April 23^rd, Luncheon

As the long whistle blast signaled the departure of the Noon mixed local, Crandall leaned close to the log book, noting that very fact in his neat block letters. His cursive handwriting had been a private shame to him as far back as his school days, and was still nearly illegible. He slapped the book closed with a sigh, raising a cloud of northern prairie dust.

Donning his sack coat and ineffectually brushing off his sleeves, Arthur made sure the Porter, Charles, was not drunk or asleep then turned his attention to his luncheon of hard-boiled eggs, cheese and stale bread. He ate fussily, wiping nearly non existent crumbs with his handkerchief, whilst perusing a copy of the Omaha Bee.

A man had inadvertently exchanged hats with another, the Council Bluffs Base-Ball team would see a rematch with Plattsmouth for the first time since the twelve inning 7 to 6 game last season. Crandall noted that a special round trip rate of one dollar was being offered. “Always the last to know!” Crandall grunted around a mouthful of egg. The deaf and dumb home was in need of a gardener; Arthur thought with amusement, at least there might be some peace and quiet. Although upon reflection having to loudly declaim the latest changes to the inmates vis-à-vis plantings and grounds-keeping might grow wearisome. The Easter Musicale at the Presbyterian Church on Thursday evening looked delightful, with selections from Gilbert and Sullivan and a new composition for the Badolet brothers by Professor Baetens entitled “Sleep well Thou Beautiful Angel.” He would simply have to be in attendance. He checked his watch, sighing audibly when he noted he had no time to fetch a cream soda from Saxe’s across the river.

To be continued…

Urgent: Cash On Delivery

A Tale of the Railroads and the Men Who Work Them

By

E. Michael George

Foreward

Too many pieces of historical fiction focus only on the Soldier, the Diplomat, the Prince or King, the Spies that lurk doing the bidding of their shadowy masters. Now here is a tale of the men who tie strings, use mucilage, stamp with patented ink-stamps, and brave the dusty streets and boardwalks for their hamburger sandwich and mug of beer at lunch. History is made in the Boarding-House as well as on the Battle-Field and the great events of our Nation are writ in mining injury reports as well as upon the ledgers of the counting house as indelibly as upon the statuary and monuments of the greats.

E. Michael George,

Burbank, California

2010

Chapter One, April 23^rd

Arthur Crandall, assistant depot master of the Council Bluffs, Iowa Union Pacific station, finished nailing the rate change notice on the board outside the station. The circular, stated that the ten-cent fare to Omaha would be raised to twenty-five cents effective May 1^st. A round trip would cost a discounted forty-five cents. Family tickets for a ninety-day span were available for $6.25 and 15.60 good for 156 rides.  He dusted his hands off despite having not soiled them, a habit from his boyhood on the farm where honest dirt was a constant companion. A check of his watch upon its patent gold chain showed 4:15 am. Winds were slow and the air dewy and spring fresh. The 4:45 for Omaha was loading mail and a few passengers milled about the station. Arthur straightened himself and viewed his work. Surely tongues would wag here and in Nebraska about the fare rise. But, the Railroad would not stoop to compete with the commutation streetcar railways, that was a fact just as the sun rose over to the East and the cuspidors needed to be emptied daily, twice on paydays. A few locals, to whom Arthur nodded and graced with a sage nod, had begun to coalesce into an impromptu viewing party around the notice. Satisfied with his handiwork and that it was garnering attention form its intended audience, he retired into the station office to check if any parcels needed sorting.

To be continued…