The 
Postcard 
Mysteries

& other stories 
by Albert Drake

Figure without caption.

The Post Card Mysteries is a special publication 
of Red Cedar Review and represents Volume 10, Issue #1 
of that magazine. It was edited by James Kulmbach, 
designed by Dennis Pace, and illustrated by Gene Stotts. 
The book is part of our continuing experimentation with 
new forms for the small press magazine that has led us 
in the past to place an issue on a billboard over Grand 
River Ave nue in East Lansing, and a small homage to Al 
Drake whose energy sustained RCR through many Issues and 
changes in personnel until his resignation as advisor two 
years ago. Beginning with Volume 10 Issue 2/3 we will 
resume our regular magazine format.


The 
Postcard 
Mysteries


The 
Postcard 
Mysteries

& other stories

Albert Drake

Red Cedar Press 
East Lansing, Michigan


Acknowledgements

These stories have appeared in the following magazines:

“An Attempt from the Store," Colorado State Review, IV, i (Winter, 
1969).

"The A-V8 and How It Went," Michigan Hot Apples, #1 (Summer, 
1972).

"Overtures to Motion," Chicago Review, XXI, iii (December, 1969). 
"The Postcard Mysteries," Fiction International, #1 (Fall, 1973).

"Voyeurs," Cairn, X, i/ii (Autumn/Spring, 1974).

Design by Dennis Pace

Illustrations by Gene Stotts

First Edition

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 1969, 1972, 1973, 1974, 1976, by Albert Drake.


for Barbara


preface

The Engines 
Running

The short fiction of Albert Drake presents a world in which the internal combustion 
engine is both catalyst and protagonist of human actions: the strippeddown 
street rods and motorcycles, Plymouths without engines, primitive aircraft, 
metal and leather and baling wire become vehicles of human destiny. If 
these machines are constructed and driven or flown by their makers, these same 
machines are the agency of destruction or release, are themselves versions and 
visions of what, if perfected, the world might become.

Thus class of origin, implied economic condition, function in society, along 
with comic or tragic potential, are dramatized by this most characteristic aspect 
of American life: the vehicle, the expertness with mechanical detail, the excesses, 
the self-destruction of speed beyond reason. Nobility is a goal: perfection of 
engineering is equated with the happy life. For good or ill, the protagonists and 
their vehicles are inexorably both process and goal. Vehicles are central to Albert 
Drake's bottom-dog untermench angle of observation of an America in 
which he was born, grew up, and which he sometimes accepts with a kind of 
back-firing joy.

The protagonists of our modernity in these stories unexpectedly fall into two 
kinds of major figures: the writer-artist, the initiate; the less sensitive "victims" 
— losers and winners — of the continuing race against a variety of opposition: 
against another machine (hot rod vs. motorcycle); against bureaucracy (the inventor 
whose inventions are systematically stolen from him); against the self- 
destruction implicit in all racing, traffic, and/or competition (a car wreck in 
which a girl's nose is cut off); against the acceptance of a new kind of world (the 
farmers who refuse to ride in a primitive biplane, the scapegoat passenger being 
Parsons, the town drunk). These and other "victims" are driven toward their 
special kinds of destruction by forces which they clearly do not understand. In 
this sense Albert Drake is a Naturalistic writer in a well-accepted tradition.

In the treatment of protagonists who are writer/artists, the situation becomes 
more subtle. For example, in "The Post Card Mysteries" a writer-protagonist 
receives a series of post cards: banal, irrelevant, flotsam of the U.S. postal system. 
In Winter he contemplates these shards, amidst a fallen world of the kind 
where the truck spreading highway salt is ". . . the perfect metaphor for corruption 
(because of the salt) seeks metal". Yet, "no one complains; it's part of our 
weather." The snowed-in house, the isolation, the "weather" of the artist's condition 
is summarized in one brief, telling paragraph: "The wind rattles the drain


pipes, shakes the poor trees. There is always some kind of weather beating about 
our ears." The protagonist, however, can imagine Spring — new life, new materials 
— but, "... perhaps it is a metaphor. Or perhaps it is the wind, and only 
that."

In "Overtures to Motion: A Portrait of the Writer" the initiation to modernity 
comes as the "mysteries" of technique, e.g. engine mechanics. Although this 
story takes place in the American "timeless past", the men, the machines, and the 
"midwife" mechanic clearly announce a new age, and this age the artist accepts: 
"The road unfolded and Benton, utterly committed, watched the new World 
spin dizzily past toward the hard, uncertain horizon." Presumably the price 
Benton pays is either destruction or apotheosis for he becomes a pair of wheels 
going away beyond the earth's edge on an "accelerated voyage".

In these and other ways, therefore, the artist-type accepts the world of modernity 
as he finds it; he lives — and presumably works — in the only weather 
which he can or will ever know. The delineation, the details, the precise observation 
of this best of all fallen worlds suggests not so much Eliot's vision of a 
Waste Land as it suggests the attitudes, the visions of William Carlos Williams: 
a society of immigrants, where life goes about its clumsy work. The parallel is 
even more exact if one substitutes the details of machinery and/or electronic 
gear for the clinical observations of the physician-poet. This parallel with Williams, 
however, does not hold in the matter of language for Albert Drake is 
firmly committed to a more complex, more figurative language which at its best 
can present a winter day as, "The perfect inviolate whiteness of sky and ground, 
which blend without horizon'.'

Beneath this Drive-Inn land of aimless summer or in parallel with a landscape 
dominated by snow and by wind, there is frustration, brutality, primitive emotion 
: a psychopath with his aerosol can of ether, a length of rope, his trusty 
wool scarf, and illicit scalpels waits beside an automobile fender for the approaching 
woman. These details are at one with the world of Albert Drake's 
stories: the dark side of machinery, the anti-human, the mindless aspect of mere 
things, in which all distinctions vanish.

And against this vision?

The stories which follow are, themselves, acts of humanity.

James B. Hall

Santa Cruz, Calif.

November 18,1975


Contents

The Postcard Mysteries 15

Voyeurs 25

The A-V8 and How It Went 31

An Attempt from the Store 40

Overtures to Motion 46


The 
Postcard 
Mysteries

& other stories


Figure without caption.
The 
Postcard 
Mysteries

From eaves hang icicles like old men's beards. Like dragon's teeth. Like 
a rip-saw blade. Like silver bars. Chrome strips. Like icicles. Each apple 
on the leafless tree has a perfect cap of snow. The apples on the ground 
grow crisp with frost, harden. In spring I will walk on the dark meat of 
decay. I call this working the earth.

15


After lunch I hurry to the mailbox, followed by the crunch of my footsteps. 
The salt truck roars past, the crystals seeking any metal. Some 
bounce to the edge, chew at my shoes, gnaw pants legs — tomorrow I 
will wake and find them ragged to the knee, as if the cloth had been 
soaked in battery acid.

The mailbox holds another postcard.

Dear Friend Dena
We received a big letter from Papa, Anna is going to send hers later on because the envelope would be to heavy. Papa was well all the way over, Anna was sick in the beginning but in the end she did not want to get off the boat.
Lucy
Dear Friend Dena

We received a big letter from Papa, Anna is going to send hers later on because 
the envelope would be to heavy. Papa was well all the way over, Anna was sick 
in the beginning but in the end she did not want to get off the boat.

Lucy


Jethro stomps through the shiny kitchen, a happy grin on his otherwise 
vacant face; if he knows anything he's not telling. Mr. Douglas talks 
about working his farm. Robb thinks up a new gag while Laura smiles. 
Gilligan almost tries to get off his island.

We have a lot of weather but no climate.

The dogs come, whiskers drooping under crusts of ice. When the cat 
claws the screen door I know it is cold. She prefers the snowbanks, 
leaping on hapless field mice and shrews who have no cover, but when 
the temperature hovers near zero she wants in, wants a saucer of milk, a 
pillow to curl on like a question mark. Like any storybook cat she wants 
warmth and love; her contented purr is my reward.

16


Albany Feb. 13 1910

Dear Burtha

Have been waiting to hear from 
you. how do you like this winter I 
don't like it to much snow and 
cold to suit me what are you doing 
these days. I have been sewing 
some did you hear about Betsy 
losing her baby their has been lots 
of sickness

Figure without caption.
Grandpa makes a pitch for his pretty neighbor; Tony becomes a keyboard 
wizard thanks to Jeanie; Oliver gets involved in the legend of the 
famed ghost of Hooterville; Robb thinks he sees a flying saucer; Betty Jo 
feels rotten about having Steve do some apple-polishing; Ann gets a wild 
and wooly workout in Hollywood; Robb struggles to fix his tv; Gilligan 
is certain he's turning into a vampire; the Barkley family is shaken; 
Herman is at the museum, sleeping off a pill; a drab visitor to the island 
becomes Ginger's lookalike; Lucy and Ethyl challenge the boys to a gossip 
contest; the Douglasses agree to take care of a pampered pig.

Under my boots the snow creaks, whines. The uncut summer grass is 
bent, dark slashes against the blank whiteness; the oriental scribbling of 
nature. Evergreens crowd in the rows where someone, years ago,planted 
them, hoping for his own Xmas tree farm and the fast buck. From the 
trees there is an explosion of white dust, releasing a bevy of swallows, 
juncos, sparrows, wrens, grackles, like a scene from Bambi; two fat 
glowing pheasants lift from the high branches, flap upward, then glide 
far across the open fields. The perfect inviolate whiteness of sky and 
ground, which blend without horizon.

17


Figure without caption.
Belding

Mon. —

Dear Andrew

Does this make you think of Halloween 
or Xmas? Suppose you 
will raise cain about next Thur. 
night. How's all the folks? Tell 
your mamma and Sylvia they had 
better hurry up and write.

Yours,

A.H.

The snow is stasis; nothing grows, moves, loves, rots. It announces 
death, but denies decay. Leaves lie stiff and formal; they will be found in 
the spring perfectly impressed on the ground, like fossils.

A discussion of legal rights of the mentally retarded; how to fix pizza; 
a visit to the Walrus Islands; preventive dentistry; menopause and middle 
age; a culinary lesson on plurals; all about mailmen and their work; 
a trip to the library; conceptual art; can other planets have life?; real 
estate as an investment; talking out problems; the role of social workers 
in treating mental illness; resolving conflicts and classifying by size.

I walk past my trees, my fences, into open fields, large flakes slanting 
in a stiff wind. My navy jacket is huge, ugly, and for years has been old, 
but within the unzipped alpaca liner things are snug. My right hand is 
bare, however, because the pistol is on my belt; I hope to see the quick 
grayness of a rabbit, or perhaps a fox. Long ago I said no more hunting — 
an obsolete activity, the excitement gone — but today I want to feel the 
coldness of the pistol butt against my palm, the gun's weight, the buck, 
report, the acrid smell of cordite. That is why my right hand is bare and 
near my belt.

18


Last night on tv I watched (yet again!) Shane. The first time I saw it 
was 20 years ago, with the bunch of friends who did everything together, 
and the following day we were up before dawn, driving east over the 
mountains, to hunt rabbits. A friend had an H & R .22 Sentinel pistol — 
one of the first made — and that is the model I now wear, the barrel 
almost as clean as the day I bought it. Today I am in this field, in a mild 
snow storm, looking for rabbits, after seeing (yet again!) Shane: I can 
really believe that 20 years have not passed.

Figure without caption.
Hello there: —

We rec'd your letter for which accept 
your many thanks for Well I 
am getting along OK We are now 
thru with harvesting how up 
there. Will write a letter later on 
Hope you are all well and feeling 
fine

Goodbye

The salt truck roars like a dragon through the night, sparks and snow 
swirling from the blade. Sparkling blue crystals dice along the road as the 
driver performs what he considers an errand of mercy. He loves to salt.

From my window I can hear the distant swish of cars, an endless procession. 
They carry: salesmen, waitresses, policemen, mailmen, 
shoppers, crooks, politicians, rapists, poll-takers, used-car salesmen, 
reporters, plumbers, teachers, real-estate speculators, babies, tax collectors, 
students, madmen, muggers, the unemployed, welfare cases, 
bankers, mechanics, tree surgeons, bus drivers, musicians, disc jockies, 
hitch-hikers, literary gents, terminal cases.

19


I think: the snow falls faster. It would not be difficult to go over there, 
in those bushes, place the cold eye of the six-inch barrel to my temple. In 
this snow storm I would not be found until spring, perfectly preserved, 
only a small ugly bruise beside my eye. Perhaps a smile on my lips, who 
knows? It would depend on my thoughts, as I pitched into that long 
cylindrical second.

Today at dawn the freezing rain has left drops of ice on every branch; 
they sparkle in the cold sun like jewels. Like stars. Like drops of ice. Each 
snow-capped apple has an ice beard. A film of ice sheets all surfaces. I am 
on a Greek headland, looking toward the harsh white mountains of 
Albania, or climbing the glacier fields of Mt. Hood. Today is my 
birthday: I am 400 years old.

The wind rattles the drain pipes, shakes the poor trees. There is always 
some kind of weather beating about our ears.

