Locomotive to the Past

By George D. Schultz

Have you ever been totally flummoxed? One imagines that we all have at one time or another. But, as dumbfounded, as Jason Rutkowski?
On September 11, 2001, hes beside himself -- when so many people, in the Detroit area, appear to be completely unconcerned about 747s being flown into skyscrapers. An overwhelmingly-bewildering situation, for him! To add to his problems, hes summarily sent home early, from his job.
He spots an old-time locomotive -- in the middle of a field! He boards the train -- and it begins to move! When it pulls into Michigan Central Depot, close by downtown Detroit, hes in 1942! A few months after Pearl Harbor!
Here is a young man who -- for his entire lifetime -- has been beaten down, Mostly, by an overbearing mother, and an unprincipled employer. And now hes confronted with having to face life -- in a totally-unfamiliar culture! In amongst a world of people -- all of whom are perfect strangers!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Feb 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781490719108

George D. Schultz

George was born in Detroit, Michigan, in the early 1930s and grew up during a time before the microwaved dinner was eaten in front of the TV, expired nuclear-powered spy satellites dropped back to earth, or violence from half the world away was posted on YouTube two seconds after it occurred. It was a time when boys played baseball in sandlots, girls played house, teenagers went to family-rated movies, families enjoyed the same radio programs, and nothing was better than a great mystery novel. How things changed! In what is laughingly referred to as his adult life, our boy has lived in Detroit, Central New Jersey, Western New York’s Niagara Frontier, and San Marcos, San Antonio, and Houston, in Texas. He is the proud papa of seven kids!

Book preview

© Copyright 2014 George D. Schultz.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Printed in the United States of America.

isbn: 978-1-4907-1911-5 (sc)

isbn: 978-1-4907-1910-8 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Trafford rev. 02/13/2014

32989.png www.trafford.com

North America & international

toll-free: 1 888 232 4444 (USA & Canada)

fax: [phone]

CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY ONE

TWENTY TWO

TWENTY THREE

TWENTY FOUR

TWENTY FIVE

TWENTY SIX

TWENTY SEVEN

TWENTY EIGHT

TWENTY NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY ONE

THIRTY TWO

THIRTY THREE

THIRTY FOUR

THIRTY FIVE

EPILOGUE

ONE

SEPTEMBER 11, 2001! The DAY! The deadly occasion! When those horrible, terrible, God-awful, tragedies—the unimaginable ones, inflicted upon those poor people, at The World Trade Center, in New York—cane crashing down, upon this unsuspecting country!

Good heavens! The anchors, and reporters—who’d populated the three 24/7, national, all-news, television channels—seemed to be as unbelieving, as everyone else! Startled—as they continued to show the lethal images, of those, terrorist-controlled, 747s! The ones being—so calculatingly—flown, into the twin towers, in lower Manhattan!

The TV cameras showed the ruthless, hideous, without-mercy, images—and, continually, reshowed

them! Countless times! Countless times! Each blood-curdling repetition was—always, without fail—as shockingly devastating, as the horrible shot, that had gone before it! Always!

The buildings! Those vulnerable buildings! They seemed to be disintegrating! Before our very eyes! Those mind-warping images turned out to be—the feared truth!

Time after time after time, the deadly, unbelievable, visuals crossed—and re-crossed—our

screens! Continually! There was no escaping the, deadly, from-hell, images! Visions!—of heavy, blinding, billows of smoke! Suffocating, deadly, impenetrable, black, smoke—pouring from those ready-to-collapse, ill-fated, defenseless, structures!

And yet, 22-year-old Jason Rutkowski was beginning to believe—as the treacherous morning had ground along—that even high-tech cable TV was nowhere nearly equipped, to completely cover a disaster, such as this! Totally incapable of actually showing, or accurately reporting, anything even close! Anywhere near—to encapsulating the complete, God-awful, story! Unable to accurately relate (in real time) the deadly visions! All of which were taking place—before our stunned, disbelieving, eyes!

Try as they might, the many networks—who’d begun dropping their planned programming were not nearly capable, of showing us the true dimension—in the true-to-life, gut-wrenching, depth—that the craven attack would’ve required! That the cowardly scenario actually did require!

No matter how efficient the news-gathering facility might’ve been—that any, of the highly-sophisticated news channels might’ve been—Jason was convinced that each was totally incapable, of truly recording the unthinkable, the unimaginable, devastation! The vast, blood-curdling, mind-boggling, carnage—that the, without-warning, act had actually produced! Continued to produce! The entire holocaust seemed to be beyond the capability—of a mere news organization! In many cases—in most cases—the holocaust was beyond mortal comprehension!

Who—or what—could completely capture the mind-numbing devastation? The total, absolute, hell—that those death-dealing airplanes had wrought? The tragic, God-awful, loss of life? And how many, among us, could even conceive—of such a brutal, demonic, mass slaughter? Could ever imagine the deadly, incomprehensible, choices—that so many innocent people would be forced to make?

People! Dear Lord! All those poor, horribly-doomed, people! People—all kinds of poor, God-forsaken, people! People! Human beings! Can anyone believe this? Actually believe it?

People! Those poor, helpless—hopeless—people! Incredibly—without-hope—people! People—jumping from the 96th floor! From the 87th floor! From the 101st floor! Incredible! People—knowingly, willfully—leaping! Plunging—to their unthinkable deaths! Jumping from every one of those floors—above where the planes had crashed into the rapidly-disintegrating, fire-consumed, buildings! Dear Lord!

All those stunningly-doomed people! On all those stratospheric floor levels! And there they were! These poor human beings! Jumping! Hurtling—to their unthinkable deaths! Dear Lord! Mothers! Fathers! Sisters! Brothers! Cousins! Aunts! Uncles! All plummeting—out of countless windows! Literally hundreds of people! Maybe thousands of people! Probably thousands of people! And why? WHY? Who knew?

