These lights are placed up high, on telegraph poles, or suspended over intersections, so that they may be seen by teamsters or drivers or cyclists from a distance. When the green lights shine, let us say, north and south, the red lights shine east and west—traffic may flow north and south, while east and west traffic is required to stand and wait exactly as if a police officer had blown his whistle and held up his hands, motioning traffic to move north and south while restraining traffic from moving east and west.
Is that clear? The lights replace the policeman’s hand signals.
The amber lights replace the policeman’s whistle; they warn of an imminent change in the situation.
But what is the advantage?—since someone, presumably a policeman, must switch the lights on and off, as needed. Simply this: The switching is done automatically from a distance (even miles!) at a central switchboard.
There are many other marvels about this system, such as electrical counting devices to decide how long each light burns for best handling of the traffic, special lights for controlling left turns or to accommodate people on foot…but the truly great marvel is this: People obey these lights.
Think about it. With no policemen anywhere around people obey these blind and dumb bits of machinery as if they were policemen.
Are people here so sheeplike and peaceful that they can be controlled this easily? No. I wondered about it and found some statistics in the library. This world has a higher rate of violent crime than does the world in which I was born. Caused by these strange lights? I don’t think so. I think that the people here, although disposed to violence against each other, accept obeying traffic lights as a logical thing to do. Perhaps.
As may be, it is passing strange.
Another conspicuous difference in technology lies in air traffic. Not the decent, cleanly; safe, and silent dirigible airships of my home world—No, no! These are more like the aeroplanos of the Mexicano world in which Margrethe and I sweated out our indentures before the great quake that destroyed Mazatlán. But they are so much bigger, faster, noisier, and fly so much higher than the aeroplanos we knew that they are almost another breed—or are indeed another breed, perhaps, as they are called “jet planes.” Can you imagine a vehicle that flies eight miles above the ground? Can you imagine a giant car that moves faster than sound? Can you imagine a screaming whine so loud that it makes your teeth ache?
They call this “progress.” I long for the comfort and graciousness of LTA Count von Zeppelin. Because you can’t get away from these behemoths. Several times a day one of these things goes screaming over the mission, fairly low down, as it approaches a grounding at the flying field north of the city. The noise bothers me and makes Margrethe very nervous.
Still, most of the enhancements in technology really are progress—better plumbing, better lighting indoors and out, better roads, better buildings, many sorts of machinery that make human labor less onerous and more productive. I am never one of those back-to-nature freaks who sneer at engineering; I have more reason than most people to respect engineering. Most people who sneer at technology would starve to death if the engineering infrastructure were removed.
We had been in Nogales just short of three weeks when I was able to carry out a plan that I had dreamed of for nearly five months…and had actively plotted since our arrival in Nogales (but had to delay until I could afford it). I picked Monday to carry it out, that being my day off. I told Margrethe to dress up in her new clothes as I was taking my best girl out for a treat, and I dressed up, too—my one suit, my new shoes, and a clean shirt…and shaved and bathed and nails clean and trimmed.
It was a lovely day, sunny and not too hot. We both felt cheerful because, first, Mrs. Owens had written to Brother McCaw saying that she was staying on another week if she could be spared, and second, we now had enough money for bus fares for both of us to Wichita, Kansas, although just barely—but the word from Mrs. Owens meant that we could squirrel away another four hundred dollars for eating money on the way and still arrive not quite broke.
I took Margrethe to a place I had spotted the day I looked for a job as a dishwasher—a nice little place Outside the tenderloin, an old-fashioned ice cream parlor.
We stopped outside it. “Best girl, see this place? Do you remember a conversation we had when we were floating on the broad Pacific on a sunbathing mat and not really expecting to live much longer?—at least I was not.”
“Beloved, how could I forget?”
“I asked you what you would have if you could have anything in the world that you wanted. Do you remember what you answered?”
“Of course I do! It was a hot fudge sundae.”
“Right! Today is your unbirthday, dear. You are about to have that hot fudge sundae.”
