t! I won’t! I promise! I promise you that! Really! I’ll make my own bed. I’ll be really quiet. No radio. No nothing. I’ll keep the bathroom clean. Put the seat down. Help mow the lawn. Weed the garden! Do the dishes! Run the Vacuum! Wash the car! Run errands! Or whatever it’d take . . . whatever it will take… to get you to…”

“Ohhh… all right.” She was the picture of frustration—of almost-abject helplessness—by then! He’d never seen anyone—man or woman—in that emotional condition! What-ever-it-was!

“Oh thank you, Mrs. Atkinson! Thank you! Thank you, thank you… thank you! You won’t be sorry! I promise! I’ll be the best boy! The best roomer . . . ever! No problems! None!”

He was about to say, “Zilch . . . problem-wise”, but, thought better of it.

“Okay.” The woman was becoming overwhelmed. She’d, obviously, not ever been thanked that much! Probably—not in her entire life. Not at any one time. More thank-yous, per second—than she’d ever known possible.

“Thank you… so much!”

“I’ll let you stay here, on… well, on sort of a probation! The first sign of trouble, though… and you’re out! Any hint of trouble! Any hint! Slightest hint! Any hint! Of any kind! Ever! Is that understood?”

“Yes, Ma’am! More than understood. Mrs. Atkinson… listen to me. You won’t be sorry! I promise you that! You will not be sorry! Please believe me… when I tell you this! You won’t be sorry! Will not be sorry!”

“Okay.” she sighed. “All right! I… I guess I believe you. I really don’t know why . . . but, I guess that I do! Believe you, that is. Now… where is your luggage?”

“Uh… well, y’see… I don’t have any luggage!”

“Oh, this is too much! Simply