“What I likes, is a man wif’ reg’lar ’abits.”
“What I likes, is a man wif’ reg’lar ’abits.”


20


COME MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME
IN WALLA WALLA, WASH.
COME MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME

IN WALLA WALLA, WASH.


Dear Burtha

Will drop you a line to tell you 
Dan Kirk was killed yesterday 
crossing the interurban car lines at 
Locust station the car which 
struck him killing him almost instantly. 
Jack told me last night 
and I thought would write you. It 
is awfully warm here now.

Lovingly yours, 
Myrtle

The sheet beside me is as white as the snow fields. I slip out of bed and 
walk the cold floors of the silent house, past the immaculate beds of my 
children, to the thermostat; soon a dry heat will cough from the 
registers, blow fine webs of dust across the empty rooms. In the kitchen I 
turn on the coffee pot, plug in the toaster. The refrigerator is white, cold, 
and its brilliant light illumes the yellow cube of margarine, the jam, milk, 
a half bowl of vegetable soup, some frayed lettuce. Somehow there is 
always enough for one more meal. I turn on the tv; the small white dot 
pierces the darkness like a laser, grows more intense, then larger and 
duller, the light diffusing into the gray dot pattern. The static, riding 
forgotten air waves, hovers in the room like the voices of previous 
tenants. Mental health, how to run a drill press, city people who have 
moved to the farm, hillbillies who have moved to the city. There is 
always something on, a program which tells me how to live and how 
others live.

21


Loma, N. Dak.

We were one day behind in getting 
home. We had to lay over in one 
town 23 hours. There was a fair 
girl with us from Loma. Well a 
Merry Xmas & a happy New 
Year.

Ferdinand Winaker

Figure without caption.
As for myself, I, who have done many things, and have the freedom to 
do anything, find my life has diminished to a pair of trails: I walk the 
fields, or to the mailbox — hoping for the letter that will tell me what to 
do — or sit before the tv. Perhaps once a week I go to the store — I can 
stand hunger as long as the cat can — but the crowds, the closeness, the 
insistent voice over the public address system, and especially the rows of 
full shelves shoot a weakness to my knees and tighten my stomach. There 
is too much of everything; no one needs all that.

The salt looks for any metal, the perfect metaphor for corruption. But 
no one complains; it's part of our weather.

Sometimes, late at night, my eyes burning, the tv screen falling to a 
test-pattern, sometimes after I have seen hundreds of people shot, 
stabbed, beaten, thrown from windows, cars, planes, trains, poisoned, 
blown up, sometimes on these nights I think how easy it would be to 
remove the refrigerator trays and climb in, pulling the door shut. I would 
be perfectly alone.

22


This morning the re-boiled coffee is bitter, the toast hard, yet the steam 
and the tv's voice give the chilly room a kind of warmth, and in a way it is 
even cozy. As I eat I slowly shuffle the stack of postcards as if I might find 
an answer, a message written in a miniscule hand near the stamp, or a 
tiny postscript beneath the signature. The mail is what keeps me going, 
and every noon I walk down the hill hoping for her letter; most days the 
box is empty, not even an advertising circular, but some days I open the 
salt-rusted box to find a spot of color within the darkness, the gilt-edged 
embossed paper warm against my hand. They bear old postmarks, as if 
they have been floating the mail currents for years; the names and 
addresses are not mine, and she is in another town. How they get here is a 
mystery.

Figure without caption.
Dear Cousin Gladys: —

Come to V.C. & spend Easter with 
us. We will also be glad to have 
you bring your friend. I have had 
my new spring hat for two weeks, 
I suppose you have all your spring 
duds by this time.

Love from Lois Wolff

23


And there are specific questions which puzzle me:

Why didn't Anna want to get off the boat?

What did Anna say that made the letter too heavy?

How did Betsy lose her baby?

Where was Dan Kirk going?

Why will Andrew raise cain?

Who was the fair girl from Loma? What happened during the 23 hour 
layover?

Did Cousin Gladys have her spring duds?

Did the woman's dreams come true?

(If so, where did they live? Children? Husband's occupation? Own 
their home? Own car?

Number of radio shows heard per week?

Number of films seen per month?

Were they happy in the hedge-surrounded, ivy-covered house, the 
beech tree in the yard, kids playing along the sidewalk, husband 
on Saturday raking leaves with pipe in mouth, or waxing the auto 
in the driveway which is straight as their lives, the sun setting at 
the end of a day longer than any we have known, reflecting 
against the windows which diffuse light like moth's wings, and inside 
they sit before the fireplace, reading novels, the radio softly 
humming.)

In the spring, the last snow running into underground water, moss 
cushioning damp stones, grass spreading its luxury, I would wake, shake 
myself, and rise from the bud-sprung bushes. Stiffly I would walk into 
the house, kiss my wife, fill the voids that need filling, and at my desk 
begin to write. An epic, perhaps, of the brilliant stars of winter nights, 
the stasis of days, dreaming like a sleeping bear of that landscape where 
nothing grows, moves, loves, and there is only the long empty sound of 
the cutting wind, like a man far away, over the hill, perhaps in pain, 
crying. Or perhaps it is a metaphor. Or perhaps it is the wind, and only 
that.

24


Voyeurs

Figure without caption.
Auger entered the drugstore and 
moved quickly toward the magazine 
racks. In the air-conditioned coolness he was vulnerable, 
exposed; rubbing his arm, he felt the tiny cones 
of skin puckering. He saw two girls at a round, 
chrome table look at him, look away, then at him 
again. High school girls, giggling over their sodas, 

25


and before he quickly turned away he saw beneath the shiny white fabric 
of their tennis outfits the hint of breasts. They looked away just before 
he did and he continued toward the magazine racks, rubbing his 
arm with his hand, trying to get acclimated.

From the rows of publications he took a general interest magazine and 
opened it, pretending to read about kidney transplants. Then, sensing by 
peripheral vision that he was not being watched, he quickly slipped a 
copy of Playboy between the opened pages. The street outside was dark 
and in the window's reflection he could see the view over his shoulder: 
the two girls still giggled at the ends of their straws, the breasts jiggling 
against the table edges were mere nubs; the soda-jerk washed glasses, the 
pharmacist walked behind his cash register, whistling. At the counter a 
woman sat on a stool, the ice in her untouched drink melting; the heavy 
calf of one leg was draped over the other, the red shoe pumped in the air. 
She looked toward the door, as if expecting someone.

Auger suddenly realized there was a face beyond the reflection — a 
man's face, pallid, unshaven, dark horn-rimmed glasses, hands cupped 
to each side to cut out the glare. Shaken, Auger ran to the doorway and 
onto the sidewalk, but the man was gone. Behind him he heard the soda- 
jerk yelling and he realized he still had the magazines. Auger dropped 
them inside, then ran down the deserted sidewalk. The street was empty 
— no people, no passing cars, no sound except for Auger's padded 
footsteps. At the corner he stopped, looked in all directions, and wondered 
why the man had been looking at him, of all people.

From the bushes he saw the man run to the corner, then wait under the 
arc light, briskly rubbing his arms. Willy breathed deeply, got his heartbeat 
back to normal. The oppressive odor of laurel leaves and fine road 
dust almost caused him to sneeze, but he forced his tongue against the 
roof of his mouth. Only a few minutes more — the man would give up, 
they always did. Willy had been chased by some of the best, and he had 
always escaped — there were a million places to hide if a man knew the 
route beforehand.

Somewhere a dog barked; Willy stiffened, listened, moved to 
straighten his cramped legs. Dogs, now, were something else. The man 
was still on the corner. A cruiser came out of the night, eased along the 
curb, the red roof light dull. Willy saw the man slip into the shadows, 
and he relaxed. He eased his weight until he was lying on his back, viewing 
the summer stars; there was something not only restful but secure 
within the bush, and he was reminded of a tree house he had built long 
ago, where he could remain until well after the adults were asleep. He 
had seen a few things in those days.

Now, shifting his weight again, he looked from the stars to the build


26


ing on his left — the backside of a two story apartment house, cluttered 
with washpans, laundry, brooms and mops. Near a lighted window he 
saw a man leaning on the balcony's wooden railing; he was a large man 
in an undershirt and bib-overalls, and he smoked what seemed to be 
a cigar for the periodic red glow that burned the night air was the size of a 
small bulb. How long? Willy wondered. If he'd seen him, why didn't he 
call out, or point him to the police? Willy broke into a sweat, fearing that 
he'd been seen, and he waited without moving until the pain in his 
muscles became acute, the nerves sending small needles along every surface.


The light from the window behind the man spread across the side of his 
face, reflected from the bald skull, the transparent fluffs of hair above the 
ears. Willy watched as the man watched, unmoving, seeming to bore 
with his eyes into the very core of the laurel bush. Finally, after what 
seemed an eternity, Willy heard a door open, saw a woman emerge from 
the yellow quadrangle of light and call to the man, who slowly turned 
and entered the room.

Willy slid from the laurel bush before the man's eyes could adjust to 
the light; he didn't even look to see whether the first man still waited 
across the street. A hedge connected to the larger bush, and Willy clambered 
on hands and knees in its shadow until he came to a narrow sidewalk. 
Flat on the ground, he crawled into the shadow of a tree, reached 
the front porch, skirted it, and went to the rear of the house; there was 
only a small fence, which he was easily over, and then he was running 
softly along the sleeping back street.

As he turned to put the empty beer bottle down, he saw movement in 
the alley below — heard it, actually, since his head was turned away 
from the railing. Feet, perhaps — a person, a dog, or only the sound of 
newspaper blowing along the gutter? But there was no wind. He had 
sought the coolness of the balcony, a few minutes of escape from the humidity 
before he slipped into whatever sleep was possible between the 
damp sheets. He viewed with apprehension the prospect of his and 
Nora's vast expanses of flesh in sweaty contact all night; perhaps, he 
thought, he should sleep here.

From the balcony he viewed the alley, bushes, the street. A man stood 
on the corner under the arc light; perhaps it was his feet he'd heard. Then 
he saw a light go on in the house across the alley. He saw her come into 
the room, pass by the window, disappear. The naked light bulb swung 
from the motion, light gyrating in crazy circles until it slowed, stopped. 
She came to the bed and sat, kicking off her shoes. He bit the cigar involuntarily, 
stifled a cough as he saw her slide the dress up over shoulders, 
shake her hair loose. She stood in the slowing circle of light in her under


27


clothes, then moved out of sight to hang up the dress. When she returned 
she sat on the bed and slowly, slowly unfurled first the one stocking and 
then the other, rolling the sheer fabric across full thigh and calf until it 
slipped over the toe. He waited while she put these somewhere, felt his 
breath coming harder with the energy of expectation; he shifted in the 
chair and when she returned she doubled her arms behind her in a quick 
gesture, unhooked hooks, slipped the bra off. He saw fleetingly light 
catch the upper expanses of her breasts, saw the slow curve of the underside 
end like a question mark in the nipple; her hair fell forward, a cascade 
long and dark across her shoulders. He waited, breathless, wondering 
whether this happened every night, but before she slipped out of 
panties she put on her nightgown, tying the front shut, and left the room. 
He felt aroused but when she returned she simply switched off the light. 
He waited, knowing now that he might be seen. That she had not 
stripped completely left him unsatisfied, and it was almost with relief 
that he heard Nora call. He picked up his empty bottle and went inside, 
hot as a dog, aroused by the vision of that girl sleeping almost naked and 
unprotected in that ground-floor bedroom.

From the window Nora watched her husband stare across space, saw 
the woman crossing the room beneath the dancing light bulb. A breeze 
moved the window shade beside her face, fanning a large blue fly into 
action; her fingers gripped the drainboard, and she was acutely aware of 
the overpowering odor of old food, soap, stale milk which churned from 
the sink. He sat without moving, and she too noticed the girl's firm 
thighs, the flat stomach, and she tried to recall what she had been thinking 
about in days when her flesh lay close to her bones. Or had it ever? 
Not about an apartment over an alley, not a husband whose idea of a 
good time was to sit on the balcony with a beer, gawking at girls 
undressing. But she waited until the light went out before she opened the 
door, and called.

Mitch was making his way along the roof when his foot hit the sheet of 
loose tar paper, sent it skittering toward the edge, and at the same instant 
he saw the man on the balcony. He dropped flat. The man straightened in 
his chair, looked across the alley and toward the street. Mitch held his 
breath, sheltered his face in the sleeve of his black shirt.

Then, shifting slightly, he saw the man across the street looking 
toward the roof.

Mitch exhaled, swore — he'd thought the place was pretty empty at 
this hour. A police car cruised beside the curb.

Across the alley a light went on and as he turned he saw a girl cross the 
room; she sat on the bed, took off her shoes, and began to undress. 

28


Mitch smiled, watched the man watch that yellow square of light; he 
waited, and just when he was about to move back into the darkness the 
light went out. He heard a voice call to the man. A woman stood in the 
illuminated doorway, waited, then went back inside; the man got up, 
tucked in his shirt, and followed.