Plummeting! All these people! From, literally, dozens upon dozens of floors! Literally hundreds of feet—from above the waiting cement! Plunging—from dozens of floors above! It appeared—for all intents and purposes—to be hundreds of floors! From—again, literally—hundreds, of feet above street level! People, jumping—from jagged, smoke-coated, literally-exploding, windows! Dear Lord! How can this be?

It was—it had to be—inconceivable! Plummeting to one’s death? From literally hundreds of feet—above the street/sidewalk? So incredibly high—above the concrete! Onto which they would, in simply a matter of seconds, splatter! Literally splatter! Who could possibly imagine—having to make such a decision? Having to face such foreboding choice?

Jason shuddered! Again and again! From head to toe! He was in the midst of a whole, body-ravaging, series of almost-convulsions! To think of someone—to think of anyone—being confronted with such a ghastly decision! A literally lethal, totally-incomprehensible, choice! Either way! A horrible, without-mercy, fork in the road! A fork—with which so many doomed human beings—in those under-terminal-siege towers—were, devastatingly, forced to deal! Who could even imagine?

It had to be some kind of mind-shattering choice! Jump—be willing to die, by being splattered, on the unyielding cement below! Or else die—while being consumed by an unrelenting, ravaging, foundry-like, inferno! By being burned! To a cinder! Consumed by out-of-control flames! While still alive! Dear Lord!

The best that any one of those poor, doomed, people could hope for, Jason reasoned—would be to, possibly, die of smoke inhalation! To be allowed that much, of a merciful exit! That sort, of escape—from this suddenly-unbearable life! Relief? In that still-atrocious manner! And that? That would, undoubtedly, be the best case scenario? Unimaginable! Incomprehensible!

Dear Lord! How can this be? How can this be happening? Who could possibly have contrived . . . to inflict such an evil curse, on these poor, innocent, people? How could anyone . . . or anything . . . be so vile? So consumed by Satan? So demented—as to conceive, plan . . . and then to actually carry out . . . such a wicked, depraved, diabolical, demonic, atrocity? Upon so many? So many totally innocent people? How can this be? Dear Lord!

The young man could not imagine—could never have conceived—of having to, ever, face such a mind-warping, God-awful, certainly-fatal, dilemma! Who could—possibly—cope, with such a helpless, such a hopeless, choice? Who could do that? Who could—ever—deal with such a mind-twisting fate? It just didn’t compute! Jump? Jump—to your death? Or burn up? Man!

Jason was, himself, scared—positively fearful—of heights, as it was. Four or five steps up the old stepladder—and Jason had always turned to guacamole. Crawling up a story or two—outside the apartment building (or any structure) was, for him, simply unthinkable! Upon something—even as supposedly substantial as a metal ladder—would be totally out of the question. It had always been thus. And it still was. Dear Lord!

The unthinkable scenario—continued to make the young man out and out shudder! Literally! Continually! Two or three times, he’d had to fight back—the actual, all-consuming, head-to-toe, spasms! And without a great deal of success!

The realization that many hundreds—maybe many thousands (probably many thousands)—of poor, unfortunate, terrified, horror-stricken, absolutely-doomed, people were forced to deal with such an incredible, unimaginable, absolutely-woeful, decision was (and remained) completely beyond comprehension! Beyond Jason’s, anyway!

The lad had sat—virtually cringing (in some cases, literally cringing)—on the threadbare couch, in his mother’s apartment. In the City of Dearborn—just west of Detroit. He’d been, as he would reflect, on my way out the door! Preparing—to go to work, on that fateful day! He’d just started, to step into the hallway, when Jon Scott—the reporter on the Fox News Channel—had blurted something about a plane! A 747—flying in, to one of the WTC buildings! Crashing—into one of those majestic skyscrapers!

Well, he’d figured—at the time—it could happen. The fact that, in this situation, it might be a huge passenger plane—had far from registered! It seemed to Jason, that he’d read, from time to time, about numerous planes, having flown into The Empire State Building—over the decades.

Seemingly, it had been happening—all the time—back in the thirties, or forties. Maybe even into the fifties! Probably in all three decades! Maybe even later than that! Maybe more often than that! He was certain that he’d read about such things. Had read about planes flying into skyscrapers—seemingly, as often as could be. In New York—and, well, even elsewhere. Just not lately.

Possibly, it had been his maternal grandfather—Grandpa Piepczyk—who’d always been telling him, of such things. He missed his mother’s father. The old man had always been very nostalgic. Very nostalgic. He’d always seemed to have had some kind of real-life experience, to relate. Always something similar to current events—no matter what was occupying the national TV networks and/or the local newspapers. Always some adventure—from out of the old man’s storied past. Grandpa must have lived a very eventful life. To hear him tell of it, anyway.

Could his sainted grandfather’s life’s experiences have turned out much differently? Jason had wondered that, on many occasions. Could they, possibly, have been a good deal more eventful—than those, maybe, of his father’s father? Jason’s other grandpa? Who knew?

The still-absolutely-astounded young man had not really known either of his paternal grandparents. A hint—as to how adventurous (or not) they might’ve been. Well, for openers, Jason couldn’t remember his own father ever mentioning such things, as planes hitting buildings. Or ever relating anything from his father’s father—from Grandpa Rutkowski’s—life. Ever!

Of course, he’d never really seen (or heard) all that much—of/from his own, real-life father either. His Old Man had split, in 1982—when Jason was a mere three! So the whole paternal thing, had—forever—been a completely blank page, for/to him. Well,—almost literally—blank.

His paternal grandparents, seemingly, had never shown much use for him. At least, that’s the way it had always seemed. Of course Grandpa Rutkowski had died in 1986, or 1987—Jason could not remember which. Well, he’d only been a snot-nosed kid, at the time. It had never really made much difference—when his paternal Grandpa had passed on. To the youngster, he’d always been a total nonentity.

