CHAPTER SIX

                 Backed up against the railroad tracks running parallel to main street stood a metal covered grain elevator where farmers brought their wheat to be shipped by rail to the markets. I could hear machinery running inside as it lifted grain from one bin and dumped it into another. Dust boiled from the open windows of the head tower but disappeared the instant that it came in contact with the rain. A man stood inside the big doors where trucks enter to be dumped. I waved at him and he returned the greeting.

                 Just past the elevator was the Case Tractor dealer. Cast iron eagles perched atop globes guarded either side of the driveway. A few pieces of nondescript farm equipment were parked around the shop building and I could hear the sound of a hammer pounding against steel coming from inside. A neon sign hanging on the front of the building flashed and flickered as raindrops spattered on open electrical connections.

                 Across the street from the tractor place was a squat brick building with "Studebaker" painted in big letters above the dirty windows. Several old model cars parked in front. They ranged from a Model A Ford to a couple vintage Studebakers with shiny new paint jobs. There was nothing there newer than about the beginning of WW-II. This must be one of those places which buys old cars and rebuilds them, I thought to myself. It's not usual to find a place which specializes in restoring antique and classic automobiles in the larger cities, but finding one in a remote place like this would be very unusual. On second thought, rural Nebraska might be a good place to go looking for old cars. While I'm not an antique car buff, I do get a kick out of looking at them, so I opened the door and walked inside.

                 A shiny black four door Studebaker sedan was parked to one side of the showroom floor and a blue two door on the other. Along the back wall of the showroom was a window with a sign above it indicating that it was the parts department. Through a glass window I could see two men sitting in an office. I opened the door of the sedan and the new-car smell wafted out. I was amazed at the restoration job which had been done on the car. Not only did it look like a new car, it even smelled like one.

                 "That's the brand new 1947 model; we just got it in yesterday," came a voice from behind me.

                 I was startled as I had not heard him approaching. "It's very nice. Where did it come from?" I replied, not being able to think of anything else to say.

                 The man stared at me and then at my backpack for a few seconds, wrinkled his brow as if he was unsure of what I was asking and replied, "From the Studebaker factory, where else."

                 I began to get the strangest feeling that something was very wrong because Studebaker had stopped building cars more than thirty years ago. Now here is a man telling me that this is a brand new 1947 model fresh from the factory. I turned my back to him and walked around the car, trying to gather my thoughts and figure out just what was going on. Between the car and the window was a couch with a coffee table in front of it. Laying on the table were several brochures about Studebaker and a copy of Life Magazine. I picked up the magazine and opened it to photos and an article about Mahatma Gandhi. I read the date on the cover, July 15, 1946.

                 "What is today's date?" I asked the man.

                 "August 24th," he replied.

                 "And the year," I asked in a measure voice.

                 "1946."

                 There was no way that I could carry on a conversation with this man and deal with what was happening to me, so I dropped the magazine back on the table and walked toward the door.

                 "Thanks and come again," he said as I stepped out into the rain.

                 There was a terrible fear deep in my gut as I walked toward the main part of town, not sure of where I was or how I had gotten there. Worse still, what was I going to be able to do about suddenly finding myself moved back 40 years in time. More important than that, how was I going to go about getting back to where I belonged. I had to go someplace where I could think and try to make sense out of this. Then a thought came to me, perhaps this whole situation is simply a continuation of a bad dream resulting from that Jalapeno and Anchovy pizza. I'm bound to wake up any minute and it will all be over.

                 The whole town looked like a set for a movie about the 1940s. The cars all dated to before the war and even their license tags showed the year to be 1946. As I walked along the street, trying to make heads or tails of what was happening, I smelled coffee and food. It reminded me that not only was a cold fear gnawing at me, but also hunger. The aroma was coming from the door to the City Cafe. It seems that there is a City Cafe in every small town, as if trying to encourage the town to grow to the status of a city.

                 Inside, it was warm and dry. Several varnished plywood booths lined one wall and half a dozen tables with chrome legs and formica tops were carefully lined up down the middle of the place. A long counter began at a display case filled with cigars, candy and gum and extended to near the swinging doors to the kitchen. Along the counter was a row of round chrome stools with red imitation leather cushions. Occupying the last stool next to the kitchen, a lone man who cuddled a cup of coffee with both hands. The waitress behind the counter gave me a smile and a questioning look as she held up a coffee cup.

                 "Please," I said as I placed my backpack on the seat of one of the booths and slid in beside it. It was almost as if I was trying to build a barrier around myself.

                 The leggy waitress, who appeared to be somewhere around forty, wore her dark hair in a Betty Grable style. She had an unusually trim figure for a woman of her age and had retained the greater part of her youthful beauty. In fact, she was a strikingly beautiful lady. She placed a glass of water and a cup of steaming black coffee in front of me and asked, "Cream?"

                 "No, thanks, I drink it black, but you can bring me a menu."