The man on the corner under the arc light was gone also, Mitch noticed, 
but as he raised himself to a crouching position he saw something 
move in the bushes below. With incredible speed a man ducked out of the 
hedge on hands and knees, and followed the cover of its shadow until he 
got to the darker shadows beside the porch. Mitch waited, doubting 
what he had seen; the figure appeared behind the house, running, was 
over a fence, and disappeared down the alley. Mitch shook his head, 
waited to see whether anyone else would show up.

When it seemed clear he climbed from the roof to the fire escape. It was 
a short jump to the balcony where the man had been drinking beer. 
Through the window he heard voices, saw past the fine mesh curtains to 
a room, a bed, the bib-overalls hanging from the bedpost. The small 
night light revealed the pair partly covered by a single sheet; they were 
incredibly large, their bulk multiplied by the creases which broke the 
parts into segments. The noise that the bed made covered any sound 
Mitch might have made as he reached through the open window to 
unplug the teevee set, the toaster, the waffle iron; he wound up their 
cords and carried them down the fire escape like a sting of fish. The 
sounds of bulbous love-making could be heard in the alley, echoing 
against the building, until it merged with his footsteps as he ran for his 
car.

Willy flattened himself into the recessed doorway as a car sped from 
the alley, its lights sweeping the dark street; tires squealed at the intersection 
as the car turned left, tilting, then sped away. Willy wiped his 
forehead with the back of his hand, peered both ways before stepping 
out. He heard footsteps before he saw anyone, and ducked back. The 
steps came closer, and he heard the sound of laughter, like ice in a glass. 
Two girls ambled along the sidewalk on his side of the street; they 
laughed, and pushed at each other with tennis rackets. Willy flattened 
himself against the doorway and watched them slowly walk past, saw 
the flash of thighs beneath their small dresses, and when they were 
beyond his hiding place they looked back, their laughter echoing on the 
dark street. Willy relaxed, exhaled the air he had been holding.

He waited until they were out of sight before continuing on to the 
corner. The only business still open was the drug store, but it looked 
deserted. Willy crossed the street, walked to the window and peered at 
the clock on the far wall; ten minutes before closing.

29


Suddenly he realized that he was seeing a face in the foreground: a 
man at the magazine rack, staring in surprise over the top of Life, mouth 
open, as if trying to shout. When the man started for the door Willy 
began to run, heading for the alley and the dark shrubbery beyond.

Klatz laid the 8 power telescope on the dashboard, and slipped the 
doe-skin gloves on a finger at a time. He had watched the two girls leave 
the drug store, considered them, then noticed the man in the shadow of 
the doorway. The girls disappeared around the corner, and Klatz was 
reluctant to expose himself to the other man by starting his engine or 
turning on headlights. He waited, saw the other man go to the window, 
make a gesture, and saw a second man chase him down the street. Even 
now he stood, rubbing his arms, under the arc light.

Eventually the drug store's windows began to dim, and the last customer 
left. Klatz waited until he was certain of which direction she would 
take, and then he started his car; he backed to the corner and, lights out, 
eased the car around the block. There were two houses on this street, 
both with thick shrubbery, and between them an empty field. Klatz 
unfolded his heavy wool scarf and hung it loosely around his neck. From 
the back seat he opened a small leather case, and even in the dim light the 
row of scalpels glowed. From the glove box he took an aerosol can of 
ether and a length of rope. He had removed the bulb from the dome light, 
and so he was able to leave the car in darkness, squatting beside the rear 
fender. He looked at the sleeping houses, dark shrubbery, and felt safe.

Along the sidewalk the woman walked quickly, her red high heels 
sounding a note of urgency.

30


Figure without caption.
The A-V8

& How It Went

WHERE I WAS

Where I was was in the Plymouth, front seat, passenger's side. In my 
hands the coke was getting warm. Feet on the dashboard, between the V 
of my shoes I was seeing the yellowed crazed windshield. Beyond the 
bubbles which floated in the old sandwiched safety glass, near the 
Service window I saw the roadster. Thin wisps of exhaust still rose from 
the chrome pipes. It came hip-high to Skip, who leaned against the door, 
his polished jump-boots sticking out into that area of pavement where 

31


Yvonne would have to walk. Boots widened into levis into white 
tee-shirt and I saw him unfold the sleeve wrapped tightly against a huge 
muscle, where he kept the pack of Camels. His other hand reached up to 
slick back his hair, while he waited for Yvonne.

I was wondering where Speed was at.

Against my back the rough mohair itched, and the afternoon grew 
hotter. Lines of heat shimmered from the hood of the Plymouth, as if the 
engine had just been run. The truth was that the Plymouth, owned by the 
four of us — Bert, Macy, Wheels, me — didn't have any engine at all. We 
pushed it here to the drive-in and since there's never enough traffic to fill 
the lot the manager said it was okay if we sat. Which is exactly what we 
did every night and every Sunday afternoon — sat here like driving customers, 
shooting the shit, planning, dreaming, while our cokes grew 
warm in our hands.

Then I heard the distant scruuummp of the bike, coming down the 
highway.

WHAT THE A - V8 WAS

What the A-V8 was was a '29 A roadster, the old four-banger now 
replaced with a Ford V-8. What it was running: a 21-A block, ported and 
relieved, big intake valves; cam by Isky, flywheel chopped to twenty 
pounds, truck clutch, and a converted Lincoln ignition. On the outside it 
had finned aluminum Eddie Myers heads and a Thickstun dual manifold 
with Stromberg 97's. The head nuts were chrome acorns, the generator 
was chrome, and each carb was topped by a chrome bonnet. Even with 
primer paint and no upholstery that car was pretty, and mean enough for 
Indy.

Our town had never seen anything like it.

My brother Skip had the idea a long time ago, before the War. He was 
101st Airborne. Four years that car sat in our barn, the old engine hanging 
over the car like a dirty weight, rats nibbling at the seats. As I got 
older I got interested — I could look at it for hours, studying the fenderless 
body, picture myself driving to The Shack, and racing at night along 
every empty road in this State. When I was almost ready to start on her 
myself, Skip came home, tall and dark and muscled, a cigarette always 
between his teeth. He had saved some money, he said.

He got the V-8 engine from Clyde's wrecking yard, and together we sat 
day after day in the hot sun rebuilding it. Skip sent to California for some 
fancy stuff, and when we got it together that engine glowed like cold fire.

I want to say that car was beautiful, but I know some people feel different 
about these things. The Devil's own hell on wheels, our Dad called 

32


it — he hated anything lower or more streamlined than his stake-bed 
farm truck. He wanted Skip to invest that money in acreage. But while he 
saw the roadster as a hateful, foolish machine, he also recognized it as an 
Investment which could be sold when Skip was ready to settle down. It 
was the only sign of wealth our family had.

Figure without caption.
WHAT I SAW

What I saw was Skip leaning against the roadster grinning, and 
Yvonne coming out with a tray of cokes and burgers for the only other 
car on the lot, a 1946 Ford station wagon with Nebraska plates. She 
stepped over Skip's feet without altering at all the arched line of her back, 
and she crossed the asphalt, the fringe of her short red rodeo skirt swirl


33


ing around long legs. She wore a white blouse and white boots, and even 
I had to admit she was pretty. Placing the tray on the station wagon's 
window, she brushed her long blonde hair over a shoulder, and I saw her 
bright lips flash as she smiled. I watched her walk back, and as she got 
near the roadster she stopped. Skip straightened up and said something, 
then sat on the tire.

He had taken off all four fenders so it looked like a race car. Then he 
had borrowed a torch and channeled the body, until that car was so low 
it could barely get down our rutted driveway. He had put in '39 Ford taillights, 
and a swell Auburn dash panel he had found at Clyde's.

The car was finished except for paint and upholstery. Skip even had 
the paint, fire-engine red, at home. It wasn't that he was slow or lazy, but 
the week he'd figured to paint it Yvonne had come to work at The Shack. 
When he saw her he just lost interest in the roadster. Now when he wasn't 
working on the farm he was sitting here in the parking lot or taking 
Yvonne swimming at the river or driving clear to Dubuque for the 
dances. He was crazy about her.

I was disappointed okay, and only hoped that he would either get tired 
of her or if not, that he would give the roadster to me.

WHAT THE A - V8 MEANT

What the A-V8 meant was the glint of sun on chrome, the wind slapping 
your face along the back roads after supper. It meant something 
sleek in a country of hay-racks and Massey-Harris tractors. To understand 
this you have to do more than appreciate machinery — you have to 
understand what it's like to be fifteen and live five miles from town, even 
a town which is only three grain elevators, standing like fingers over a 
depot, a tavern, two stores, a cluster of houses, and a drive-in.

Look at any map: there are roads leading any direction you want to 
go. Assuming you want to go, you got to have a car. A car with an engine.


WHAT I HEARD THEN

What I heard then was the distant scruuump of the bike, coming closer 
down the highway. I could tell by the exhaust it was running flat-out, 
heading along that stained concrete at a little over a hundred. Before the 
bridge I heard the exhaust begin to collect in those long pipes, and I knew 
he'd let up. Then he started down-shifting, changing through the four 
gears, the engine rising and falling as sound collected around him. He 
had dropped to second before Yvonne, and then Skip, looked up. She 
brushed her golden hair back and tucked her blouse into the waist of the 

34


red rodeo skirt, her eyes staring at some invisible point on the highway. 
Skip's smile faded and he flipped his cigarette across the pavement, 
watching her.

Second gear, the long trail of exhaust, and then low, the sharp noise 
swelling along the narrow quiet street. The rider laid the bike over and 
swung into the lot, to park beside the roadster. When he hit the kill button 
the engine quit, at once. The leg the rider swung over the seat was

Figure without caption.
35


covered with a canvas military puttee, and ended in a jump-boot. Although 
the day was a scorcher he wore an Ike jacket buttoned to the 
neck; he pushed back the goggles and removed the chamois flying helmet. 
He stooped to check something in the tire's tread, and then stood 
before Yvonne, his black hair falling across his wind-burned face.

With Speed on the other side of Yvonne, Skip was not smiling at all.

Figure without caption.
WHO MADE THE BET

Who made the bet is unclear to me, or even at what point we realized 
there was something to bet on. I was in the Plymouth, front seat, 
passenger's side, my feet on the dashboard, the coke getting warm in my 
hands, looking through the windshield at Skip and Yvonne and now 
Speed. It was someone in the backseat, Bert or Macy, or possibly it was 
Wheels pretending to be driving the Plymouth, who said: "I bet two- 
bits. On the bike." I don't know who said it, or if I even knew what it was 
I was betting on, I only knew my loyalty was to Skip and the roadster, so 
I put my feet down, dug into my pocket, and came up with twenty-four 
cents which I laid on the backrest of the front seat.

When I looked again I saw Speed and Skip arguing, with Yvonne 
standing behind them. They angled toward each other, Skip poking 
Speed's chest with his finger, and Speed waving his palm in the air as if to 
say bullshit.

36


Once, before Yvonne came to work at The Shack, they had been 
friends. They had grown up together and worked together, and had enlisted 
in the 101st together; they had gone through the War together. But 
the fighting they'd seen at the Battle of the Bulge was only a skirmish 
compared to the fights they'd had the past month.

The bike Speed brought back from England when he was mustered out 
was the first foreign machine we'd seen. Once two men came through on 
Harley-Davidsons, going to California, and there was a kid in the next 
county who had a Henderson Four before it killed him, but those were 
trucks compared to Speed's Vincent. Long, slim, and black, it was all engine, 
topped with a pad of leather and a small tank. When Speed grabbed 
a handful of throttle, the noise from the long sweeping pipes stampeded 
cows five miles away.

When they got back from the Service, every Saturday night Skip and 
Speed would crowd together on that small seat and leaning into the 
wind, would fly to Dubuque. Around dawn they'd return, drunk, 
singing, the bike waking every respectable citizen. After Skip got the 
roadster together, sometimes they'd take that; once they took both 
machines, racing every mile of the distance.

Figure without caption.
37


That went on until Yvonne came to work at The Shack.

Now Speed put the chamois flying helmet on and buckled it, pulling 
the goggles down. He walked stiffly to his bike, swung a leg over and 
brought it down on the starter. Skip was already over the door of the 
roadster and behind the wheel. Both machines exploded to life at the 
same instant, the sound filling the lot. Speed cut a wide circle around the 
Ford station wagon whose amazed occupants looked up from their 
cokes, and stopped in the middle of the road. Skip cranked the roadster 
back, then forward, the rear tires spinning into motion. Briefly he looked 
at the Plymouth and gave me the thumbs up, but he was not smiling. He 
swung the car into the road beside the bike, and the tempo of exhaust 
grew.

I looked at Yvonne, who stood beside the Service window, hands in 
the pockets of her red rodeo skirt; her pretty face, red with excitement, 
did not register the apprehension I felt. I wondered, who was she rooting 
for?