“Oh, Alec!”
“Don’t blubber. Can’t stand a woman who cries. Or you can have a chocolate malt. Or a sawdust sundae. Whatever your heart desires. But I did make sure that this place always has hot fudge sundaes before I brought you here.”
“We can’t afford it. We should save for the trip.”
“We can afford it. A hot fudge sundae is five dollars. Two for ten dollars. And I’m going to be a dead game sport and tip the waitress a dollar. Man does not live by bread alone. Nor does woman, Woman. Come along!”
We were shown to a table by a pretty waitress (but not as pretty as my bride). I seated Margrethe with her back to the street, holding the chair for her, and then sat down opposite her. “I’m Tammy,” the waitress said as she offered us a menu. “What would you folks like this lovely day?”
“We won’t need the menu,” I said. “Two hot fudge sundaes, please.”
Tammy looked thoughtful. “All right, if you don’t mind waiting a few minutes. We may have to make up the hot sauce.”
“A few minutes, who cares? We’ve waited much longer than that.”
She smiled and went away. I looked at Marga. “We’ve waited much longer. Haven’t we?”
“Alec, you’re a sentimentalist and that’s part of why I love you.”
“I’m a sentimental slob and right now I’m slavering at the thought of hot fudge sundae. But I wanted you to see this place for another reason, too. Marga, how would you like to run such a place as this? Us, that is. Together. You’d be boss, I’d be dishwasher, janitor, handyman, bouncer, and whatever was needed.”
She looked very thoughtful. “You are serious?”
“Quite. Of course we couldn’t go into business for ourselves right away; we will have to save some money first. But not much, the way I plan it. A dinky little place, but bright and cheerful—after I paint it. A soda fountain, plus a very limited menu. Hot dogs. Hamburgers. Danish open-face sandwiches. Nothing else. Soup, maybe. But canned soups are no problem and not much inventory.”
Margrethe looked shocked. “Not canned soups. I can serve a real soup…cheaper and better than anything out of a tin.”
“I defer to your professional judgment, Ma’am. Kansas has half a dozen little college towns; any of them would welcome such a place. Maybe we pick a shop already existing, a mom-and-pop place—work for them a year, then buy them out. Change the name to The Hot Fudge Sundae. Or maybe Marga’s Sandwiches.”
“The Hot Fudge Sundae. Alec, do you really think we can do this?”
I leaned toward her and took her hand. “I’m sure we can, darling. And without working ourselves to death, too.” I moved my head. “That traffic light is staring me right in the eye.”
“I know. I can see it reflected in your eye every time it changes. Want to swap seats? It won’t bother me.”
“It doesn’t bother me. It just has a somewhat hypnotic effect.” I looked down at the table, looked back at the light. “Hey, it’s gone out.”
Margrethe twisted her neck to look. “I don’t see it. Where?”
“Uh…pesky thing has disappeared. Looks like.”
I heard a male voice at my elbow. “What’ll it be for you two? Beer or wine; we’re not licensed for th
e hard stuff.”
I looked around, saw a waiter. “Where’s Tammy?”
“Who’s Tammy?”
I took a deep breath, tried to slow my heart, then said, “Sorry, brother; I shouldn’t have come in here. I find I’ve left my wallet at home.” I stood up. “Come, dear.”
Wide-eyed and silent, Margrethe came with me. As we walked out, I looked around, noting changes. I suppose it was a decent enough place, as beer joints go. But it was not our cheerful ice cream parlor.
And not our world.
XV
Boast not thyself of tomorrow; for
thou knowest not what a day may bring forth.
Proverbs 27:1
Outside, without planning it, I headed us toward the Salvation Army mission. Margrethe kept quiet and held tight to my arm. I should have been frightened; instead I was boiling angry. Presently I muttered, “Damn them! Damn them!”
“Damn who, Alec?”
“I don’t know. That’s the worst of it. Whoever is doing this to us. Your friend Loki, maybe.”