                 She handed me a plastic covered menu written in pencil. Under the heading of "Plate Lunches" it listed Roast Beef, Roast Pork, Fried Chicken, Pork Chops, Corned Beef and Cabbage, Liver and Onions, Salmon Cakes and Beef Stew.

                 "I'll have the roast beef," I told her.

                 "We're out of that," she replied.

                 "OK, then, just bring me the roast pork."

                 "Out of that too. They are having court today and we had a lot of people for lunch."

                 I moved my finger down to the fried chicken. "No fried chicken or pork chops either," she said before I could ask. Then she added, "He didn't cook any corned beef and cabbage or liver and onions today. No body ever eats them anyway."

                 "Why don't you just tell me what you do have and we'll go from that," I told her.

                 "Salmon cakes or a hamburger is about all that's left."

                 "How are the salmon cakes?" I asked.

                 "Well, I ate them and I'm still alive," she replied with a laugh.

                 "I suppose that is as good a recommendation as I could ask for," I replied as I handed her the menu.

                 "Salmon cakes!" she shouted in the direction of the kitchen. "Match you for the music," she said as she pulled a coin from the pocket of her apron.

                 "I got out a quarter. We tossed the coins in the air and caught them as they came down. Both of us slapped the coins on the table. We both had heads. "Better luck next time," she said as she picked up my quarter and walked to the jute against the back wall. There was a noticeable swing to her hips as she walked.

                 She dropped in the coin and punched a button. An arm swung out with a record, the turntable rose and the jute box began playing a Glenn Miller recording. I finally recognized the name of the music, it was "in The Mood." Music straight out of World War Two, I thought. She swayed her hips in time with the music while she selected four more records. That kind of music coming from a jute box seemed so out of place.

                 "Hey Maggie, how come you don't never play nothing but that old horn music? Why don't you play something good?" asked the man at the counter.

                 She ignored him and returned to stand next to the booth, swinging her hips with the music. "I haven't seen you in here before, where you from?" she asked.

                 "Colorado," I replied in an effort to bring the conversation to an end so I could think about my situation.

                 "I have a sister in Denver, Ida Barnes. She works for the government at the mint. Maybe you know her?"

                 "I'm afraid not. I live in Black Forest.

                 "I grew up in Denver but I never heard of a place by that name, Where is it?"

                 "It's near the Air Force Academy....it's close to Colorado Springs," I corrected myself, realizing that there no such thing as an Air Force Academy in 1946. In fact, there wasn't even a branch of service called the Air Force.

                 "Pick up!" shouted the cook as he set my lunch in the window. As the waitress went to get it, two men came in and sat at the counter. Perhaps she would leave me alone and let me think.

                 She refilled my coffee cup as she set the plate on the table, then poured coffee for the two men at the counter without asking. Obviously they are regulars, I thought to myself as I surveyed my lunch. Greasy fried salmon cakes, mashed potatoes with brown gravy, pinto beans and corn. Not a single green vegetable or salad, just saturated fat and starch. This must be the cardiac arrest center of the world. No wonder that the life expectancy was ten years less in 1946 than it is only forty years later.

                 A thought came to me as I ate my lunch. If I had actually gone back 40 years in time, could it be that I regressed in age at the same time and I am now forty years younger. Just think of the possibilities that would offer. Seventeen years old and with the knowledge of what was going to happen during the next forty years. I looked at my hands and they appeared no different from what I remembered. I had to see what I looked like. There was a cigarette machine with a mirror next to the front door so I strolled over to it and looked into the mirror. The same face that I had shaved that morning stared back at me.

                 "Need some cigarette change?" asked the waitress.

                 "No, thanks. Just checking something," I replied.

                 "You look pretty good to me," she said.

                 It does great things for a man's ego to have a woman try to hit on him, especially one who is attractive as this one. However, that was the last thing that I needed at a time like this. "Thanks," I replied.

                 Suddenly a thought struck me. I have been presented with a rare opportunity. My father had been dead for thirty years and my mother twenty. This might be my chance to see them again, or at least talk with them. I finished my meal and went to the cash register to pay for it.

                 "That'll be sixty-five cents," said the waitress.

                 One thing that could be said for being back in 1946 was that it didn't cost very much to eat. I pulled a handful of quarters from my pocket and pushed five of them across the counter to her, "Keep the change, and could you tell me where I could make a long distance phone call."

                 "The switchboard is at the other end of this block and across the street," she replied as she put three of the quarters in the register and dropped a dime and the other two into her pocket. I swung my backpack over my shoulder and headed out the door.

                 The telephone office was in what had once been the living room of a home. There was a curtain hanging across the hallway leading to the back part of the house. The lady who ran it sat on a high stool in front of one of those old switchboards with a multitude of little holes and the cords which were pulled up from the base to be plugged in to complete a connection.

                 "I'd like to place a long distance call to the Mills Foreman residence in Stinnett, Texas," I told her.

                 "Do you have the number?" she asked.

                 "I'm sorry, but I don't remember it," I replied.