Together roadster and bike accelerated. Skip popped the clutch, and 
the rear tires squealed, leaving wide black marks on the road as the car 
fishtailed. The bike shot ahead quickly, but as I opened the door to stand 
on the running-board I saw that they were matched. A cloud of blue 
smoke swirled behind as Skip hit second gear and then they were far 
down the road, merging with the horizon.

I guessed that they would race to the bridge.

As I stood there on the running-board, listening, the exhaust collected 
against the blacktop and began to diminish. I strained against the silence 
— they had passed the bridge by now, for sure — but heard only the 
rustling of wheat, the buzzing of an insect, the clicking of expanded metal 
as the sun beat down on the Plymouth. On this Sunday there were no 
tractors churning across furrows, nor even a plane crossing the sky.

Finally the Ford wagon left. I watched Yvonne cross the parking lot, 
the tray glittering in the sun, her skirt swirling above the white boots.

Then I heard the metallic notes of exhaust, loping along the highway. I 
thought it was the roadster with a blown muffler, but the silhouette I saw 
was high and narrow. Speed rode easily, not pushing it, and without any 
fancy shifting he came into the lot in second gear. Slowly he got off, and 
sat down beside the chamois helmet he had thrown on the ground. 
Yvonne stood in the shade behind him, her fingers touching bright red 
enamaled lips.

No one picked up the money we'd bet.

And that's all. I saw somewhere along the highway, in a corn field, our 
parents following the tire tracks, picking up any bright piece of metal — 
the family wealth, those bits of chrome. I thought without really 
knowing how easy a guy could let a woman do that to him — how you 

38


could ruin you life over a woman.

As I shut the door, one question nagged me: there was still that road 
leading to Dubuque, where I'd never been, and I wondered whether a full 
race, balls out Ford V-8 would fit into an engineless Plymouth sedan, 
without too much work?

39


An

Attempt 
from 
the Store

Precisely at nine Jetzel peered from the dull green shade at the demol¬ ished street. Concealed within the flower in his lapel — a tiny eye in the pistil — the Mini-Spy lens aimed across the jagged vaults of base¬ ments and broken walls: open places, like an ill-stocked store.
Precisely at nine Jetzel peered from the dull green shade at the demolished 
street. Concealed within the flower in his lapel — a tiny eye in 
the pistil — the Mini-Spy lens aimed across the jagged vaults of basements 
and broken walls: open places, like an ill-stocked store.


40


Punctual as ever into this desolation the Chrysler whispered on fat 
tires, pushed by a silent, lacy exhaust. Beside the Urban Renewal levelings 
the hood dipped as the handbrake locked rear wheels; the driver 
swung an arm over the infinite curved leather and the woman came to 
him. Immerse and white, the auto tilted again, sideways.

A refrigerator on wheels, Jetzel thought.

The telescope pivoted into the shade's secret hole; Jetzel focused on the 
fence of grill mesh, moved across the endless, dazzling hood to the dark 
glass. Below the sunvisor he read the woman's lips: Rotarians Cliff O a 
week—

This cryptic message was closed by the man's mouth, coming down 
hard. Jetzel had the feeling of watching a bad movie from the front row.

A noise on the stairs and the scene swirled into the eyepiece as Jetzel 
stepped sideways to the dismantled teevee chassis, screwdriver in hand.

—Jet, did you order Animal Pride? Mayo's head was above the 
stairwell, inquiring.

No, the order had slipped his mind. Forgotten. And had been Inventing, 
you understand.

But what did it matter? Everyone for two blocks east was gone, their 
houses with them. Only foundations sank like jagged, broken teeth into 
weed-grown yards. And below, like the vacancy of lots, each shelf of the 
store became bare. It was as if the endless broad belts of Production 
were, like the freeway, routed far overhead.

In the silence Jetzel expected her to say again, Forget your inventions. 
Soon the construction workers will arrive. The store could sell hot 
pastami and corned beef sandwiches and coffee and magazines. We 
could Advertise. And he would have believed this Plan, for in the past 
her ingenuity had often carried them when his had failed. But what she 
did say — before her steps faded to where Mrs. Dorkshire waited below 
for a can of Animal Pride, to leave Jetzel prodding the exposed teevee 
tubes — what she did say was: —Jet, why are you wearing that flower?

Where he had gone wrong, he thought, was not in buying this store, or 
even in quitting high school. At sixteen he had earned his living. But in 
two years he had grown to hate the garage — the freezing floors in 
winter, dirt falling from fender wells in summer — and so, to Get Ahead, 
there was the electonics course, correspondence. In nine months he held 
a diploma and a job assembling transistors; thin fingers were needed, 
and therefore he was the only man among a room of women.

One of whom was Mayo.

Although he was Inside and wore a white shirt, and although the intricate 
conduits and filaments finer than human hair were natural to his 
fingerpads, nothing seemed to go right. He did not expect promotions — 
just yet — nor did he especially want to be among the Supervisors' neat 

41


offices: his place was on the line. But it was a surprise when the 
Company took credit — and patent — for the fuse-relay he had perfected 
during his own long nights. Oh, they raised him by thirty cents an hour, 
but he was still with the women, soldering connections.

He quit, of course, to work as an appliance installer for a wholesale 
house: for several months there was the security of private basements, 
where limp hoses yielded to the shadows. And later was a teevee repairman 
and an auto battery recaser, and somewhere along the way — 
perhaps a lens grinder or a telephone lineman — he had leased the automatic 
car wash, and Mayo went to work again, making change.

But like an eccentric flywheel things always somehow got out of control 
and so — after the affair with the film shop — he bought this store, 
and built the workbench which covered two walls of the small apartment 
upstairs. They saved the expense of renting a separate house and at night 
he and Mayo could watch several channels simultaneously on the discarded 
teevee sets. During the day, while Mayo ran the store, Jetzel continued 
to invent. The hairpin, thumb-tack, and cotter-key had made men 
rich — and looking into the unknown why not his self-regulating reo- 
juster, or the inert gas humidifier?

He invented, and one by one slipped the patent applications into the 
mail box's lip, where they became utterly lost. Washington did not 
answer his inquiries, nor did his Senator; letters to the Editor were not 
published, and the Attorney General's office only suggested, on a 
mimeographed form, that it was checking on every citizen's charge of 
communists within the government.

Yet his inventions turned up in the pages of Mechanix Illustrated or on 
an experimental automobile, under someone else's name.

And when the houses to the east were bulldozed to rubble for the freeway 
overpass, he recognized the Federal plot. His patents had been 
confiscated, his taxes raised, his zip code changed, and now he was being 
driven out of business. He might sell hot pastrami to the construction 
workers but when the overpass was finished and the trucks gone, all the 
traffic in the world would speed fifty feet above the store, over the empty 
landscape.

Along that empty, demolished street, as on every Saturday for two 
months now, the Chrysler turned the corner on fat, silent tires and 
parked until noon. All morning the two bodies groped under the vinyl 
top, lips together. Jetzel had occasionally watched; but when his bank 
account became empty as the shelves below, he began to observe.

It was not difficult to check the license, or to learn that the owner was 
both rich and married.

And if the store had been the investment the advertisement had 
claimed, then there would be an Ultra-Eavesdropper to receive whispers 

42


a block off, and also the Infra-Red Scope for night-time detection, and 
the martini olive transmitter. But the store was clearly a failure, and so 
there was only the Mini-Spy, which Jetzel had built himself.

Necessarily, he did what he could.

Now the thin rubber tube threaded inside the sleeve, from flowers to 
the squeeze-bulb in his palm. The hat in the mirror sat squarely, brim 
snapped across his face; the flower was a pink explosion on his blue serge 
lapel. Then he was down the stairs and through the aisles which separated 
empty shelves; past the silent cash register and his wife who, 
childless, was no doubt giving candy to the two Negro boys at the 
counter.

By the curb the Chrysler tilted, sluggish and rich. As he walked toward 
it, fingers clutching the squeeze-bulb, Jetzel saw two vague shapes 
merge. Closer, and he would get the license number; then a series of 
shots until he could photograph faces. To walk slightly sideways beside 
the fender he had practiced a limp.

For there had to be absolute evidence, whether he sold the photos to 
the owner of the car or to the owner's wife. Or perhaps the man in the car 
would pay — in one case it would be the lump sum, in the other a steady 
income.

Perhaps he could sell the evidence to all three?

As his fingers tested the bulb he saw two heads rise, straining over the 
leather toward the Chrysler's rear window. Limping more slowly, his 
eyes went to the intersection beyond the demolished buildings: a 
rat-brown car sat sideways, hood buckled and windshield gaping. From 
the passenger's seat a girl fell and disappeared into the bushes.

Awed, Jetzel began to move toward the green lawns where he saw a 
second car, a small economy model, halfway up the steps of the corner 
house, as if trying to enter. At least a half-dozen teen-agers climbed from 
the driver's door to fall moaning on the grass or to sit dumbly on the steps 
ahead of the hood.

But how? He had heard no crash. The false limp forgotten Jetzel began 
to run instinctively along the broken sidewalk. Over the smashed metal 
and shattered glass hung the smell of hot grease and, closer, Jetzel heard 
the hiss of water falling on an exhaust manifold.

Running, he saw a woman on the porch stare at the deflating tire. But 
when Jetzel arrived no one except the victims converged around the 
wrecks and they — he thanked God — did not seem badly hurt. Cuts, 
perhaps a broken nose on that boy — scars to remind them of their 
responsibilities.

Jetzel wandered into the yard, mildly disappointed. Where were the 
onlookers, the curious? The two cars leaned into their shadows, the kids 
sat dazed and stupid, while he alone was able to walk through this chaos.

43


— And that was a new recap, said the boy, a red cloth held to his nose. 
— And that was a new one.




Jetzel was mildly disappointed and awed and horrified. Black harsh 
streaks on the abrasive road led to a final mound of dirt under each tire. 
Fragments of glass were patterned like a hi-speed photo of an explosion. 
The forward slanting machines were turned in upon themselves. For no 
reason he recalled wrecks seen as a boy: a black sedan, its top resting on 
the railroad tracks which glazed off into infinity, the four wheels turning, 
turning. Or that day along the Pacific coast when a cyclist had raced his 
machine straight into the downturned tailgate; the head, helmeted and 
goggled, lay beside the road until the ambulance arrived, two hours 
later.

What he wondered was, Did the drivers who survived wake every 
morning to survey the mistakes of their past?

As Jetzel turned to inquire whether the police had been called the girl 
stumbled from the bushes to reel up the driveway, her hair already stiff 
with blood where fragments of glass glittered like sequins. Two eyes 
burned through the blood veneer; everything else was stained brown to 
her waist.

Passing through the windshield did that to her face, he saw, but dropping 
back into the car she had met the unyielding knives of safety glass. 
From the slashed neck blood spurted across her shoulder; frothy bubbles 
grew over the wound when she tried to speak to Jetzel. For it was directly 
to him she came, reaching through darkness.

Jetzel turned to the dazed gallery on the steps who surveyed the 
smashed metal or their own shoes.

— Help her!




The girl reeled closer, an insane dream. Jetzel saw now that much of 
the brown was in fact bright scarlet, and that this disguise did not cover 
the breast which hung from the torn, brown blouse. When his order was 
ignored he turned, to walk against the side of the small car. His mind 
raced into the stench of gasoline and hot metal. Fingers clutched his coat 
as he scrambled against the side of the car, and when the iron fist held 
tight he shouted: Keep calm!

When she spun against him, Jetzel looked into the wound, the parted 
skin a mouth spitting blood and bubbles. His hands hung near his 
pockets squeezing open and shut: her face darkened and peeling like 
wallpaper, laced with fine, deep cuts — and there was no nose!

— Get back, Mac.




Jetzel felt the bony hand fall away, saw the brown stain at the corner of 
his eye ooze to the ground, and he released his clenched fists. Dust hung 
suspended where the trucker had skidded into the gravel and now his 
arms, thick as axles, reached for the girl, shoving her to the ground while 

44


the blanket was flung tightly over the convulsive form.

— Shock, the trucker said.

And Jetzel, seized by an immobility perfect and final, would not have 
been surprised to see the man whip out bandages and hypodermic 
needle.

Within the blanket the girl struggled and below the grass was a spreading 
dark metallic stain; hair, shoulders were glazed with the absolute 
sheet of blood, and now it struck Jetzel that her life was flashing into the 
ground, that the long pulsing stream had a source within that was 
terminal.

Somewhere off in the morning was an urgent siren.

The trucker was crouched over the girl asking Jetzel for something or 
other and the girl was staring at him through blank, pearl-white eyes and 
the stunned survivors moaned on the steps as Jetzel moved quickly past 
the catastrophe.

Among the private ruins of open teevee sets Jetzel did not move until 
the sirens began again, linking distances. Flecks of blood, like spittle, had 
touched his jacket and the plastic petals. When he tried to wipe his palms 
he realized his fingers gipped the squeeze-bulb.

He had shot every film: when the negatives were developed his album 
would show the girl spring from the drive, moving toward him clutching 
the air while he, equally helpless, squeezed the bulb again and again, a 
progression of shots until the open, awful wound pulsed closeup flicking 
real blood over the lens.