And Grandma Rutkowski? She’d always acted almost as though she didn’t even know him. Even when he’d shown up—at her husband’s wake. The spectacular snub had turned out to be a shattering experience, for Jason. It had taken him—literally—years, to get over the shattering (to him) put-down. To the point that—a few years later—he’d not attended any portion of the old woman’s funeral. (So there, Grandma!)

What had surprised him was the fact, that—according to two of his aunts—his own father hadn’t shown up, at any of the events, either. That had been a real shocker—although Jason couldn’t imagine why that should be so, given his lack of familiarity, with that entire side of what was laughingly referred to as the family

44765.png

On September 11th, 2001, Jason had been, as mentioned, about to step out, of the apartment—heading to his job, at the glorious coffee shop—when something had made him go back! Backtrack—and sit down! The something, of course, was the gradual realization—as to how horrible the dastardly attack, in Manhattan, actually was!

His eyes were simply glued, to the unbelievable story—grotesquely unfolding, on the blotchy, sputtering, exceptionally-old, black-and-white Admiral television!

He’d not even gotten around to unzipping his two-toned blue windbreaker—a most-cherished gift, from Grandma and Grandpa Piepczyk, his mother’s parents. They’d bestowed the jacket upon him—more than six years before.

To be truthful, the garment was a little snug—and was beginning to look a little on the frayed side. But—thank heaven—it still kept him reasonably warm. That was, to him, the main priority. It was either that light jacket—or his big, bulky, way too heavy, winter coat, which he’d bought, for eleven dollars. At the Goodwill store. Four years previously.

Aren’t you gonna be late? questioned his mother—with more irritability, in her scratchy voice, than the words would seemed to have indicated. She’d just crawled out of bed—less than two minutes, after he’d plopped himself down, on the seen-better-days couch.

You can’t afford to be late, y’know, she’d continued. I think you’re on thin ice… over there anyway. I know your manager, y’know. What’s his name? Manny? He told me that. Said you were on thin ice. I really think you’d better drag your lazy ass… on out to work.

The young man was aware of the fact that she knew more than, simply, Manny’s name! Substantially more! And Manny had known his mother—exceptionally well! Exceptionally well—and thoroughly!

Rather than seating herself, his mother stood—hands on hips—lurking, in front of him! Looming, above him.

In a minute, Mother, he muttered. This looks like… like something that’s going to…

Minute… schminute! So? So a stupid-assed plane? It flew into one of those goddam buildings! So what? They build ’em too damn high, now, anyway… them buildings! And they’re all glass, for God’s sakes! Of course a plane was gonna fly into one of those silly-assed glass buildings! Sooner or later! If they’d only make the damn things out of cement, or concrete, or mortar . . . or whatever… they’d probably be better able to…

I think… I really believe… that they’re a good bit more substantial than that, Mother. They’re not made up of just simply glass. Not solely of glass. There’s a whole lot of other stuff… much steel in them, for instance… that they…

Yeah, right! And, of course, you would know! You are… of course… some kind of a big-assed structural engineer! Or is it… that you work, in a goddam, pissy-assed, coffee shop? Could that be?

I just… this can’t be… it’s a God-awful, terrible, tragedy, Mother! Look! Just look . . . where that thing hit! That plane went in maybe twenty… maybe twenty-five, or thirty… stories down! Down… from the top! That’s a hundred-story building! At least! Look at that!

So it hit! Big goddam deal!

How are those people . . . those poor people? How are they… those people, up there… above, where it hit? How are they ever going to get down? How’ll they ever get out? How are they ever going to escape? Survive? How can they ever . . . ever going to get out of there? Get out… alive? What’s going to… to happen to them? My God, Mother! They’re having to… to… to jump! My God!

My God… what? Big goddam deal! Why should I give a shit?

Oh! Oh… those poor people! Those poor… poor people! I guess a lot of them… so many of them… they’re going to have to… going to have to jump! They’re jumping now! Oh, my God! Look! They’re jumping now! Dear Lord! Jumping! Jumping . . . for God’s sake! Jumping… all that way down! Down… to the street! To the cement, for God’s sakes! That plane! That plane . . . it’s taken out… taken out, God knows how many…

Oh, I’m sure that they’ve got plans, y’know! Plans… for those kinds of things. They’ll get the cops! Or, maybe, the firemen! Or, probably, they’ve got some special detail right there… right there, in the damn building! And they’ll just go up… and get ’em the hell out. Those idiots . . . those assholes . . . who’re jumping! They should wait! Wait a few minutes! Wait… for help, to arrive! Assholes!

Mother! They can’t . . .

Right now, it’s best that you get yourself out! Out to work! Best that you get your ass… right on out! Out… to work! I mean fucking now!

No! Well, in a minute, Mother. This . . . right here… this is more important! More critical… than that stupid old coffee shop! Much more serious! Look at that! Just look! I can’t see how . . .

More serious? Are you kiddin’? What . . . are you shittin’ me? What’re you talkin’ about? It’s in New York, for crissake… where that happened! Hundreds of goddam miles from here! There’s nothin’ you can do! Absolutely nothing! Just sittin’ here on your dead ass . . . here, in Dearborn, Michigan . . . that ain’t gonna help! Ain’t gonna help any of those people! Nothin’ that you can do… is gonna help ’em! Help any of ’em! Absolutely nothin! Ain’t nothin’ gonna help the poor bastards! Nothin’!

Mother, it’s not…

Except to go ahead… and lose your damn-fool, pissy-assed, job! And the damn-fool, pissy-assed, paycheck . . . that goes along with it. Oh, that’ll be a big help… to all of them! Listen, Jason. I’m not well, y’know. You know full well, that I need that money… for me to…

I know you do, Mother! I know . . . what you get from Social Security! I know that it’s not a helluva lot! I know that you’ve got bills! But, Mother, I do . . . do my fair share! I really do!

You call that your fair share? Your pissy-assed little check? That silly-assed, teeny-tiny, little, check? That piss-poor, stupid, damn, little, check? That check? It ain’t enough… to really even barely keep me afloat! Keep us afloat! Plus… it’s not like you give me all of it, anyway!