“He is not my friend, any more than Satan is your friend. I dread and fear what Loki is doing to our world.”
“I’m not afraid, I’m angry. Loki or Satan or whoever, this last is too much. No sense to it. Why couldn’t they wait thirty minutes? That hot fudge sundae was practically under our nose—and they snatched it away! Marga, that’s not right, that’s not fair! That’s sheer, unadulterated cruelty. Senseless. On a par with pulling wings off flies. I despise them. Whoever.”
Instead of continuing with useless talk about matters we could not settle, Margrethe said, “Dear, where are we going?”
“Eh?” I stopped short. “Why, to the mission, I suppose.”
“Is this the right way?”
“Why, yes, cert—” I paused to look around. “I don’t know.” I had been walking automatically, my attention fully on my anger. Now I found that I was unsure of any landmarks. “I guess I’m lost.”
“I know I am.”
It took us another half hour to get straightened out. The neighborhood was vaguely familiar but nothing was quite right. I found the block where Ron’s Grill should be, could not find Ron’s Grill. Eventually a policeman directed us to the mission…which was now in a different building. To my surprise, Brother McCaw was there. But he did not recognize us, and his name was now McNabb. We left, as gracefully as possible. Not very, that is.
I walked us back the way we had come—slowly, as I wasn’t going anywhere. “Marga, we’re right back where we were three weeks ago. Better shoes, that’s all. A pocket full of money—but money we can’t spend, as it is certain to be funny money here…good for a quiet rest behind bars if I tried to pass any of it.”
“You’re probably right, dear one.”
“There is a bank on that corner just ahead. Instead of trying to spend any of it, I could walk in and simply ask whether or not it was worth anything.”
“There couldn’t be any harm in that. Could there?”
“There shouldn’t be. But our friend Loki could have another practical joke up his sleeve. Uh, we’ve got to know. Here—you take everything but one bill. If they arrest me, you pretend not to know me.”
“No!”
“What do you mean, ‘No’? There is no point in both of us being in jail.”
She looked stubborn and said nothing. How can you argue with a woman who won’t talk? I sighed. “Look, dear, the only other thing I can think of is to look for another job washing dishes. Maybe Brother McNabb will let us sleep in the mission tonight.”
“I’ll look for a job, too. I can wash dishes. Or cook. Or something.”
“We’ll see. Come inside with me, Marga; we’ll go to jail together. But I think I’ve figured out how to handle this without going to jail.” I took out one treasury note, crumpled it, and tore one corner. Then we went into the bank together, me holding it in my hand as if I had just picked it up. I did not go to a teller’s window; instead I went to that railing behind which bank officials sit at their desks.
I leaned on the railing and spoke to the man nearest to it; his desk sign marked him as assistant manager. “Excuse me, sir! Can you answer a question for me?”
He looked annoyed but his reply did not show it. “I’ll try. What’s on your mind?”
“Is this really money? Or is it stage money, or something?”
He looked at it, then looked more closely. “Interesting. Where did you get this?”
“My wife found it on a sidewalk. Is it money?”
“Of course it’s not money. Whoever heard of a twenty-dollar note? Stage money, probably. Or an advertising promotion.”
“Then it’s not worth anything?”
“It’s worth the paper it’s printed on, that’s all. I doubt that it could even be called counterfeit, since there has been no effort to make it look like the real thing. Still, the Treasury inspectors will want to see it.”
“All right. Can you take care of it?”
“Yes. But they’ll want to talk to you, I’m sure. Let’s get your name and address. And your wife’s, of course, since she found it.”
“Okay. I want a receipt for it.” I gave our names as “Mr. and Mrs. Alexander Hergensheimer” and gave the address—but not the name—of Ron’s Grill. Then I solemnly accepted a receipt.
Once out on the sidewalk I said, “Well, we’re no worse off than we thought we were. Time for me to look for some dirty dishes.”
“Alec—”
“Yes, beloved?”
“We were going to Kansas.”