Not until the siren returned to the distance did he fit an eye to the telescope 
: at the intersection the winking shards of glass, on the lawn an 
immense stain of brown; and swinging the lens across the ruined landscape 
he saw the elusive, fading oil stains — like a review of his past — 
where the Chrysler had been.

45


Overtures 
to 
Motion:

Figure without caption.
A Portrait of the Writer

The horses rattled in the same traces; the wagon still traveled on bent 
hubs, so the wheels canted a foot sideways for every foot forward. But 
this fair Benton was three inches taller, and soon he would not need to tilt 
his head to look directly into his father's eyes, when they spoke.

46


And, although the same rolling scrub trees and clay banks moved past, 
Benton felt a year's change: an engine inside drove bones to the skin's 
limits, extended the taut ropes of tendons.

Thinking this, he was not surprised when the balloon's pink and red 
bulk did not stir restlessly this year. What he saw, at the last rise, as he 
squinted along the valley floor to the sprawling gridwork of ridge-poles, 
canvas, and makeshift shacks, was a cross shaped shadow of red and 
blue. Benton's eyes did not release the bright cross during the wagon's 
fretful descent: the gliding curve of fabric and wood, tapering from the 
three sets of wings to the high, broad tail-fin, and all held together by the 
framework of struts and wires blazing in the sun. Centered behind the 
wings was the motor: a bright continuum of baffles and tubing and riveted 
plates.

Then the wagon settled on the valley floor, and the hunched buildings 
interfered. As Benton helped his father unload the sides of smoked meat, 
he swore he would not go down that road toward the field and the aeroplane 
— until after dinner.

He unhitched the team, and watered and picketed them in the shade 
behind Main street. But energy still pounded at his temples, so he walked 
up and down the town, seeing nothing, talking to no one; his boots 
struck the dirt in hard, heavy steps, calculated to tire him. Walked, and 
shifted his itching shoulders against the hot sun.

Fraaaaaaap. Ahhhh, he heard, a rising and falling sound; a mechanical 
imitation of energy and pleasure. He looked, for the first time, at 
the aeroplane. But its propeller, a gleaming, razored log, was still.

Fraaaaap. Ahhhhh, he heard, and the noise turned his head the other 
way, where a cloud of dust moved up the hill, toward town.

Cyclone, a man yelled. Horses shied, pawing the air.

The cloud mounted, and then Benton made out the dust-brown dot at 
its head — a motor-car. It passed out of sight, but soon reappeared at the 
end of the street; its horn warned twice, but the motor-car did not slow 
for the dogs which ran to meet it.

Fraaaaaaaap, he heard, the high tires speeding at him; and as he 
jumped to the board sidewalk, a sound of Ahhhhhhhhh, when the driver

— hunched over the wheel, goggles dull with dust, cap worn backwards


— jerked the lever beside the seat. Benton saw the flash of the brass radiator, 
beaded with dust, like sweat on a golden muscle; the wooden 
spoked wheels spinning in reverse; he smelled the sharp odor of gasoline 
and leather. The machine roared past, in the noise of pleasure, and 
beyond the town spun to a stop beside the aeroplane.




Benton had said he wouldn't go, that he could not be satisfied with 
anything once he had seen the aeroplane, perhaps touched its varnished 
fabric; yet he jumped into the crowd of men and boys who ran through 

47


the falling, filtering dust.

At the field, the Driver faced the group of angry townsmen. The 
Sheriff touched his gun handle, but when his hand came back it was only 
a finger he pointed. The Driver had slid his goggles to the top of his head, 
and now he spread his legs and the four eyes stared down. "You folks got 
to get used to this Century," he said. Laughing, he walked to the rear seat 
of the motor-car, where he lifted out a piece of gleaming wood wider 
than the machine. Benton saw another man coming out of the aeroplane's 
motor — raising his legs around pipes and heavy brass tubes — to 
receive the new propeller. Gently, he laid it on the open strutwork of the 
fuselage.

"Okay, move back," the Sheriff said, waving people off the field. "Do 
not want any taxpayers killed."

Benton walked to the wagon, his fingers imitating how the Mechanic 
had fitted a spanner on a bolt; there was a kind of naturalness in the way 
such things went together. A union.

And as the family ate dinner beneath the wagon, Benton thought only 
about how a man could take metal, wood, and fabric, join these with his 
own hands, and fly. He did not hear his father mention that the smoked 
hams and bacon sides had been sold, nor did he hear his father's plan to 
buy some mill lumber. Absolutely committed to the machine, what he 
did hear was the sound of prairie grass brushing the aeroplane's lower 
wing, and the wind strum and chord through the taut wire-work which 
held the machine together: a tune he recognized.

As the family walked with the others to the edge of town, Benton 
decided he would ask his father for a dollar. That was what it cost, he had 
heard, to go up. But when they reached the field, where grass bent like 
silk in the wind, he did not ask. For his father was laughing, softly, and 
when Amos walked past, the father said: "Going up again this year, 
Amos?"

"Nosir," Amos said, his arms pumping at his sides. "I am not. It likely 
won't get offn the ground."

"That's what I told the boy again," his father said. "It ain't going no- 
wheres." The two men laughed, in agreement.

His father did not believe in these machines, and so it was useless to ask 
for the dollar. Last year, when the price was twenty-five cents to ride the 
balloon, when there was an offer of two free tickets, Benton had not 
gone. We could go, Pop, he had pleaded. Nothing's free, his father had 
said, and anyways, it ain't going nowheres. He had been right, last year.

It was Amos, the blacksmith, and Parson's, the town drunk, who had 
climbed into the wicker basket, where a crackling, smokeless fire shimmered 
the field into a mirage. And it was Parsons who, as the warm bag 
shot skyward, had fallen to one side, tipping the delicate assemblage; 

48


when the shower of sparks began to eat away the fabric, Benton had 
heard three identical noises: his racing heart, his father's laugh, and the 
ropes which supported the basket burning through — popping sounds, 
like hickory knots.

In the last twenty feet the burning bag became free, to slowly fold in 
upon itself, and float south. The basket had plunged its bottom into the 
hard earth and collapsed, spilling the three men. But before the stunned 
crowd had reached them, Parsons was on his feet, holding up his pants 
with one hand and staring at the broken suspender strap in the other, 
while Amos and the Pilot walked unsteadily away, in separate 
directions.

Today it was a different Pilot who stood in the back of the open 
motor-car, buttoning his heavy jacket. The crowd stopped where the 
Sheriff pulled on one end of a rope, and over the tops of heads Benton 
saw the Mechanic wipe his hands, and climb into the network of silver 
wires; with his flashing spanner, he played them like a harp. Over thick 
black hair the Pilot pulled a chamois helmet, wiped his goggles on his leg, 
and stepped to the ground. Benton saw the puttees and patent slick boots 
walk in jerky steps to the aeroplane where, without hesitation, the Pilot's 
hand shot out and caught a steel bar; he swung up, to perch ahead of the 
radiator. He raised one finger.

As the Mechanic slowly turned the propeller, someone laughed. Benton 
tensed, and realized it was his father. The propeller was rotated a 
half-dozen times. Then the Mechanic teetered on his toes, cupped both 
hands over the tip of the blade, and spun it by jumping to the ground.

The cloud of white smoke which enveloped the fuselage began to dissolve 
before Benton heard the staggered roar. The propeller whipped to a 
shiny blur. Then spun backwards, and stopped.

As if this were a bad sign, the Mechanic kicked the dirt where he stood, 
and scrambled back into the strutwork. He rotated the blade again, and 
shouted something to the Pilot. His hands cupped the propeller, and like 
a suicide he threw himself off.

After a hundred heartbeats, the propeller cleared the white smoke 
away. The ragged wheezing of pistons smoothed; the grass around was 
assaulted, the dust below driven up.

Now the Mechanic ran toward the crowd, his fist in the air, thumb 
raised.

At the other end of the Sheriff's rope, there was a struggle; men 
ducked under the rope, laughing, pushing one man ahead of them. The 
Mechanic got the dollar in one hand, while his other held the crowd's 
volunteer by the elbow, steering him toward the aeroplane; halfway 
across, the passenger reeled, spun around, and fell to his knees. Benton 
recognized the absurd, blank face: it was Parsons.

49


The Mechanic half-carried the unprotesting Parsons to the front of the 
machine, where the Pilot pulled him up.

The motor raised its tempo of anarchy. Grass flattened.

The sets of wings rocked, the invisible propeller sawed air, and the 
aeroplane began to move — although at first Benton imagined that he 
was moving. It bounced down the field, picked up speed, and turned into 
the wind; under his shirt, Benton felt his shoulders shift. Then the craft 
skimmed the waist-high grass, and just as Benton felt himself lifted off 
the ground, he saw the fuselage part — the back half jab the earth, crumple, 
splinter, and stop; the front half speed along the margins of flight, 
bumping, moving forward like a pole-axed steer, and then, as he realized 
the propeller had come loose, to slice the machine neatly in two, the 
mobile half flipped over and the engine stopped.

The Sheriff's rope gave under the surging crowd. Benton, running 
from his father's whooping laughter, was halfway across the field when 
he saw the Pilot rise from the grass, twenty feet past the aeroplane. When 
Benton got to the wreck, the Pilot was already there, staring at it through 
broken goggles; he kicked the wing, and walked quickly toward the 
motor-car.

The Sheriff and two other men began ripping apart the twisted mass of 
fabric and wood, until they found Parsons, his hands still clutching the 
sides of the wicker seat.

"Is he dead?" people asked.

"Yeah, dead drunk," the Sheriff said.

Benton was the last to leave. As the Mechanic circled the wreck, picking 
up pieces, Benton thought: Why, a man could put her together again. 
For the machine did not seem badly hurt — it was mostly that the bottom 
wing was on top. A man could right it, and fit the two halves together. 
And if done properly, she would fly. No doubt.

50


II

Summer was stasis, and unendurable: the hoe was a propeller, spinning 
in the sun; later, as the plants went skyward, the wind caressing 
their leaves was the sound of air over taut fabric. Every day Benton 
chopped the ground, as if digging himself to another place, but the journey 
was from the row point and back.

Hoe and bucket handle were hot as summer, and when he stopped to 
scan the horizon, where low hills shimmered into sky, his impatience 
turned to fear. Everywhere beyond that line, things were happening. 
While his feet toed the unyielding dirt, men were putting engines into the 
ground, to move the world ahead and past him; or sending their buildings 
into the sky, their metal ships to sea, their air-machines to the moon. 
He staggered with this vision of the world as a complex, mechanical arrangement 
of pistons and gears, gasoline and smoke, racing into the 
century.

Here, was stasis. The only change was the cage-work of mill lumber 
which grew to lean against the house. Benton saw the addition as a cage, 
but at one point, before the siding went on, the construction had resembled 
the framework of an aeroplane. The sturdy uprights, the gusseted 
beams, the windows like a closed cockpit. And inside, piloting this addition 
to the bedroom, was his father.

And when Benton did see the skeletal geometry of yellow pine and red 
cedar not as a cage but rather its opposite, he was reminded of the 
wrecked aeroplane.

He had been right: a man could put the two halves together, and it 
would fly. Because the day after the crash, he had heard, twelve men and 
Amos' biggest wagon had been hired to get the machine to the railroad; 
there it had been put on a flatcar, and taken to the State Capital.

When they had restrung and paneled and spliced her, no doubt she 
would fly at the next fair.

Above, the burning sky; below, the land. The wind blew, the leaves 
hummed like feathers, and the ground before his eyes became a study in 
motion: the rich alluvial soil lifted, moved downhill, or flung itself skyward 
in clouds, where it sifted to the grass across the creek. Benton 
chopped furiously at the ground, to stay it; and as dirt crumbled around 
his ankles, claiming him, he sank — but drove no roots.

51


III

Fair day again, Benton had his ear tuned to the wind, should an engine 
cast its sccrrruuuuuuub-kkkkk over the gulleys and washouts. For he 
had heard it, yesterday. But the sun was a flame, the sky a reflector: he 
could not have missed seeing the aeroplane pass over. Or aeroplanes. For 
the faint sccrrruuuuuub-kkkk, breaking and shattering on the hard land, 
seemed to be the noise of several motors.

"Get cash," his father warned.

"Sure, sure," Benton said, edging to the door, listening. He returned, 
to get his hat and gloves. "Sure, Pop."

Today his father was not laughing: the leg, above the crusted bandage, 
was blue-green — like water reflecting sky. He would be laid up the 
Doc did not know how long. Which was why Benton must get cash for 
the hog.

Lying beside his father — like two plowed furrows — was Benton's 
mother. The Doc, who was treating both patients for the price of one, 
was more certain in her case: it would be just any day now. Anyway, the 
extra bedroom had been built; the family could grow.

He watched his parents — his father growing more furious on this bed; 
his mother, gentle in her pregnancy. Benton shuffled his boots, fiddled 
with his hat, and then — aware of the contrast his restless strength made 
— took the sandwiches and water-jug from his sister and strode from the 
room.

"Cash," his father shouted, "make 'em pay by the pound."