I give you everything, Mother! Everything… but, the twenty bucks, that you might give me back! Sometimes, it’s only ten… or fifteen! It’s the best I can do, Mother. The best I can do.

Hah! If you’d have gone to school . . . accounting school, like I wanted you to… you’d have made something, of your-damn-self. Your paycheck? It would be different! Damn different! Really damn different! And, listen! It would’ve been such a…

Look, Mother. I don’t want to go… start opening this whole can of worms! Not again. But… speaking of cans . . . maybe things wouldn’t be quite so grim! Not so critical . . . if you’d get up off of your can! Get up and get out . . . and do something radical! Like maybe getting a job!

He was shocked at his own response! Seldom had he ever—ever—lipped back, to his mother! The fact that his go along/get along, rather-docile, demeanor had deserted him, on this particular occasion, was a real surprise! A substantial surprise! A monumental surprise!

His mother stroked at her bosom—as though she was experiencing a heart attack! She appeared ready to collapse! She’d had the routine absolutely perfected, by then!

What the hell kind of talk is that? she finally managed to gasp—theatre-like! Jason, she rasped, you know . . . you know perfectly damn well . . . that I… that I can’t work! You know that! You know that!

No! Again, he was shocked by his seemingly-involuntary response! No, he continued. I really don’t know that! His loss of control was still patently evident! I don’t know . . . for a fact . . . that that’s true! You get around here . . . pretty good! So, you broke your leg! It was supposed to be a pretty bad break! Or so I’m led to understand! But, when was that, Mother? How long ago? Fifteen years ago? Sixteen years ago? Longer ago… than that?

Listen, you little pissant! Don’t you… don’t you dare . . . give me a ration of shit, like that, Boy! Do you hear me? I don’t wanna hear it! Not from you . . . you little snip! You know… know very well . . . that it was only eleven years ago! Eleven goddam suffering years . . . and coming up, on four months! And… for your information… it really was a serious break! Very serious! God damn serious! You can’t even imagine . . .

All right, he said, nodding slightly. I’ll agree… that it was serious. But, you still…

A damn serious break, she interrupted. You can’t even imagine! You have no idea! No one knows! Knows… what I’ve been through, since then! Terrible injury! Pain! God only knows! Terrible pain! Unbearable pain! No one ever seemed to think so! No one gave a shit! Judgin’ from any of the shit-assed sympathy . . . that I ever got! But, it was! It was freaking unbearable! Bad break! Bad, bad, break! And… goddam it… there’s not a whole lot of people! Not many . . . who think that it was really all that serious! Even today!

I know, Mother. But…

Let me . . . tell you something, Mister Smart-ass! It was serious! Very goddam serious! Very painful . . . and very traumatic! But, what the hell… do you know? You can’t never really imagine! Have no idea, of all the grief! The grief . . . and pain . . . that I…

Yes. His answer would be comprised, of shockingly-clipped words! He was still surprising himself! Well… if you want my opinion… I think that you’ve milked the hell, out of that accident, Mother! Played it… played it, to the moon! To the absolute hilt!

As before, Jason couldn’t believe that he’d just said that. And in those tones! He’d virtually never locked horns, with her, before! Not like this! Never like this! Certainly not over that stupid accident! He’d never questioned her—about the circumstances surrounding The Accident! Although the entire, highly-blown, incident had always been the proverbial 800-pound gorilla, in the room. Always!

Jason guessed that, what had just happened—in far-away New York—had, somehow, precipitated the surprising, the stunning, manner of change, in the deepest recesses, of his docile personality! Had triggered, in some unexpected manner, an extreme change, in him! He was positive that this wasn’t—not at all—like the Jason of old! Nothing even close!

Was that frightening—or what? Something—a, newly-acquired, personality quirk? Something else—to be feared? Maybe even greatly feared? Quite frankly, he didn’t know! But, the sudden realization—of the obviously-worrisome aspect—was not nearly as troubling, as he would’ve expected! That fact—plus the fact, that it seemed not a great cause for concern—was troubling! The entire mish-mosh—was, patently, scary! And unexplainable!

You’ve milked that accident… for years, Mother, he plodded ahead. in spite of himself. That same something was refusing to turn him loose! Not permitting him—to simply drop the matter! That all-new—that scary—bulldog quality! Where had it come from? Was it going to remain? Frightening!

He was certainly in unknown—unseen, disconcerting—territory! Shark-infested waters? He really didn’t know. But, the dam had burst! Big time! Years of pent-up whatever (could it, possibly, be rage?) was being fervently unleashed! And he was, apparently, powerless—to stop the force! The strange—the frightening—thrust!

You’ve gotten everything you can . . . out of that damn injury, he continued. But, he didn’t know why! Why Social Security… why they ever fell for it… I’ll never know! Well, maybe I do! Can make a helluva guess, anyway!

He was still having this unprecedented—this highly-perplexing—problem! Trying to understand all this new-found (and, apparently unstoppable) aggression! Was all of this—the product of the grotesque happenings? In far-away New York? Were those poor, desperate, doomed, people—were they, at the root, of his sudden burst of unthinkable forthrightness?

Whatever this more-or-less epiphany—this stark, earth-shaking, turnabout—Jason found himself, blindly, (Damn-The-Torpedoes style) charging full ahead! Blustering forth! As—literally—never before! Having—shockingly—come this far, there was no turning back! Nor could there be! Maybe never! Probably never! Again, it was Damn The Torpedoes!

Listen, you little snip, his mother was half-screaming at him—her heart attack apparently forgotten. I don’t know what you’re trying to get at! What you’re referring to! But, you, fucking, listen to me! I don’t, fucking, like it! Don’t like it at all! You under-fucking-stand?