“So we were. But our bus-fare money is not worth the paper it is printed on. I’ll have to earn some more. I can. I did it once, I can do it again.”
“Alec. Let us now go to Kansas.”
A half hour later we were walking north on the highway to Tucson. Whenever anyone passed us, I signalled our hope of being picked up.
It took us three hitches simply to reach Tucson. At Tucson it would have made equal sense to head east toward El Paso, Texas, as to continue on Route 89, as 89 swings west before it goes north to Phoenix. It was settled for us by the chance that the first lift we were able to beg out of Tucson was with a teamster who was taking a load north.
This ride we were able to pick up at a truckers’ stop at the intersection of 89 and 80, and I am forced to admit that the teamster listened to our plea because Margrethe is the beauty she is—had I been alone I might still be standing there. I might as well say right now that this whole trip depended throughout on Margrethe’s beauty and womanly charm quite as much as it depended on my willingness to do any honest work whatever, no matter how menial, dirty, or difficult.
I found this fact unpleasant to face. I held dark thoughts of Potiphar’s wife and of the story of Susanna and the Elders. I found myself being vexed with Margrethe when her only offense lay in being her usual gracious, warm, and friendly self. I came close to telling her not to smile at strangers and to keep her eyes to herself.
That temptation hit me sharpest that first day at sundown when this same trucker stopped at a roadside oasis centered around a restaurant and a fueling facility. “I’m going to have a couple of beers and a sirloin steak,” he announced. “How about you, Maggie baby? Could you use a rare steak? This is the place where they just chase the cow through the kitchen.”
She smiled at him. “Thank you, Steve. But I’m not hungry.”
My darling was telling an untruth. She knew it, I knew it—and I felt sure that Steve knew it. Our last meal had been breakfast at the mission, eleven hours and a universe ago. I had tried to wash dishes for a meal at the truckers’ stop outside Tucson, but had been dismissed rather abruptly. So we had had nothing all day but water from a public drinking faucet.
“Don’t try to kid your grandmother, Maggie. We’ve been on the road four hours. You’re hungry.”
I spoke up quickly to keep Margrethe from persisting in an untruth—told, I felt certain, on my behalf. “What she means, Steve, is that sh
e doesn’t accept dinner invitations from other men. She expects me to provide her dinner.” I added, “But I thank you on her behalf and we both thank you for the ride. It’s been most pleasant.”
We were still seated in the cab of his truck, Margrethe in the middle. He leaned forward and looked around her. “Alec, you think I’m trying to get into Maggie’s pants, don’t you?”
I answered stiffly that I did not think anything of the sort while thinking privately that that was exactly what I thought he had been trying to accomplish all along…and I resented not only his unchivalrous overtures but also the gross language he had just used. But I had learned the hard way that rules of polite speech in the world in which I had grown up were not necessarily rules in another universe.
“Oh, yes, you do think so. I wasn’t born yesterday and a lot of my life has been spent on the road, getting my illusions knocked out. You think I’m trying to lay your woman because every stud who comes along tries to put the make on her. But let me clue you in, son. I don’t knock when there’s nobody at home. And I can always tell. Maggie ain’t having any. I checked that out hours ago. And congratulations; a faithful woman is good to find. Isn’t that true?”
“Yes, certainly,” I agreed grudgingly.
“So get your feathers down. You’re about to take your wife to dinner. You’ve already said thank you to me for the ride but why don’t you really thank me by inviting me to dinner?—so I won’t have to eat alone.”
I hope that I did not look dismayed and that my instant of hesitation was not noticeable. “Certainly, Steve. We owe you that for your kindness. Uh, will you excuse me while I make some arrangements?” I started to get out of the cab.
“Alec, you don’t lie any better than Maggie does.”
“Excuse me?”
“You think I’m blind? You’re broke. Or, if you aren’t absolutely stony, you are so near flat you can’t afford to buy me a sirloin steak. Or even the blueplate special.”
Job: A Comedy of Justice Page 17