His voice raged as Benton whipped the team across the yard, through 
the trees and to the road — as if the boy's whip reached to flick the tender 
leg. The man helpless, another mouth to feed coming, and the family's 
wealth must be trusted to a boy with no head for practical business.

When the house was a dot behind him, Benton wrapped both reins in 
one solid fist and stood high on the wagon seat. His whip bit the oily 
flanks, until the horses hurtled in terror toward the valley, their heads 
thrown back, eyes rolling, the wagon bucking in pursuit. At each chuckhole 
the bent axles screamed a protest, and the hog was pitched on his 
side.

52


Benton had never gone so fast: standing on the seat, the wind laying 
his hat brim back, tearing at his shirt cuffs, he stood on the world. The 
scenery blurred past, unrecognized. His body rolled, the wind screamed 
down his throat, tore at his eyes — until it seemed he must be flying.

Not until the last rise sped to meet him did he release the reins. And 
when he felt the wagon begin the descent, he opened his stinging eyes to 
the valley floor. But saw no aeroplane. Or even a balloon, although he 
could barely remember the one two years before. There was nothing, except 
a thin plume of dust from the horse track. His heart flaked a beat, 
and his eyes closed again.

Today, there would have been a chance. . .

Down-hill the wagon screeched and groaned, and it was not until he 
yanked on the brake at the livestock building, and silenced the scream of 
the wagon's dry hubs, that he heard the report: SCCRRRUUUUUB- 
KKK. The sound shattered conversation, like summer thunder.

"Why, what is it?" he asked the first man.

"Fool nonsense," the man said, marking in a tally-book.

"But what KIND of fool nonsense?" Benton asked, standing on the seat 
to locate the noise.

"This particular fool nonsense," the man said, without looking up, "is 
motor-cars. At the trot-race track."

Dust clouds, brown duplicates of the trees, circled the horse track. As 
Benton's feet hit the ground in a fast run, he was recalled by the noise at 
his back — the hog struggled against the rope wrapped tightly around its 
feet.

Benton came through the slot between buildings and walked to the 
fence. The motor-cars were in the paddock: two-seaters, with hoods 
long as a wagon, and tires almost as tall as Benton. The body on each 
ended at the jutting steering wheel; behind this was a fuel tank, and three 
spare tires.

And as a plume of dust accelerated from the north turn, Benton heard 
the sound of anarchy which had carried to him over the baked street and 
sagging tent tops. A sheet of dirt spewed beside the leaning machine; it 
straightened, and the back half was lost in lines of speed.

Traaaaaaap, the crescendo grew as Benton jumped the top rail and 
dropped into the track, and when it passed he was in the middle of the 
machines — black, red, green, yellow, they opened like immense, rare 
prairie flowers — where Mechanics hammered and cussed and crawled 
into engines. His hand touched the great golden radiator shrouds; his 
finger traced the name plaques: Ford, Stanley, Bugatti, Peugeot, 
Daimler-Benz. . .

While he hoed and carried water, men had hammered out their ideas, 
and carved the oak wheels, and cast these parts: they had given motion 

53


to their dreams.

Fraaaaaap, came another down the straight, and Benton jumped when 
the boot struck his ankle. Two booted feet clawed the ground, followed 
by legs and a fat body; finally the greased face, divided by a huge mustache 
squinted up at him.

The Mechanic got to his feet and for a long minute studied Benton. He 
wiped his hands, then squeezed the boy's arms, and said: "Harjar like to 
work on her?"

Benton didn't understand until the Mechanic led him to the other side 
of the high hood. An angular, knee-high steel block waited in its own oil.

"Transmissin," the Mechanic said. On his haunches beside the motorcar, 
he regarded the boy, the dark metal, and the bottle in his hand; after 
a long drink he said: "She's too heavy for one. Harjar like to help?"

When the man's feet disappeared, Benton grabbed the steel — fingers 
slipping in delicious grease — and budged it. As if he had been waiting 
for this, with every muscle he directed the heavy metal upward, to the 
motor-car's floor. Steel edges crossed his palm; grease pushed in to stop 
the blood. When the world shifted, he laid his head against the warm, 
lacquered body.

"Harjar like to move it," the voice came up, "to the middle. Don't drop 
it, for chrissakes."

Benton slid the metal housing to the hole, and lowered it into the 
Mechanic's waiting hands.

"Holdit," the Mechanic said, "holdit." Through a crack Benton saw 
the man slipping bolts into holes, and, arms trembling, he realized the 
motor-car was being assembled, becoming continuous, from front to 
back.

When Benton's arms were dead, the Mechanic clawed his way from 
beneath the machine and sprawled beside the dull brown tire. "Well, 
harjar like working on her?"

Benton found himself accepting the bottle, and his first hard liquor — 
it tasted of rubber, smoke, gasoline, and lacquer. He drank again, corked 
the bottle and passed it back. "Like it fine," he said, and sat on the tire, as 
if he did this everyday.

The Mechanic burped, got to his feet, and raised the hood. While his 
fingers made adjustments, Benton stared into the complex of tubes, 
foundry brass, and riveted plates. His fingers touched the top of the 
motor, and somehow, as the dark metal pulsed, he knew that this would 
be called the Head. And the functional, neat bowl with its directed copper 
lines, nestled in the pocket under the porcelain exhaust pipes, would 
be called the Carburetor. Yet he had never heard these words.

"On the motor," he asked, touching the efficient, curved bowl, "would 
this be called the Carburetor?"

54


"Why yes," the Mechanic said, raising his greasy skull cap in mock 
salute. " 'Cept it is not motor', but engine. N-JINE. Motors are ee-lec- 
trical; engines, internal combustion."

"Ee-lectrical?" Benton said.

"Ain't never heard of ee-lectricity?" He laughed, and passed the bottle. 
"M'boy, the world is going right past you."

He woke to the staccato of engines.

First, he felt the barbs of straw under his head; then tasted the metallic 
whiskey; then realized all the engines in the world raised and lowered 
their voices beyond the stable door.

And last of all, he remembered: He had paid the Mechanic five dollars 
of his Daddy's money. To ride in this race.

The starting gun fired at him as he ran out the door and plunged to the 
ground, his legs unsure; he was standing when the wall of high, narrow 
tires and brass radiators charged, engines rising and falling — 
FRRAAAAP-AAHHHHHH — in mechanical anarchy and pleasure. 
The Stanley shook itself past him, a tire scraping Benton's knee, and acclerated 
in a silent burst of steam toward the first turn.

Benton flapped his arms as the Ford, straight and spindly, swung at 
him; the passenger waved back. Below the chamois cap and goggles, 
Benton thought he recognized the passenger: Parsons.

And this thought drove him into the lunging motor-cars, where the 
dust obscured him and the exhaust muffled his cries.

In the final motor-car he saw the Mechanic, grinning beneath his wide 
mustache. The Driver was a smooth faced young man, whose hand 
flipped the shifting rod in confident motions. They did not see Benton; as 
the motor-car passed, his fingers clutched the spare tires on the back, and 
with long running steps he followed his thoughts, to swing his legs into 
the high, narrow rubber circles. His body folded, his feet braced, dust 
and exhaust spun up to blot the world from sight.

AAHHHHHH, he heard near his ear, the motor-car sliding into the 
first turn, the clincher rims slicing his shoulder blades — sliding, sliding, 
and then FFRRAAAAAAP, as the track became a straight line. Benton's 
only regret was he could not see where he was going, but where he had 
been: the dust, the brown track unreeling, and, dimly, the continuous 
white line of the top rail. But he could feel the vibrations of movement — 
of power transmitted from engine to driving wheels — and he could sense 
the motions of speed — the motor-car angled forward to its destiny, the 
lines of speed blurring back from the great brass radiator shroud.

A long slide through the north turn: the motor-car leaning, tipping, 
jumping out of its groove toward the oblivious grandstands, then aligning 
itself toward safety.

Down the straight in a terrible burst of speed and past the crowd, 

55


where Benton saw men pointing at him.

In the dust of the south turn, Benton saw tires and a brass shroud six 
inches away. It was not fear, but whisky, he tasted, as the big Stanley 
plowed toward the spare tires. When he could almost read the Non-Skid 
printed on the tread pursuing, his machine slid beneath him, spun sideways, 
and as fenceposts flashed a hand's span away, the Stanley steamed 
past. His Driver accelerated back on the track, and as the north turn 
neared, the whisky bottle flew over his head — a familiar, silver glint.

Sliding, bouncing again, and at the grandstand the Sheriff ran alongside 
the motor-car, his huge hand reaching to pluck Benton from the 
race. Benton was reminded, for an instant, of his father.

Around and around, the track unreeled. Again at the south curve a 
machine raced through the dust at him, sliding and weaving, the passenger 
leaning over the side. When the tire was three inches from Benton's 
nose, he read Ford on the radiator; now he was certain, in spite of the exhaust 
smoke and dust, that the passenger was Parsons.

Through the turn the two machines moved as one; side by side they 
slid, subjects of centrifugal force. The Ford dropped back, its spinning 
wheel beside Benton's face, and it appeared that Parsons was leaning out 
to speak to him. At that moment the Ford pulled ahead, passed, and 
something happened which Benton couldn't see. Perhaps the Driver had 
to release one hand from the wheel, to pull Parsons back.

At first, there was only the impact.

As his machine glided at an angle to the curve, he saw the Ford dart 
through the inside rail in a shower of splinters and lumber; when its front 
wheels collapsed, the motor-car arched and tipped on its slim radiator as 
Parsons shot from the seat.

Under Benton's machine, the sound of breaking steel. The ground 
dropped away and the world was quietly upside down for a second; it 
was corrected with a stunning jar. The rod which held the spare tires to 
the frame pulled free, and Benton and tires were whirled high into space, 
spinning higher and higher; the smashed motor-cars, the dust, the 
grandstand, were left behind as the disc whirled across the flat country. 
Benton, finally flying, braced his feet and back against the rims as earth 
and sky and earth merged into a continuous dizzy blur.

When the coupled tires landed, it was precisely on the road. They 
bounced in progressively gradual arcs, with Benton spread in the center 
like spokes on a hub. When the leaping stopped, the tires balanced down 
the wagon ruts, spinning to the south, away from home. The land 
dropped away and the thin plume of dust traced Benton's accelerated 
voyage.

Benton had no regrets: he had sold the hog, and all but five dollars of 
the money was in his pocket. And the new baby would replace him at the 

56


table. He must leave, any way he could, before everything had been done 
and said.

The road unfolded and Benton, utterly committed, watched the new 
World spin dizzily past toward the hard, uncertain horizon.


photo by Barbara Drake
photo by Barbara Drake


Albert Drake


Figure without caption.

This edition consists of 1000 softcover copies 
and 26 lettered, hardbound copies 
signed by the author


Figure without caption.

$2.50
$2.50


Red Cedar Press


The 
Postcard 
Mysteries

& other stories 
by Albert Drake

Figure without caption.

The Post Card Mysteries is a special publication 
of Red Cedar Review and represents Volume 10, Issue #1 
of that magazine. It was edited by James Kulmbach, 
designed by Dennis Pace, and illustrated by Gene Stotts. 
The book is part of our continuing experimentation with 
new forms for the small press magazine that has led us 
in the past to place an issue on a billboard over Grand 
River Ave nue in East Lansing, and a small homage to Al 
Drake whose energy sustained RCR through many Issues and 
changes in personnel until his resignation as advisor two 
years ago. Beginning with Volume 10 Issue 2/3 we will 
resume our regular magazine format.


The 
Postcard 
Mysteries


The 
Postcard 
Mysteries

& other stories

Albert Drake

Red Cedar Press 
East Lansing, Michigan


Acknowledgements

These stories have appeared in the following magazines:

“An Attempt from the Store," Colorado State Review, IV, i (Winter, 
1969).

"The A-V8 and How It Went," Michigan Hot Apples, #1 (Summer, 
1972).

"Overtures to Motion," Chicago Review, XXI, iii (December, 1969). 
"The Postcard Mysteries," Fiction International, #1 (Fall, 1973).

"Voyeurs," Cairn, X, i/ii (Autumn/Spring, 1974).

Design by Dennis Pace

Illustrations by Gene Stotts

First Edition

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 1969, 1972, 1973, 1974, 1976, by Albert Drake.


for Barbara


preface

The Engines 
Running

The short fiction of Albert Drake presents a world in which the internal combustion 
engine is both catalyst and protagonist of human actions: the strippeddown 
street rods and motorcycles, Plymouths without engines, primitive aircraft, 
metal and leather and baling wire become vehicles of human destiny. If 
these machines are constructed and driven or flown by their makers, these same 
machines are the agency of destruction or release, are themselves versions and 
visions of what, if perfected, the world might become.

Thus class of origin, implied economic condition, function in society, along 
with comic or tragic potential, are dramatized by this most characteristic aspect 
of American life: the vehicle, the expertness with mechanical detail, the excesses, 
the self-destruction of speed beyond reason. Nobility is a goal: perfection of 
engineering is equated with the happy life. For good or ill, the protagonists and 
their vehicles are inexorably both process and goal. Vehicles are central to Albert 
Drake's bottom-dog untermench angle of observation of an America in 
which he was born, grew up, and which he sometimes accepts with a kind of 
back-firing joy.