Listen, Mother…

That guy… that son of a bitch, the one who ran me down . . . he was so spaced out! On goddam drugs! He didn’t even know . . . know where the hell he was! Her son was not the only one Damning The Torpedoes, at that point! Bastard, she ranted on. The son of a bitch! He had this great big record! This arm’s-length record . . . for DWI’s! A record as long as your fuckin’ arm . . . for your information! Three… or four . . . of ’em! Three or four… for drivin’, under the goddam influence! Three or four of ’em! Didn’t have any goddam insurance, either! Shithead!

Mother, you’ve got to…

The car . . . his damn car . . . it sure wasn’t safe! Sure as shit… it was not! The whole damn thing . . . the whole situation . . . it was a goddam screw-up! This schmuck! He never should’ve been on the goddam road . . . in the first goddam place! Period! The car… that piece-of-shit car . . . that never should’ve been allowed, on the shit-assed road, either! And the son of a bitch . . . he slammed that car! Slammed it… right in to me! They marched his drunken ass off! Marched it… the hell… off! To fucking jail! Threw the freaking book at him! About goddam time! Too late for me, of course!

C’mon, Mother. They didn’t throw the book at him. Admittedly, they probably should have! They should really have thrown away the key! But, what’d he get? A few months . . . in the slammer? And that was it? Four months? Five months?

Something like eight or ten, she groused. Less than a year, it was! A helluva lot less… than a goddam year! Not even close… to a goddam year!

Yeah, I remember. They let him out! Eons early! Because of ‘good behavior’! I could gag!

Well, in any case, they found . . . Social Security found, as they damn well should have… they found that the injuries . . . my injuries… that they were all . . . what they call, totally debilitating! Totally, fucking, debilitating! And that is why! Why they found . . . for me! Ruled in my favor. And that’s why… thank God… I still continue, to get their monthly check! As piss-poor… as it is!

Mother? His voice, by then, had lost a goodly amount of fervor! Was his new attitude to be that short-lived? Look, he continued. I’ve never pursued anything… anything . . . along these lines before. This thing… about your accident. Never brought up anything . . . nothing . . . along these lines before. But… believe me… it’s not something, that I haven’t thought about! Thought about… a lot! There are things… that have really bothered me! A lot of them! Stuff that has bothered me! And for a lot of years! This is not something, that I can just go ahead… and put it out, of my alleged mind. Not at this point!

Bothered you? Why the hell would… ? What’re you talking about?

Tell me, Mother. Tell me… were you sleeping with Doctor Keltner? As everybody seems to think? Were you going to bed with him? Is that why he gave you such an… such an… an unclean ‘bill of health’? Such a dismal prognosis . . . about the leg? Is that why he… ah… diagnosed your injury? Ruled it… to be so God-awful? Such an overwhelmingly horrible report… that diagnosis? Could that be why he’d submitted… all that really critical paperwork, to… ?

Why, you little schmuck! You piece-of-shit, little, puissant . . . of a schmuck! Why, I oughta . . . ! Where did you ever hear anything… anything, like that?

Well, for openers from Uncle Stanley… your own brother! Even Grandma Piepczyk . . . your own mother! They all were raising an eyebrow or two, y’know! Over the so-called diagnosis! Then, there was Mrs. Waslewski, y’know.

Mrs. Waslewski? Why, she’s been moved… and gone! Gone outta here… for years! Maybe outta the whole damn planet! And good damn riddance!

Yeah. And, well, it’s wound up, that no one… no one, in the world . . . has said anything about it! Not lately, anyway! Not for years! And I probably shouldn’t have brought it up, now! But, I can’t tell you… can’t let you think . . . that it’s not been… not been eating at me! A lot of it! Eating at me, for… ! I… I just shouldn’t have brought it up! I mean…

You’re damn right, you shouldn’t have brought it up! Not now . . . or… or any other goddam time!

Well, I sometimes wonder. Used to be that there’d even been a few times… more than a few times… when, y’know, even ‘Aunt Debbie’ has said that…

I don’t even talk to ‘Aunt Debbie’! Not anymore! Not at all! You know, damn well, that we haven’t…

Jason’s Aunt Debbie was not really an aunt—but, until late in 1999, she’d been his mother’s closest friend. And Jason had always had a monumental crush on her. Ever since he’d been four or five.

There had been a few (well, several) unfortunate remarks—rather snide exchanges—that had been batted back and forth, over the years, between his mother, and his Aunt Debbie.

These had progressed—to the point where, eventually, they’d become terribly-caustic, top-of-their-lungs, exchanges! Arguments that had—once the young man had begun to mull them over—had caused him to wonder anew, about Sheila Rutkowski’s epic, earth-shaking, terrible accident. Her constantly-complained-about, many-and-varied, highly-debilitating, injuries!

Well, I miss her, y’know, muttered her son. The crush, apparently, had never really died. Well, the crush—actually—had never really died. I just… just really… really… y’know… I do miss her, he muttered, sadly. Really miss her.

THAT was the precise moment—when the SECOND of the deadly, ill-fated, lethally-fuel-laden, 747s hit the other tower!

Holy God! Jason was half-shouting! Dear Lord! Look at that! They… they got the other one! They hit the other one! The other damn one! They’ve taken out… the other tower! My God! There’s something awfully wrong! Something horribly wrong! This is… ! Someone’s… they’re trying to kill us! Kill us all! Take over the whole government! Conquer . . . conquer the whole damn country! The whole damn world, probably! There’s some kind of a whole…

"Jason! Do you hear what the hell you’re saying? It’s stupid! It’s goddam stupid! It’s stupid… as hell! You sound like some kind of raving-assed maniac! Like some kind of a goddam nut! So? So… two planes flew into two goddam towers! So fucking what? It’s not like it happened here, for God’s sakes! Not like they flew into the goddam Penobscot Building . . . or the freaking Renaissance Center . . . or anything like that!"

Sheila hurried to the venerable television—exhibiting no noticeable crip problem! A slight—almost imperceptible—limp, was the only evidence of her critical, her brutal, still-remaining, injuries! Barely noticeable! Once she’d gotten to the old set, she reached down—and snapped the thing off!

