“What else could I do, honey? I couldn’t stay up there all night—not in a Volkswagen. I’d catch cold. I’d be all cramped up.”
“You could’ve got into somebody else’s car. This Arvin fellow would have let you. Somebody with a heater or a big back seat or something.”
“You can’t just barge into somebody else’s car and stay overnight, honey. Anyway, I wanted to phone. That’s why I came down in the first place.”
She rubbed his bare knee. “Oh, Charlie.” Leaning against him again she said “At least nothing happened to you. That’s the most important thing.”
She snuggled next to him, and they were quiet, until she said, “But Charlie, what’ll we do?”
“About what?”
“About the car.”
“Wait it out, I guess. Wait till tomorrow at least, until they break the jam. Then get back out there. Of course, that won’t be as easy as it sounds. Probably have to get over to the nearest approach and hike in—maybe two, three miles of freeway, up the center strip, I suppose— plus getting to the approach itself, which is right in the middle of town. Maybe I can borrow a bike. I don’t know quite how we’ll . . .”
“Say. Don and Louise have a two-seater. Maybe we can borrow that and both go.”
“Maybe,” Charlie said wearily. “Let’s worry about that tomorrow. I’m bushed.”
* * * *
The next morning Charlie borrowed the big two-seater from Don and Louise, Fay packed a lunch, and they pedaled across the city, figuring to get there fairly early, to be on hand when their car was free, although an early solution was no longer likely. The morning news predicted another 36 hours before traffic would be moving. The jam now included not only the freeways, but all main streets and key intersections, where buses, streetcars and trucks were still entangled. It even extended beyond the city. Police had tried to block incoming traffic, but it was impossible. All highways transversed the city or its net of suburbs. Impatient motorists, discrediting police reports, finally broke the road blocks, and the confusion was extending in all directions by hundreds of cars an hour.
Charlie and Fay smugly bypassed all that, following a devious route of unblocked streets that he mapped out after watching the news on TV. They pedaled most of the morning. At last they mounted a high bluff and decided to ride an elevator to the roof of an apartment building that rose above the freeway where their car was parked. Charlie brought along a pair of Navy binoculars. From that vantage point they ate lunch and surveyed the curving rows of silent cars.
“Can you see ours, Charlie?”
“Yeah. She looks okay. A little squeezed up, but okay.”
“Lemme see.”
“Here.”
“Gee,” Fay said. “Some of those poor men are still sitting out there. Don’t you know their wives are worried.”
“Their wives probably heard the news. Everybody must know by now.”
“Still worried though, I’ll bet.” She hugged Charlie and pecked his cheek. “I’m so glad you came home.” Then, peering again, “I’ll bet those men are hungry. Maybe we should take them some sandwiches.”
“Take a lot of sandwiches to feed everybody stuck on the freeway, honey.”
“I mean for the men right around our car. That Arvin, for instance. You know . . . your friends, sort of.”
“I don’t really know them that well, Fay.”
“Well, we ought to do something.”
“Red Cross is probably out,” Charlie said. “Isn’t that a cross on that helicopter way down there by the city hall? Here, gimme the glasses.”
“I’ll be darned,” Fay said. “It is. They’re dropping little packages.”
“Here. Lemme see. Yeah. Yeah, that’s just what they’re doing. Guys are standing on the roofs of their cars, waving. I guess it’s been a pretty tough night.”
“The poor dears.”
Charlie munched a tuna sandwich and scanned the city like a skipper. After a few moments Fay pointed. “Hey look, Charlie. Over that way. A couple more helicopters.”
“Where? Down there? Oh yeah. Couple of military birds, looks like. I guess the Army’s out too.”
“What’re they doing—lifting out one of the cars?”
“No, not a car. It looks like a long, narrow crate. And they’re not lifting it, they’re lowering it endways. A couple of guys in overalls are down below waiting for it. There. It’s down. They’re anchoring it to the center strip. Wait a minute. It’s not a crate. One of the guys in overalls just opened a door on the front of it, and he’s stepping inside. Hey. People are jumping out of their cars and running down the center strip. They’re running from everywhere, climbing over hoods. Somebody just knocked over the other guy in overalls. I think there’s gonna be a fight. They’re really crowding around that door and pushing . . . No ... I think it’s gonna be okay. The guy inside just came out, and he’s tacking up a sign over the door. All the men are starting to walk away. The women are lining up along the center strip now.”
“The dears.”
“A woman just opened the door and stepped inside.”
“Oh, Charlie, I’m so glad you came home.”
“Me too.”
From the rooftop they could hear the police helicopter’s periodic messages. By the end of the first day, predictions for clearing the jam were at least two, perhaps three more days. Knowing they should be on hand whenever it broke, yet weary at the very thought of pedaling across the city twice each day to their vantage point and home again, they decided to rent an apartment in the building below them. Fortunately one was available on the top floor, facing the freeway. They moved in that evening, although they had little to move but the binoculars and a thermos. They agreed that Charlie would pedal home the next day to pick up a few necessities, while Fay kept an eye on the car.