The protagonists of our modernity in these stories unexpectedly fall into two 
kinds of major figures: the writer-artist, the initiate; the less sensitive "victims" 
— losers and winners — of the continuing race against a variety of opposition: 
against another machine (hot rod vs. motorcycle); against bureaucracy (the inventor 
whose inventions are systematically stolen from him); against the selfdestruction 
implicit in all racing, traffic, and/or competition (a car wreck in 
which a girl's nose is cut off); against the acceptance of a new kind of world (the 
farmers who refuse to ride in a primitive biplane, the scapegoat passenger being 
Parsons, the town drunk). These and other "victims" are driven toward their 
special kinds of destruction by forces which they clearly do not understand. In 
this sense Albert Drake is a Naturalistic writer in a well-accepted tradition.

In the treatment of protagonists who are writer/artists, the situation becomes 
more subtle. For example, in "The Post Card Mysteries" a writer-protagonist 
receives a series of post cards: banal, irrelevant, flotsam of the U.S. postal system. 
In Winter he contemplates these shards, amidst a fallen world of the kind 
where the truck spreading highway salt is ". . . the perfect metaphor for corruption 
(because of the salt) seeks metal". Yet, "no one complains; it's part of our 
weather." The snowed-in house, the isolation, the "weather" of the artist's condition 
is summarized in one brief, telling paragraph: "The wind rattles the drain


pipes, shakes the poor trees. There is always some kind of weather beating about 
our ears." The protagonist, however, can imagine Spring — new life, new materials 
— but, "... perhaps it is a metaphor. Or perhaps it is the wind, and only 
that."

In "Overtures to Motion: A Portrait of the Writer" the initiation to modernity 
comes as the "mysteries" of technique, e.g. engine mechanics. Although this 
story takes place in the American "timeless past", the men, the machines, and the 
"midwife" mechanic clearly announce a new age, and this age the artist accepts: 
"The road unfolded and Benton, utterly committed, watched the new World 
spin dizzily past toward the hard, uncertain horizon." Presumably the price 
Benton pays is either destruction or apotheosis for he becomes a pair of wheels 
going away beyond the earth's edge on an "accelerated voyage".

In these and other ways, therefore, the artist-type accepts the world of modernity 
as he finds it; he lives — and presumably works — in the only weather 
which he can or will ever know. The delineation, the details, the precise observation 
of this best of all fallen worlds suggests not so much Eliot's vision of a 
Waste Land as it suggests the attitudes, the visions of William Carlos Williams: 
a society of immigrants, where life goes about its clumsy work. The parallel is 
even more exact if one substitutes the details of machinery and/or electronic 
gear for the clinical observations of the physician-poet. This parallel with Williams, 
however, does not hold in the matter of language for Albert Drake is 
firmly committed to a more complex, more figurative language which at its best 
can present a winter day as, "The perfect inviolate whiteness of sky and ground, 
which blend without horizon'.'

Beneath this Drive-Inn land of aimless summer or in parallel with a landscape 
dominated by snow and by wind, there is frustration, brutality, primitive emotion 
: a psychopath with his aerosol can of ether, a length of rope, his trusty 
wool scarf, and illicit scalpels waits beside an automobile fender for the approaching 
woman. These details are at one with the world of Albert Drake's 
stories: the dark side of machinery, the anti-human, the mindless aspect of mere 
things, in which all distinctions vanish.

And against this vision?

The stories which follow are, themselves, acts of humanity.

James B. Hall

Santa Cruz, Calif.

November 18,1975


Contents

The Postcard Mysteries 15

Voyeurs 25

The A-V8 and How It Went 31

An Attempt from the Store 40

Overtures to Motion 46


The 
Postcard 
Mysteries

& other stories


Figure without caption.
The 
Postcard 
Mysteries

From eaves hang icicles like old men's beards. Like dragon's teeth. Like 
a rip-saw blade. Like silver bars. Chrome strips. Like icicles. Each apple 
on the leafless tree has a perfect cap of snow. The apples on the ground 
grow crisp with frost, harden. In spring I will walk on the dark meat of 
decay. I call this working the earth.

15


After lunch I hurry to the mailbox, followed by the crunch of my footsteps. 
The salt truck roars past, the crystals seeking any metal. Some 
bounce to the edge, chew at my shoes, gnaw pants legs — tomorrow I 
will wake and find them ragged to the knee, as if the cloth had been 
soaked in battery acid.

The mailbox holds another postcard.

Dear Friend Dena
We received a big letter from Papa, Anna is going to send hers later on because the envelope would be to heavy. Papa was well all the way over, Anna was sick in the beginning but in the end she did not want to get off the boat.
Lucy
Dear Friend Dena

We received a big letter from Papa, Anna is going to send hers later on because 
the envelope would be to heavy. Papa was well all the way over, Anna was sick 
in the beginning but in the end she did not want to get off the boat.

Lucy


Jethro stomps through the shiny kitchen, a happy grin on his otherwise 
vacant face; if he knows anything he's not telling. Mr. Douglas talks 
about working his farm. Robb thinks up a new gag while Laura smiles. 
Gilligan almost tries to get off his island.

We have a lot of weather but no climate.

The dogs come, whiskers drooping under crusts of ice. When the cat 
claws the screen door I know it is cold. She prefers the snowbanks, 
leaping on hapless field mice and shrews who have no cover, but when 
the temperature hovers near zero she wants in, wants a saucer of milk, a 
pillow to curl on like a question mark. Like any storybook cat she wants 
warmth and love; her contented purr is my reward.

16


Albany Feb. 13 1910

Dear Burtha

Have been waiting to hear from 
you. how do you like this winter I 
don't like it to much snow and 
cold to suit me what are you doing 
these days. I have been sewing 
some did you hear about Betsy 
losing her baby their has been lots 
of sickness

Figure without caption.
Grandpa makes a pitch for his pretty neighbor; Tony becomes a keyboard 
wizard thanks to Jeanie; Oliver gets involved in the legend of the 
famed ghost of Hooterville; Robb thinks he sees a flying saucer; Betty Jo 
feels rotten about having Steve do some apple-polishing; Ann gets a wild 
and wooly workout in Hollywood; Robb struggles to fix his tv; Gilligan 
is certain he's turning into a vampire; the Barkley family is shaken; 
Herman is at the museum, sleeping off a pill; a drab visitor to the island 
becomes Ginger's lookalike; Lucy and Ethyl challenge the boys to a gossip 
contest; the Douglasses agree to take care of a pampered pig.

Under my boots the snow creaks, whines. The uncut summer grass is 
bent, dark slashes against the blank whiteness; the oriental scribbling of 
nature. Evergreens crowd in the rows where someone, years ago, planted 
them, hoping for his own Xmas tree farm and the fast buck. From the 
trees there is an explosion of white dust, releasing a bevy of swallows, 
juncos, sparrows, wrens, grackles, like a scene from Bambi; two fat 
glowing pheasants lift from the high branches, flap upward, then glide 
far across the open fields. The perfect inviolate whiteness of sky and 
ground, which blend without horizon.

17


Figure without caption.
Belding

Mon. —

Dear Andrew

Does this make you think of Halloween 
or Xmas? Suppose you 
will raise cain about next Thur. 
night. How's all the folks? Tell 
your mamma and Sylvia they had 
better hurry up and write.

Yours,

A.H.

The snow is stasis; nothing grows, moves, loves, rots. It announces 
death, but denies decay. Leaves lie stiff and formal; they will be found in 
the spring perfectly impressed on the ground, like fossils.

A discussion of legal rights of the mentally retarded; how to fix pizza; 
a visit to the Walrus Islands; preventive dentistry; menopause and middle 
age; a culinary lesson on plurals; all about mailmen and their work; 
a trip to the library; conceptual art; can other planets have life?; real 
estate as an investment; talking out problems; the role of social workers 
in treating mental illness; resolving conflicts and classifying by size.

I walk past my trees, my fences, into open fields, large flakes slanting 
in a stiff wind. My navy jacket is huge, ugly, and for years has been old, 
but within the unzipped alpaca liner things are snug. My right hand is 
bare, however, because the pistol is on my belt; I hope to see the quick 
grayness of a rabbit, or perhaps a fox. Long ago I said no more hunting — 
an obsolete activity, the excitement gone — but today I want to feel the 
coldness of the pistol butt against my palm, the gun's weight, the buck, 
report, the acrid smell of cordite. That is why my right hand is bare and 
near my belt.

18


Last night on tv I watched (yet again!) Shane. The first time I saw it 
was 20 years ago, with the bunch of friends who did everything together, 
and the following day we were up before dawn, driving east over the 
mountains, to hunt rabbits. A friend had an H & R .22 Sentinel pistol — 
one of the first made — and that is the model I now wear, the barrel 
almost as clean as the day I bought it. Today I am in this field, in a mild 
snow storm, looking for rabbits, after seeing (yet again!) Shane: I can 
really believe that 20 years have not passed.

Figure without caption.
Hello there: —

We rec'd your letter for which accept 
your many thanks for Well I 
am getting along OK We are now 
thru with harvesting how up 
there. Will write a letter later on 
Hope you are all well and feeling 
fine

Goodbye

The salt truck roars like a dragon through the night, sparks and snow 
swirling from the blade. Sparkling blue crystals dice along the road as the 
driver performs what he considers an errand of mercy. He loves to salt.

From my window I can hear the distant swish of cars, an endless procession. 
They carry: salesmen, waitresses, policemen, mailmen, 
shoppers, crooks, politicians, rapists, poll-takers, used-car salesmen, 
reporters, plumbers, teachers, real-estate speculators, babies, tax collectors, 
students, madmen, muggers, the unemployed, welfare cases, 
bankers, mechanics, tree surgeons, bus drivers, musicians, disc jockies, 
hitch-hikers, literary gents, terminal cases.

19


I think: the snow falls faster. It would not be difficult to go over there, 
in those bushes, place the cold eye of the six-inch barrel to my temple. In 
this snow storm I would not be found until spring, perfectly preserved, 
only a small ugly bruise beside my eye. Perhaps a smile on my lips, who 
knows? It would depend on my thoughts, as I pitched into that long 
cylindrical second.

Today at dawn the freezing rain has left drops of ice on every branch; 
they sparkle in the cold sun like jewels. Like stars. Like drops of ice. Each 
snow-capped apple has an ice beard. A film of ice sheets all surfaces. I am 
on a Greek headland, looking toward the harsh white mountains of 
Albania, or climbing the glacier fields of Mt. Hood. Today is my 
birthday: I am 400 years old.

The wind rattles the drain pipes, shakes the poor trees. There is always 
some kind of weather beating about our ears.

“What I likes, is a man wif’ reg’lar ’abits.”
“What I likes, is a man wif’ reg’lar ’abits.”


20


COME MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME IN WALLA WALLA, WASH.
COME MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME 
IN WALLA WALLA, WASH.


Dear Burtha

Will drop you a line to tell you 
Dan Kirk was killed yesterday 
crossing the interurban car lines at 
Locust station the car which 
struck him killing him almost instantly. 
Jack told me last night 
and I thought would write you. It 
is awfully warm here now.

Lovingly yours, 
Myrtle

The sheet beside me is as white as the snow fields. I slip out of bed and 
walk the cold floors of the silent house, past the immaculate beds of my 
children, to the thermostat; soon a dry heat will cough from the 
registers, blow fine webs of dust across the empty rooms. In the kitchen I 
turn on the coffee pot, plug in the toaster. The refrigerator is white, cold, 
and its brilliant light illumes the yellow cube of margarine, the jam, milk, 
a half bowl of vegetable soup, some frayed lettuce. Somehow there is 
always enough for one more meal. I turn on the tv; the small white dot 
pierces the darkness like a laser, grows more intense, then larger and 
duller, the light diffusing into the gray dot pattern. The static, riding 
forgotten air waves, hovers in the room like the voices of previous 
tenants. Mental health, how to run a drill press, city people who have 
moved to the farm, hillbillies who have moved to the city. There is 
always something on, a program which tells me how to live and how 
others live.

21


Loma, N. Dak.

We were one day behind in getting 
home. We had to lay over in one 
town 23 hours. There was a fair 
girl with us from Loma. Well a 
Merry Xmas & a happy New 
Year.

Ferdinand Winaker

Figure without caption.
As for myself, I, who have done many things, and have the freedom to 
do anything, find my life has diminished to a pair of trails: I walk the 
fields, or to the mailbox — hoping for the letter that will tell me what to 
do — or sit before the tv. Perhaps once a week I go to the store — I can 
stand hunger as long as the cat can — but the crowds, the closeness, the 
insistent voice over the public address system, and especially the rows of 
full shelves shoot a weakness to my knees and tighten my stomach. There 
is too much of everything; no one needs all that.