Mother! This is… turn it back on! You can’t be…

What I can be… and this is, exactly, what I am . . . is that I’m head of this goddam house! That’s precisely what I am! And I’m tellin’ you, dammit! I’m tellin’ you that this goddam television is off! Officially off! And it ain’t comin’ back on! Not anytime soon! And I’m also telling you… that you’d better drag your lazy ass, on out to, fucking, work! Drag your lazy ass out to, fucking, work . . . and, fucking, now! NOW!

Mother, you’re…

I’ve, fucking, had it with you! With you… just sitting there! Just, fucking, vegetating! Now, get your sorry ass… get it on, out of here! Get yourself out… to work! Get yourself out to, fucking, work! Fucking now! Do you hear me… you little bastard? Do you hear what I’m, fucking, saying? Fucking… now!

He’d never seen his mother more upset! There had been occasions, over the years, when she’d been equally as beside herself, of course. Many such instances. But, never more so—than at that particular moment! At that catastrophic moment—for the United States!

That was exactly what the young man was thinking: A catastrophe. And for the whole, entire, country! Why can’t she see that?

Obviously, anytime that money was to be involved—even when his mother was referring to his piss-poor, damn, little check—Jason knew that he probably should not have been surprised. Still, in this highly-atrocious instance, he’d remained shocked!

This was a day—like no other! Ever! In the country’s entire history! Why could she not snap to that obvious fact? And realize that? Why was she so tragically unaware—of what was going on? Just a mere few-hundred miles, from Dearborn, Michigan?

The young man heaved a gigantic sigh—and, dutifully, he hoisted himself up, off the couch. And trudged—out the door. To work!

TWO

Has the whole world gone nuts? Jason was positive that he’d asked that rhetorical question—literally dozens of times—under his breath. Well, maybe not all under his breath.

Two pedestrians—who’d shown rather startled expressions—had stopped! Abruptly! They’d been heading the other way—along the sidewalk, there on the north side, of Michigan Avenue. Halted—almost as though they’d been turned into pillars of salt, or something.

They’d simply stood there—and stared at Our Hero! Following that initial, rather-jarring, experience, nothing appeared to affect him any further. It seemed, to the troubled lad, that this was destined, to be the town’s natural state of reaction—to what was so tragically taking place, in lower Manhattan! The inexplicable condition of reigning normality! That appeared to be the case—the regrettable situation—in the entire City of Dearborn, Michigan.

This alarming, non-dithered, state seemed to have been solidly confirmed—when, probably, a dozen other people wound up staring at the lad, as he’d continued, to his workplace! Or, maybe some of them had gone a little further! Had out and out glared, at him! Who could actually tell, though? What difference did it make? What difference—did anything make? Truly, the whole world was going nuts! The whole—the entire—world! Totally bonkers!

No one seemed to care! No one! Not one person—not one single person—seemed to be the least bit concerned! Don’t you people understand?

They should—every one of them—be emotionally shattered! Over the unimaginable tragedy! The sacrilege—that had just happened! The God-awful event—that still may be happening, for all Jason knew! The outrageous incident appeared—to have been no big deal! To anyone! Incredible! Incredible—and yet, sad! So sad! So damn sad! How can this be? How can any of this be? How?

Why should such a hopelessly-uncaring, doesn’t-involve-me, reaction exist? And be so damn prevalent? Was he the only one? The only sane one? The only one—with feelings? With any feelings—at all? The only one to, actually, care? The only one—to, truly, give a damn? In the whole damn, blue-eyed, world? Just him? Why? How could that happen? How is that possible?

Finally, he simply shrugged! Stopped—and shrugged! Hunched his shoulders—then, let them fall, motionless, to his side! The hell with them! The hell—with them all! With every damn one—of the uncaring bastards! It seemed, by then, to be the only reasonable response! For him, anyway! Although, sadly, inexplicably so. In each instance, every motion—every expression—that he’d exhibited, turned out to be completely overdone!

After each one of these, semi-confrontational, little adventures, he would, inevitably, lower his head—and, resolutely, press onward. Ever forward—to his glorious job. That storied, fabled, wondrous, wait-person position—at that shining Shangri La! The undeserved paradise—which was that special coffee shop. Actually—that stupid, damn, coffee shop!

Once he’d arrived, at his heavenly place, of gainful employment, the lad had remained grossly upset! More so, even—once he’d stepped inside! Terribly, terribly, troubled, he’d continued to be! Made even more uneasy—by the ghastly-similar attitude, exhibited by virtually all, of the patrons! These dozens—were a bunch of equally-uncaring yahoos!

Those schmucks—these schmucks—who were inhabiting the stupid eatery, all seemed to be caring less! Almost all of them! Just about everyone—in the whole damn joint! Could care less!

He shuddered! Yet, another elaborate spasm! Head to toe! And then, he was, again, seized—by the now-normal, entire-body, absolute, convulsion! Then, another! Then, again! Then, again!

His murky thought processes were awash—with images that he’d always considered too heavy! Too deep!

Every great culture, he was aware, had eventually destroyed itself! Had—as the decades had gone by—totally deteriorated! And all from within!. They’d all—each and every one, of these supposedly-invulnerable forces—had gotten themselves, irretrievably, soft! Irretrievably! (Another head-to-toe tremble!)

The Roman Empire, he further mused The Greeks! All of them! Every damn one of them! They’d all, eventually, fallen! Had caused their own demise! From pure self-indulgence! From their own, self-absorbed, softness!

Jason simply could not let go! Could not cut loose—from the overwhelming train, of this kind of extreme, overwhelming, painful, thought! All the frightening images! They simply would not stop! They just kept coming! And kept coming—and coming and coming! Dear Lord!

Was that—was this—to be the fate, of the United States of America? Was this—this damnable day—was it, to be the beginning of the end? THIS 9/11 day? THIS God-awful day? This day—in September, of 2001? Had we become that damnably flabby? That totally uncaring? That deadly self-absorbed? Fatally so?

