“Are you a moralist?”

In the same Show magazine interview quoted earlier (and well worth reading in its entirety if you can get hold of a back issue), Ray Bradbury answered this question with:

“I think I am, above everything, for the question of morality arises again and again with each machine that we create… . While machines are amoral, sometimes the very manner of their construction, and the power locked into their frame, inspires man to lunacy, idiocy, or evil. Some of the greatest liberals of our time are illiberal and demonic in a car. Some of the greatest conservatives become radical destructionists when they step on the starter and rampage off after murder. I once asked a class in design at the Art Center in Los Angeles to design a car that would cause men not to prove their masculinity every time they slung themselves into the bucket seat. …”

I thought—indeed, I knew—no one could write another freeway satire I would want to read, let alone reread, or reprint. One of the differences may be that the author had not read any of the others: or so at least, his brief biographical note suggests. A professional musician, James Houston has been writing for eight years, publishing stories and poems in literary magazines and men’s magazines in this country and in England. An essay on California appeared in a recent issue of Holiday; his first book, The Sport of Hawaiian Kings, a history of surf-riding in the Pacific, was published this year by Tuttle.

* * * *

GAS MASK

James D. Houston

Charlie Bates didn’t mind the freeways much. As he often told his wife when he arrived home from work, he could take them or leave them alone. He listed freeways among those curious obstacle-conveniences with which the world seemed so unavoidably cluttered. Charlie was neither surprised nor dismayed, then, when one summer afternoon about five-thirty the eight lanes of traffic around him slowed to a creep and finally to a standstill.

He grew uneasy only when movement resumed half an hour later. His engine was off; the car was in gear; yet it moved forward slowly, as if another car were pushing. Charlie turned around, but the driver behind was turned, too, and the driver beyond him. All the drivers in all the lanes were turned to see who was pushing. Charlie heard his license plate crinkle. He opened his door and stood on the sill.

He was on a high, curving overpass that looked down on a lower overpass and farther down onto a 12-lane straightaway leading to the city’s center. As far as Charlie could see in any direction cars were jammed end to end, lane to lane, and nothing moved. The pushing had stopped. Evidently there was nowhere else to push.

He looked into the cars near him. The drivers leaned a little with the curve’s sloping bank. Nobody seemed disturbed. They waited quietly. All the engines were off now. Below him the lower levels waited, too—thousands of cars and not a sound, no horns, no one yelling. At first the silence bothered Charlie, frightened him. He decided, however, that it really was the only civilized way to behave. “No use getting worked up,” he thought. He climbed back in and closed the door as softly as he could.

As Charlie got used to the silence, he found it actually restful. Another hour passed. Then a helicopter flew over, and a loudspeaker announced, “May I have your attention, please. You are part of a citywide traffic deadlock. It will take at least 24 hours to clear. You have the choice of remaining overnight or leaving your car on the freeway. The city will provide police protection through the crisis.”

The ‘copter boomed its message about every 50 yards. A heavy murmur followed it down the freeway. The driver next to Charlie leaned out his window.

“Are they nuts?”

Charlie looked at him.

“They must be nuts. Twenty-four hours to clear a goddamn traffic jam.”

Charlie shook his head, sharing the man’s bafflement.

“Probably a pile-up further down,” the man said. “I’ve seen ‘em before. Never takes over an hour or two. I don’t know about you, but I’m stickin’ it out. If they think I’m gonna leave my goddamn Valiant out here on the freeway, they’re all wet.”

His name was Arvin Bainbridge. While two more hours passed, he and Charlie chatted about traffic and the world. It was getting dark when Charlie decided he at least ought to phone his wife. Arvin thought the jam would break any minute, so Charlie waited a while longer. Nothing happened.

Finally Charlie climbed out, intending to find a phone booth. He realized, however, that in order to reach the ground he’d have to hike a couple of miles to an exit. Luckily Arvin had a tow rope in a trunk. Charlie tied it to the railing, waved his thanks, swung over the side and hand-over-handed to the second level. From there he slid out onto a high tree limb and shinnied to the ground.

Gazing up at the freeway’s massive concrete underside and at Arvin’s rope dangling far above him, Charlie knew he’d never climb back. “What the hell,” he said to himself, “I might as well go home. The cops’ll be around to watch things. Besides, the car’s all paid for.” He began searching for a bus or a cab. But everything, it seemed, was tied up in the jam.

In a bar where he stopped for a beer to cool off, he learned that every exit, every approach, every lane in the city’s complex freeway system was jammed. “And ya know, it’s funny,” the bartender told him, “there wasn’t a single accident. It all happened so gradual, they say. Things slowed down little by little, and the whole town stopped just about at once. Some guys didn’t even use their brakes. Just went from one mile an hour to a dead stop.”

It took Charlie two hours to walk home. When he arrived his wife, Fay, was frantic.

“Why didn’t you call?”

“I started to, honey …”

“And what happened to your pants?”

He glanced sheepishly at his torn sharkskin slacks. “I was shinnying down this tree. I guess somebody left a nail in it.”

“For God’s sake, Charlie, this is no time to kid. If you knew how worried …”

“I’m not kidding. You’re lucky I got down at all. Some of the guys are still up there—the older guys—the fat ones—couldn’t get over the rails. And a lotta guys wouldn’t leave. Probably be out all night.”

She looked ready to cry, and she stared as if he were insane. “Charlie, please …” He put an arm around her and drew her close. “What happened, Charlie? Where have you been?”

He guided her to the sofa and they sat down. His hairy knee stuck up through the torn cloth. “I thought you’d see it on TV or something.”

“See what on TV?”

While Fay sobbed and sniffled, he told her the whole story. By the time he finished she was sitting up straight and glaring at him.

“Charlie Bates, do you mean you just left our car out on the freeway?”

“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 yesterday,” 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.