                 She wrote my dad's name and Stinnett on a small piece of paper, pulled up a cord, plugged it into one of the holes and pressed a lever forward with one hand while she spun a crank with the other. A few seconds later, she said, "Routing to Stinnett, Texas, please."

                 My palms grew sweaty. What would I say to them when they answered? What would they think when a 57 year old man called to tell them that he was their son. In 1946, they weren't even as old as I am now. I heard her ask for the Mills Foreman residence. I was just about ready to tell her to forget the call when she said, "I'm sorry, but there is no answer."

                 Things were getting more complicated all the time. I couldn't call my parents and what about my own wife. For all that my she knew, I was on my way to Oshkosh and was supposed to be back home in about three days. What would happen when I didn't show up with the Cub. I hadn't filed a flight plan but John knew that I was on my way and would notify the FAA if I didn't call or arrive tomorrow. The CAP would search along the route that I would have taken, but how could they find me if I had somehow slipped back in time to 1946.

                 I thought about it for a moment and decided to see if it was 1946 everywhere, or just where I was. "I'd like to place another call," I told her. "Please call Area Code 303, 495-2392."

                 "Where's that? I never heard of a number like that before." she said.

                 "Forget it," I replied as I walked out the door.

                 The rain had stopped when I came out of the telephone office so I began to walk along the sidewalk toward the west side of town to do some serious thinking. I had to try to figure out how this had happened to me and how to get back out of it. I passed the school and had turned around to walk back when I heard the bell ring inside the building. A few seconds later, a couple hundred kids of all ages came boiling out the doors. Some climbed onto waiting school busses while the others scattered for their homes in town. After the kids had gone, the teachers came out, got in their cars and left. It makes no difference whether it is 1946 or 1986, school hasn't changed a bit.

                 I entered the drugstore which was next to the bank. There was a rack of comic books along the wall next to the door and a sign above it read, "Buy First, Read Later" but it seemed to have no effect on the three boys who were sitting on the base of the rack, totally engrossed in the latest comics. As I hoisted myself onto one of the wrought iron stools and ran my hand over the polished marble surface of the soda fountain, a man in a white coat emerged from an alcove lined with narrow shelves of bottles of various medicines.

                 "What'll you have?" he asked.

                 "Coke," I replied.

                 He picked up a glass, squirted a shot and a half of dark syrup from one of the half-dozen pumps which lined the counter and reached for the ice scoop. "Make that a Coke float," I said. "I haven't had one of those in years."

                 He gave me a strange look as he slid the glass under one of three tall spigots. He pulled the lever toward him and filled the glass nearly full of carbonated water. He gave the coke a few quick turns with a long spoon, dropped in a scoop of vanilla ice cream and slid it across the counter to me.

                 He gave me a questioning look as he picked up one of the four quarters that I placed on the counter and went over to the cash register. As he rang up fifteen cents, he noticed the boys who were reading the comic books.

                 "If you kids can read those comic books, then you ought to be able to read that sign," he shouted.

                 The boys dropped the comic books like they were hot and scampered out the door.

                 "Damn kids," he said as he slid a dime across the marble counter to me. "If they want to read for free, they ought to go down to the library."

                 I took a sip the coke, which seemed to be a lot sweeter than normal, then I remembered seeing him give it an extra half shot of syrup. I guess that is his way or rewarding adults who come into his place to buy something instead of reading his comic books for free. He dumped the ice and water from some dirty glasses, swished them around in a sink filled with suds, dunked them in the rinse water and turned them upside down on a towel to drain.

                 "Ain't seen you around here before," he said. "You new in town or just coming through?"

                 "Just passing through," I replied as a woman entered with a slip of paper in her hand.

                 "Afternoon, Mrs. Jones," said the druggist as the door bumped shut behind her.

                 "Doc Pritchard give me this 'scription," she said as she handed him the slip of paper. He was reading what was written on it as he entered the small pharmacy area.

                 He selected one of the brown bottles from a shelf and transferred some of the pills into a smaller bottle. "I see that the doctor has changed your medicine," he said.

                 "Yeah, I been doin' poorly on the other medicine," she replied. "Edgar takes some of it now and then and it seems to help him more than it does me."

                 "How did your mother do on the medicine that I gave you?" he asked.

                 "She complains all the time about something so I don't know whether it helped or not," she answered.                                      

                 The scintillating conversation continued as I finished the coke and pocketed my change. I doubt that the druggist even noticed me as I left. Neither had he noticed that two more boys had taken up residence at the comic book display.

                 When I emerged from the drugstore, the overcast seemed to have lifted slightly and I could now see at least a mile. It was just a little past four in the afternoon and darkness was still a few hours away. If I could get back into the air, I could make several miles before dark, but where would I go. No matter, I had to go someplace and do something. I couldn't sit where I was and let what was happening to me continue.

                 I walked to the corner and took one last look at the City Cafe before crossing the street. I could see several people milling around inside the place, business must have picked up.

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