Locomotive to the Past Read online

  GEORGE D. SCHULTZ

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  © 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)

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  Trafford rev. 02/13/2014

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  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”

  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!”