The plan worked marvelously. Once situated, they set up a rotation watch—four hours on, four hours off. Charlie figured he could reach the car from the apartment in half an hour if things looked ready to break. He figured he’d have that much warning, by listening to helicopter messages, and watching TV and frequently checking the progress downtown where the cranes worked. Through the binoculars he watched the great jaws lift out cars, vans and buses and drop them over the sides of the freeway. Things would loosen up down there first, he figured, giving him time to bicycle six blocks to the pine tree a mile below his car. Scaling the tree he could reach the top of a 15-foot-high concrete retaining wall and drop to the freeway. From there it was an easy jog up the center strip and around the sloping cloverleaf curve to the overpass.
To be safe Charlie made dry runs over the course a few times each day—down the elevator, onto his bike, up the tree, over the wall, along the freeway, to his car. He’d switch on the engine and warm it for a few minutes, then stroll back, waving to waiting motorists who watched his passage with mixed admiration, envy and disbelief. By the third day the men were stubble-faced, sullen, dark-eyed from fitful sleeping. The women were disheveled, pasty-faced, most of them staring blankly through windshields at nothing. Charlie felt he ought to do something. Sometimes he squatted on the center strip to talk to the man who’d lent him the tow rope.
“How’s it going, Arv?”
“ ‘Bout the same, Charlie.”
“Pretty hot out here today, huh?”
“ ‘Bout like it’s been, Charlie. Gettin’ used to it, I guess. You probably feel it more than I do. That’s a long pull.”
“Not so bad anymore. The old legs are shaping up.”
“How’s your time?”
“Twenty-eight, ten, today.”
“Cuttin’ it down, hey boy.”
“Poco a poco,” Charlie said. “Poco a poco. It’s the elevator that really holds me back though. Slowest elevator I’ve ever seen.”
“You ever thought of waiting down on the sidewalk someplace? The wife could maybe signal out the window when the time comes.”
“Say . . .”
“It came to me y
esterday,” Arvin said, “but I figured you’d thought of it.”
“Never entered my head. That’s a great idea, Arv.” Charlie paused. “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he went on. “Why don’t you come up to the apartment to meet Fay? I’ve told her about you. You’d like her, I know. We could have a couple of drinks and just relax for awhile.”
“Well . . . that’s real nice of you, Charlie. But . . . I’m not sure. The trouble is, you never know when the thing’s gonna break loose.”
“I’ve got that two-seater, Arv. If anything happens, we can pedal back over here in no time. Cuttin’ it down every trip, ya know. C’mon. It’d be good for you to get away.”
“I’d like to, Charlie, I really would. But... to be honest, I haven’t had this car very long. I’m still making payments, and . . . well, I just feel like I ought to stick pretty close to it.”
“I know how you feel, Arv. In a way I don’t blame you. I get a little jumpy myself—especially at night when I can’t see much. But look, if you change your mind, I’ll be back this afternoon.”
“Thanks, Charlie.”
“See ya later, Arv. And thanks for that idea.”
“My pleasure, Charlie. Hate to have you miss your car when the action starts.”
Taking Arvin’s advice, Charlie spent most of each day sitting on a bus-stop bench across the street from the apartment house.
At last, on the afternoon of the sixth day after traffic stopped, Fay’s white handkerchief appeared in the 12th-floor window. Charlie’s bike stood before him in the gutter. He mounted it over the back wheel, like a pony-express rider. In a moment he was off and pedaling hard for the pine tree.
From blocks away he could hear the now unfamiliar roar of a thousand engines. As he gained the top of the concrete wall and poised ready to drop, a cloud of exhaust smoke swirled up and blinded him. It stung his eyes. He began to cough. He dropped anyway, sure of the route he must follow, even if he couldn’t see. Gasping and wiping his eyes he clambered over hoods toward the center strip. The smoke didn’t abate. It puffed and spurted, choking Charlie. Every driver was gunning his engine, warming up for take-off. In a panic that he’d miss his car, that it would be carried away in the advancing stream, Charlie stumbled blindly upward, deafened by the sputtering thunder of long-cold cylinders, nauseated by fumes, confused by the semidarkness of gray, encompassing billows.
The cars disappeared. It seemed he staggered through the smoke for hours. He nearly forgot why he was there, until he heard a yell behind him: “Hey Charlie! Where ya goin’?”
“That you, Arv?”
“Yeah. You nearly passed your car.”
“This damn smoke.”
“Helluva thing, isn’t it?”
Arv was elated. Through the veil of fumes that curled up from under Arvin’s car, Charlie could see a wild expectancy lighting the haggard eyes. His yellowed teeth grinned behind the beard.
“What’s happening?” Charlie said, still gasping, hanging onto Arvin’s aerial while his lungs convulsed.
“Looks like we’re moving out. Better warm up.”
“When did you get the signal?”