He’d—finally—begun to back off! Slightly! To begin, at last, to start to staunch the horrible, almost-irreversible, flood of terrible, God-awful, haunting. foreboding, images! But, just barely!

Those horrible thoughts—fortunately—had begun, at long last, to gradually turn! To welcome warm, furiously-loved, remembrances—of his beloved, his late, Grandfather Piepczyk.

This wonderful man! This ever-so-kind man—who’d always seemed to be reminiscing. Mostly about World War II. The old man had talked—long, and loudly—about The Big One! A lot! A whole lot! Incessantly, sometimes! Well, incessantly—often!

But, there had always—always—been something uplifting. Something really refreshing—about these cherished reminisces. There had always—without fail—been a vital point, to his remembrances! Always this same critical point—upon which Grandpa had never failed to dwell:

The old man had maintained (always) that there had been (always) a pronounced difference—in the nation’s attitude—back then! A vast difference—in the mood, of the entire country! And it had never changed! Had never lessened! Of this, Our Hero had become truly—and irreversibly—convinced!

The population, of the entire nation—he was positive—had been totally caught up, in those highly-troubled 1940’s days! Completely wrapped up—in the questionable-survival situation, that had so, inescapably, prevailed, in early-forties! Dedicated—the entire country—in their consistent, all-for-one, nationalistic, unashamed, patriotic, manner of living! Of being!

Frighteningly, this ever-so-enviable quality was—Jason was sure—totally, and conspicuously, lacking, in 2001! Or, at least, so it appeared! Of course, in the early-forties, there had been no progressive Jane Fonda! Just Tokyo Rose! And everyone, in America, hated her! Absolutely hated her!

Our Hero’s maternal granddad had been only nine-years-old—when the Japanese had, so mercilessly (and sneakily) converged, on those poor people, in Pearl Harbor!

In Grandpa’s words, Everything stopped!! With the December 7, 1941, atrocity, everything had come… to a complete, screeching, halt! And, according to the old man, The military-induction offices… all across the entire country . . . were, actually, flooded! Overrun—with volunteers! The very next day! With devoted . . . patriotic . . . young men! Willing to die! Willing to give their lives . . . for their country!

Talented baseball stars—such as Bob Feller and Joe DiMaggio—had enlisted, on December eighth! Boston’s Splendid Splinter—Ted Williams—was not far behind! Neither were numerous other prominent—and some not so prominent—sports personalities!

No one seemed to know more about that war—than this young man’s maternal grandfather. No one—that Jason had ever met, anyway. Not anybody that he’d ever had the opportunity, to listen to.

Another troubling factor—on this most-troubling day: Jason had, forever, found himself wishing—wishing often, and hoping fervently—that the current schoolhouse history classes (the ones to which he’d, so recently, been exposed) would’ve devoted infinitely more time and space, and attention, to The Big One. And to what Tom Brokau would come to refer to, as The Greatest Generation. There should be much more time—devoted to the war! And a hell of a lot more attention!

From his educational studies—all through his school-housing—the lad had always felt that he’d learned more (significantly more) about the life and times of Nelson Mandela! Definitely more—than he’d ever learned, about Thomas Jefferson, or John Adams, or Benjamin Franklin, or James Madison, or any of the Founding Fathers. Certainly more, than the minutia that he’d been taught—about Douglas MacArthur, or Chester A. Nimitz, or George S. Patton, or Winston Churchill, or Bull Hulsey, or Jimmy Doolittle! Or any of the many other out and out, self-sacrificing, heroes, of World War II! The Doolittle raid, on Tokyo—in 1942—was scarcely noted! How could that be?

Thankfully, Our Hero had learned a lot—had learned much—about such towering items, as Corregidor! About the unforgivable, the outlandishly-sadistic, Bataan Death March! About the God-awful, terribly-bloody, battles of Iwo Jima, and Tarawa, and Guadalcanal! About D-Day—and the rise and fall of the merciless, sacrilegious, Third Reich! About The Battle of The Bulge! And all of this knowledge—literally, all of this authentic history—had come, from Grandpa Piepczyk. Exclusively! From him—alone!

But, how many others—how many of Jason’s generation, or even his mother’s generation—could’ve had the undeniable benefit, of simply listening, to this well-versed, this dear, old man? Learning at this highly-versed, heavily-principled, man’s knee? His knee! An old—very-outdated cliché. But, in this case, one which was very apt. So fittingly apt.

44769.png

Clearly, the earthshaking fact, of the two planes hurling into the World Trade Center towers, was—at first flush—even worse than Pearl Harbor! Much worse!

Potentially, there would be thousands—of out and out casualties! Thousands of doomed people! Thousands of purely-innocent souls! Killed! All murdered! Wiped out! Literally thousands of unspeakable, merciless, patently-vicious, indescribably-atrocious, deaths! Executions, they were! Maybe tens of thousands, of them! Probably tens of thousands, of them! Overwhelming numbers! Staggering numbers! Who could ever fathom the extent, of these most gruesome—most frightening—fatalities! Dear Lord!

Dear Lord is right! And this is all happening here! Right here! Right here! Here—on the North American continent! In New York City, for heaven’s sake! On American soil! Here! Here—and now!

Pearl Harbor was, to Jason, a totally different story. On the horrible day, that the Japanese had launched their cowardly sneak attack—when they had, literally, snuck up on those poor, unsuspecting, peace-loving, people—Hawaii had been merely an American territory. Plus, Oahu, actually, was located, geographically, hundreds of miles—from the mainland.

Well, of course, it still is. Those heroic people survived the terrible mass destruction—as all Americans seemed able to, back then. They, in fact, have thrived—over the ensuing years. Again, as all Americans seemed to have had the knack for—back then.

It would be almost 20 years after The Day That Will Live In Infamy—before all those beautiful islands would become an actual state! Our 50th!