“No real signal,” Arvin shouted, “but everybody down the line started up, so I started up. Things ought to get going anytime.”
“Have you moved at all?”
“Not yet, but you better get the old engine warmed up, Charlie. We’re on our way, boy! We’re on our way!”
Coughing and crying Charlie staggered to his car, climbed in and started it. He accelerated a few times, then leaned forward to rest his head on the steering wheel, as nausea overcame him. The noise around him would split his eardrums, he thought. He passed out.
When he came to he was staring through the wheel at his gas gauge: nearly empty. He looked around. It seemed less noisy. The smoke had cleared a little. He could see vague outlines of cars in the next lane. None had moved. He switched off his engine. Evidently others were doing the same. The rumble of engines diminished perceptibly from moment to moment. Within minutes after he came to, it was quiet again. There was little wind. The smoke thinned slowly. Only gradually did he discern shapes around him. Behind him he saw a driver sprawled across the hood, chest heaving. In front of him a man and woman were leaning glassy-eyed against their car. And in the next lane he heard the wheezing rattle of a man retching. He turned and saw Arvin leaning out his open car door into the gutter.
The police helicopter droned toward them, hovered, sucking up smoke, and announced, “Please turn off your engines. Please turn off your engines. The deadlock will not be cleared for at least another 36 hours. You will be alerted well in advance of starting time. Please turn off your engines.”
No one seemed to listen. The helicopter passed on. Charlie climbed out, still queasy but able to stand. Arvin was sitting on the edge of his seat now, bent forward with his head in his hands.
“Hey, Arv. You okay?” Charlie looked down at him for several moments before the answer came.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“False alarm, huh?”
Arv grunted.
“Looks like tomorrow might be the day, though,” Charlie said.
Arv nodded, then raised his head slowly. His eyes were dark, weary, defeated. All hope had left him. Deep creases of fatigue lined his cheeks and forehead. His beard was scraggly and unkempt. He looked terribly old. His voice was hoarse and feeble as he said, “But, Charlie . . . what if it’s not tomorrow? What’re we gonna do, for God’s sake? It’s been six days.”
Compassion welled up in Charlie. He said, “Look, Arv. You heard the last announcement. It’ll be at least another 36 hours. Why don’t you come on up to the place and lay down for awhile?”
A little light brightened Arvin’s eyes. His mouth turned faintly toward a smile, as if remembering some long-gone pleasure. But he said, “I can’t, Charlie.” He raised his shoulders helplessly.
Charlie nodded slowly. “I know, Arv. I know.” After a pause he said, “I guess I’ll see you this afternoon then.” He waited for Arvin’s reply, but his head had fallen again into the palms of his hands, and he sat there swaying. Charlie walked away.
Most of the smoke had cleared. The heavy silence was broken occasionally by distant groans, staccato coughs. All around him, down the curve he would walk, on the other freeways that snaked so gracefully below him, in among the rows of dusty cars, he saw people sprawled, hunched, prone on the center strip, folded over fenders, hanging out windows, wheezing, staring, stunned.
He picked his way to the concrete wall, scaled it and left the devastation behind. He knew, though, he’d have to return, perhaps several times. No one could tell when it would be over. The police reports were meaningless. He returned to the apartment to console Fay, who felt guilty about sending him on a wild-goose chase. Then he pedaled downtown to a war-surplus store. His lungs still burned from the smoke. He decided to buy Arvin a gas mask and one for himself.
<
* * * *
A slice-of-novel, appropriate to the moment, from Kurt Vonnegut’s God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater (Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 1965):
“The only people who could get work had three or more PhDs. There was a serious overpopulation problem, too.
“All serious diseases had been conquered. So death was voluntary, and the government, to encourage volunteers for death, set up a purple-roofed Ethical Suicide Parlor at every major intersection, right next door to an orange-roofed Howard Johnson’s. There were pretty hostesses in the parlor, and Barca-Loungers, and Muzak, and a choice of fourteen painless ways to die. . . .
“The suicides also got free last meals next door.
“One of the characters asked a death stewardess if he would go to Heaven, and she told him that of course he would. He asked if he would see God, and she said, ‘Certainly, honey.’
“And he said, ‘I sure hope so. I want to ask Him something I never was able to find out down here.’
“ ‘What’s that?’ she s
aid, strapping him in.”
“What in hell are people for?”
Russell Baker answers the question—or maybe asks it. Baker, the sharp-eyed, sharp-witted author of The New York Times’ Washington “Observer” column, keeps a sharp tongue firmly tucked in cheek.
* * * *
A SINISTER METAMORPHOSIS
Russell Baker
The number of people who want to be machines increases daily. This is a development the sociologists failed to foresee a few years ago when they were worrying about the influence of machines on society.
At that time, they thought the machines would gradually become more like people. Nobody expected people to become more like machines but, surprisingly enough, that is what more and more people want to do. We are faced with an entirely new and unexpected human drive—machine envy.
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