There was absolutely no red state/blue state—split-down-the-middle—partisan mentality back then! According to Grandpa, the whole, entire, nation had mobilized! In an instant! Against the Japanese! Then, against the Germans and Italians—on whom, the United States had declared war, two days later!

The thought—of those glorious days, as so ably described, by Grandpa Piepczyk—had always brought a wistful, far-away, sigh from a highly-impressed, strongly-moved, Jason! Always! He had solemnly regretted—from age five, or six,—having missed out, on such a classic (and, obviously, classy) era!

44771.png

At the busy, crowded, coffee shop, Mr. Clarkson—the eatery’s owner—had both TVs turned on! Each tuned in—reporting the travesty! The one at the east end of the restaurant was showing The Fox News Channel. The west end set was tuned, to CNN. But, who was paying attention? Well—to be honest—maybe, a few! But, a precious few! Damn few, truth to tell!

What’s wrong with you people? Can’t you understand? Are all of you clods totally incapable . . . of understanding? Of understanding . . . what’s happening? Don’t you see? Don’t you care? Don’t you realize . . . what might be going on? What MUST be going on? Can’t you, freaking, SEE? Can’t you see everything . . . unraveling? Can’t you see . . . ANYTHING?

Commentators had begun to speculate, that the mind-numbing number, of casualties—resulting from the terrible atrocity—could, possibly, be listed, in the tens of thousands! As Jason had feared—from the beginning! Still, no one—in the coffee shop—seemed interested. Well, not that interested, anyway!

How can these people just sit there? How can they just go on with their stupid . . . pissy-assed . . . little lives? A catastrophe . . . a damn catastrophe . . . has just happened! The bastards have even hit the Pentagon! A positive catastrophe . . . is coming down! Been inflicted on us! An absolute damn catastrophe! And no one gives a shit! No one! Not a damn soul! Assholes! You’re all assholes!

What would Grandpa Piepczyk say? What would he think? Jason bowed his head. It was probably just as well that the old man had passed away—three years before. He’d be beside himself. Richard Piepczyk would be—his grandson was positive—as upset, as was young Rutkowski. Jason was becoming certain that he, himself, was horrified enough—for the both of them! What is the world coming to?

Rutkowski! It was Manny, the manager. Rutkowski! Get your head out of your ass! There’s an order, there… under the lights! You might consider actually delivering the goddam thing! Sometime before, fuckin’, springtime! Oh, and it was just simply sooooo nice of you… to actually show up, Sweetie! To grace us with your goddam presence! Even though you were twenty-five frigging minutes late. So goddam nice of you… even though we had lightning strike the shithouse, here! And we wound up… ass-deep . . . in all these customers! But, we do thank you… for finally draggin’ your lazy ass in here!

I’m sorry, Manny! But, you see . . . !

Get your head out of your ass, Kid! Unless you don’t really care! Care… about working here, anymore! What would your MOMMY say? Huh? Tell me, Jason-Baby! What would Mommy SAY . . . if I was to fire your tardy, totally-inept, ass? If you were to lose your frigging job? What would she SAY? What would she DO? Would she SPANK you? Is THAT what Mommy would do? Spank your widdle bottom? Now, fucking, get BUSY!

Absently, Our Hero paid absolutely no attention—to Manny’s normal, probably-obligatory, obscenity-laced, diatribe. He picked up the three plates, from the shelf between the counter, and the kitchen. The procedure was performed, absently enough—that he’d almost burned the back of his right hand, on the ever-present, red, keep-the-food-hot, lights. The ones that had always hovered, above the filled orders.

He delivered the fast-food cargo, to the two men, and the lady, in the booth in the far corner. The trio didn’t appear to be inconvenienced. The three of them were jawing—about some seemingly insignificant matter, at their thrilling place of employment.

They were seated, directly beneath the east television—and would have to have been totally deaf, to not have been aware of what was taking place, in Lower Manhattan! The sounds of sirens, of general destruction—and of hundreds (maybe thousands) of terror-stricken people screaming—flowed, in never-ending fashion, from the speakers of the large set. Jason had to fight back an overwhelming urge—to crank up the volume! Turn the set up—even more loudly!

How can you people just sit there . . . filling your faces? And not give a damn? Not give a tinker’s damn . . . about what’s happening? About what the hell is going on? How CAN you? Assholes!

RUTKOWSKI! The dulcet tones—of Manny—filled the coffee shop, yet again! You got another order, ready… Asshole! Get frigging with it!

Jason schlepped back—and began to, mistakenly, pick up the order, of some other server!

Jason! What the hell’s got into you? It was Lorna, the rather attractive waitress—who was, probably, his mother’s age. Our Boy was, in the process—of plucking her intended cargo, off of the shelf. Jason! she repeated, in a half-shout. Snap out of it, Babe! C’mon! You’re walking around… in a damn fog! In a freaking daze!

Our Boy, finally, delivered the proper order, to the proper booth—although it took some deep pondering! He’d forgotten who’d actually ordered the two fried chicken baskets. In addition, he had not marked the booth number on the guest check—as he absolutely should have!

The besieged server managed to—in similar fashion—blunder his way through the, larger-than-usual, lunch crowd. His service was—at best—marginal. Marginable enough, that Manny wound up sending him home—at one-thirty! Another expletive-rich dressing-down! This diatribe was even more volatile, than his usual—universally-accepted—abundant-four-letter-word-filled, rant! A feat deemed impossible—till that classic moment, in time!

The sainted manager advised Jason, in his own inimitable fashion, that it would be advisable for the lad—to Get your worthless ass, the hell on out of here! This deathless, oratorical, masterpiece was delivered—once the luncheon crowd had, noticeably, thinned out.

The young man had been less-than-diplomatically-

dispatched—a full five hours before his shift should’ve ended.

THREE

Once outside, Jason found himself simply wandering down Michigan Avenue—heading east, toward Telegraph Road. He also found himself kicking a can—a stupid tin can, for heaven’s sake—any