The salt looks for any metal, the perfect metaphor for corruption. But 
no one complains; it's part of our weather.

Sometimes, late at night, my eyes burning, the tv screen falling to a 
test-pattern, sometimes after I have seen hundreds of people shot, 
stabbed, beaten, thrown from windows, cars, planes, trains, poisoned, 
blown up, sometimes on these nights I think how easy it would be to 
remove the refrigerator trays and climb in, pulling the door shut. I would 
be perfectly alone.

22


This morning the re-boiled coffee is bitter, the toast hard, yet the steam 
and the tv's voice give the chilly room a kind of warmth, and in a way it is 
even cozy. As I eat I slowly shuffle the stack of postcards as if I might find 
an answer, a message written in a miniscule hand near the stamp, or a 
tiny postscript beneath the signature. The mail is what keeps me going, 
and every noon I walk down the hill hoping for her letter; most days the 
box is empty, not even an advertising circular, but some days I open the 
salt-rusted box to find a spot of color within the darkness, the gilt-edged 
embossed paper warm against my hand. They bear old postmarks, as if 
they have been floating the mail currents for years; the names and 
addresses are not mine, and she is in another town. How they get here is a 
mystery.

Figure without caption.
Dear Cousin Gladys: —

Come to V.C. & spend Easter with 
us. We will also be glad to have 
you bring your friend. I have had 
my new spring hat for two weeks, 
I suppose you have all your spring 
duds by this time.

Love from Lois Wolff

23


And there are specific questions which puzzle me:

Why didn't Anna want to get off the boat?

What did Anna say that made the letter too heavy?

How did Betsy lose her baby?

Where was Dan Kirk going?

Why will Andrew raise cain?

Who was the fair girl from Loma? What happened during the 23 hour 
layover?

Did Cousin Gladys have her spring duds?

Did the woman's dreams come true?

(If so, where did they live? Children? Husband's occupation? Own 
their home? Own car?

Number of radio shows heard per week?

Number of films seen per month?

Were they happy in the hedge-surrounded, ivy-covered house, the 
beech tree in the yard, kids playing along the sidewalk, husband 
on Saturday raking leaves with pipe in mouth, or waxing the auto 
in the driveway which is straight as their lives, the sun setting at 
the end of a day longer than any we have known, reflecting 
against the windows which diffuse light like moth's wings, and inside 
they sit before the fireplace, reading novels, the radio softly 
humming.)

In the spring, the last snow running into underground water, moss 
cushioning damp stones, grass spreading its luxury, I would wake, shake 
myself, and rise from the bud-sprung bushes. Stiffly I would walk into 
the house, kiss my wife, fill the voids that need filling, and at my desk 
begin to write. An epic, perhaps, of the brilliant stars of winter nights, 
the stasis of days, dreaming like a sleeping bear of that landscape where 
nothing grows, moves, loves, and there is only the long empty sound of 
the cutting wind, like a man far away, over the hill, perhaps in pain, 
crying. Or perhaps it is a metaphor. Or perhaps it is the wind, and only 
that.

24


Voyeurs

Figure without caption.
Auger entered the drugstore and 
moved quickly toward the magazine 
racks. In the air-conditioned coolness he was vulnerable, 
exposed; rubbing his arm, he felt the tiny cones 
of skin puckering. He saw two girls at a round, 
chrome table look at him, look away, then at him 
again. High school girls, giggling over their sodas, 

25


and before he quickly turned away he saw beneath the shiny white fabric 
of their tennis outfits the hint of breasts. They looked away just before 
he did and he continued toward the magazine racks, rubbing his 
arm with his hand, trying to get acclimated.

From the rows of publications he took a general interest magazine and 
opened it, pretending to read about kidney transplants. Then, sensing by 
peripheral vision that he was not being watched, he quickly slipped a 
copy of Playboy between the opened pages. The street outside was dark 
and in the window's reflection he could see the view over his shoulder: 
the two girls still giggled at the ends of their straws, the breasts jiggling 
against the table edges were mere nubs; the soda-jerk washed glasses, the 
pharmacist walked behind his cash register, whistling. At the counter a 
woman sat on a stool, the ice in her untouched drink melting; the heavy 
calf of one leg was draped over the other, the red shoe pumped in the air. 
She looked toward the door, as if expecting someone.

Auger suddenly realized there was a face beyond the reflection — a 
man's face, pallid, unshaven, dark horn-rimmed glasses, hands cupped 
to each side to cut out the glare. Shaken, Auger ran to the doorway and 
onto the sidewalk, but the man was gone. Behind him he heard the sodajerk 
yelling and he realized he still had the magazines. Auger dropped 
them inside, then ran down the deserted sidewalk. The street was empty 
— no people, no passing cars, no sound except for Auger's padded 
footsteps. At the corner he stopped, looked in all directions, and wondered 
why the man had been looking at him, of all people.

From the bushes he saw the man run to the corner, then wait under the 
arc light, briskly rubbing his arms. Willy breathed deeply, got his heartbeat 
back to normal. The oppressive odor of laurel leaves and fine road 
dust almost caused him to sneeze, but he forced his tongue against the 
roof of his mouth. Only a few minutes more — the man would give up, 
they always did. Willy had been chased by some of the best, and he had 
always escaped — there were a million places to hide if a man knew the 
route beforehand.

Somewhere a dog barked; Willy stiffened, listened, moved to 
straighten his cramped legs. Dogs, now, were something else. The man 
was still on the corner. A cruiser came out of the night, eased along the 
curb, the red roof light dull. Willy saw the man slip into the shadows, 
and he relaxed. He eased his weight until he was lying on his back, viewing 
the summer stars; there was something not only restful but secure 
within the bush, and he was reminded of a tree house he had built long 
ago, where he could remain until well after the adults were asleep. He 
had seen a few things in those days.

Now, shifting his weight again, he looked from the stars to the build-

26


ing on his left — the backside of a two story apartment house, cluttered 
with washpans, laundry, brooms and mops. Near a lighted window he 
saw a man leaning on the balcony's wooden railing; he was a large man 
in an undershirt and bib-overalls, and he smoked what seemed to be 
a cigar for the periodic red glow that burned the night air was the size of a 
small bulb. How long? Willy wondered. If he'd seen him, why didn't he 
call out, or point him to the police? Willy broke into a sweat, fearing that 
he'd been seen, and he waited without moving until the pain in his 
muscles became acute, the nerves sending small needles along every surface.


The light from the window behind the man spread across the side of his 
face, reflected from the bald skull, the transparent fluffs of hair above the 
ears. Willy watched as the man watched, unmoving, seeming to bore 
with his eyes into the very core of the laurel bush. Finally, after what 
seemed an eternity, Willy heard a door open, saw a woman emerge from 
the yellow quadrangle of light and call to the man, who slowly turned 
and entered the room.

Willy slid from the laurel bush before the man's eyes could adjust to 
the light; he didn't even look to see whether the first man still waited 
across the street. A hedge connected to the larger bush, and Willy clambered 
on hands and knees in its shadow until he came to a narrow sidewalk. 
Flat on the ground, he crawled into the shadow of a tree, reached 
the front porch, skirted it, and went to the rear of the house; there was 
only a small fence, which he was easily over, and then he was running 
softly along the sleeping back street.

As he turned to put the empty beer bottle down, he saw movement in 
the alley below — heard it, actually, since his head was turned away 
from the railing. Feet, perhaps — a person, a dog, or only the sound of 
newspaper blowing along the gutter? But there was no wind. He had 
sought the coolness of the balcony, a few minutes of escape from the humidity 
before he slipped into whatever sleep was possible between the 
damp sheets. He viewed with apprehension the prospect of his and 
Nora's vast expanses of flesh in sweaty contact all night; perhaps, he 
thought, he should sleep here.

From the balcony he viewed the alley, bushes, the street. A man stood 
on the corner under the arc light; perhaps it was his feet he'd heard. Then 
he saw a light go on in the house across the alley. He saw her come into 
the room, pass by the window, disappear. The naked light bulb swung 
from the motion, light gyrating in crazy circles until it slowed, stopped. 
She came to the bed and sat, kicking off her shoes. He bit the cigar involuntarily, 
stifled a cough as he saw her slide the dress up over shoulders, 
shake her hair loose. She stood in the slowing circle of light in her under


27


clothes, then moved out of sight to hang up the dress. When she returned 
she sat on the bed and slowly, slowly unfurled first the one stocking and 
then the other, rolling the sheer fabric across full thigh and calf until it 
slipped over the toe. He waited while she put these somewhere, felt his 
breath coming harder with the energy of expectation; he shifted in the 
chair and when she returned she doubled her arms behind her in a quick 
gesture, unhooked hooks, slipped the bra off. He saw fleetingly light 
catch the upper expanses of her breasts, saw the slow curve of the underside 
end like a question mark in the nipple; her hair fell forward, a cascade 
long and dark across her shoulders. He waited, breathless, wondering 
whether this happened every night, but before she slipped out of 
panties she put on her nightgown, tying the front shut, and left the room. 
He felt aroused but when she returned she simply switched off the light. 
He waited, knowing now that he might be seen. That she had not 
stripped completely left him unsatisfied, and it was almost with relief 
that he heard Nora call. He picked up his empty bottle and went inside, 
hot as a dog, aroused by the vision of that girl sleeping almost naked and 
unprotected in that ground-floor bedroom.

From the window Nora watched her husband stare across space, saw 
the woman crossing the room beneath the dancing light bulb. A breeze 
moved the window shade beside her face, fanning a large blue fly into 
action; her fingers gripped the drainboard, and she was acutely aware of 
the overpowering odor of old food, soap, stale milk which churned from 
the sink. He sat without moving, and she too noticed the girl's firm 
thighs, the flat stomach, and she tried to recall what she had been thinking 
about in days when her flesh lay close to her bones. Or had it ever? 
Not about an apartment over an alley, not a husband whose idea of a 
good time was to sit on the balcony with a beer, gawking at girls 
undressing. But she waited until the light went out before she opened the 
door, and called.

Mitch was making his way along the roof when his foot hit the sheet of 
loose tar paper, sent it skittering toward the edge, and at the same instant 
he saw the man on the balcony. He dropped flat. The man straightened in 
his chair, looked across the alley and toward the street. Mitch held his 
breath, sheltered his face in the sleeve of his black shirt.

Then, shifting slightly, he saw the man across the street looking 
toward the roof.

Mitch exhaled, swore — he'd thought the place was pretty empty at 
this hour. A police car cruised beside the curb.

Across the alley a light went on and as he turned he saw a girl cross the 
room; she sat on the bed, took off her shoes, and began to undress. 

28


Mitch smiled, watched the man watch that yellow square of light; he 
waited, and just when he was about to move back into the darkness the 
light went out. He heard a voice call to the man. A woman stood in the 
illuminated doorway, waited, then went back inside; the man got up, 
tucked in his shirt, and followed.

The man on the corner under the arc light was gone also, Mitch noticed, 
but as he raised himself to a crouching position he saw something 
move in the bushes below. With incredible speed a man ducked out of the 
hedge on hands and knees, and followed the cover of its shadow until he 
got to the darker shadows beside the porch. Mitch waited, doubting 
what he had seen; the figure appeared behind the house, running, was 
over a fence, and disappeared down the alley. Mitch shook his head, 
waited to see whether anyone else would show up.

When it seemed clear he climbed from the roof to the fire escape. It was 
a short jump to the balcony where the man had been drinking beer. 
Through the window he heard voices, saw past the fine mesh curtains to 
a room, a bed, the bib-overalls hanging from the bedpost. The small 
night light revealed the pair partly covered by a single sheet; they were 
incredibly large, their bulk multiplied by the creases which broke the 
parts into segments. The noise that the bed made covered any sound 
Mitch might have made as he reached through the open window to 
unplug the teevee set, the toaster, the waffle iron; he wound up their 
cords and carried them down the fire escape like a sting of fish. The 
sounds of bulbous love-making could be heard in the alley, echoing 
against the building, until it merged with his footsteps as he ran for his 
car.

Willy flattened himself into the recessed doorway as a car sped from 
the alley, its lights sweeping the dark street; tires squealed at the intersection 
as the car turned left, tilting, then sped away. Willy wiped his 
forehead with the back of his hand, peered both ways before stepping 
out. He heard footsteps before he saw anyone, and ducked back. The 
steps came closer, and he heard the sound of laughter, like ice in a glass. 
Two girls ambled along the sidewalk on his side of the street; they 
laughed, and pushed at each other with tennis rackets. Willy flattened 
himself against the doorway and watched them slowly walk past, saw 
the flash of thighs beneath their small dresses, and when they were 
beyond his hiding place they looked back, their laughter echoing on the 
dark street. Willy relaxed, exhaled the air he had been holding.

He waited until they were out of sight before continuing on to the 
corner. The only business still open was the drug store, but it looked 
deserted. Willy crossed the street, walked to the window and peered at 
the clock on the far wall; ten minutes before closing.

29


Suddenly he realized that he was seeing a face in the foreground: a 
man at the magazine rack, staring in surprise over the top of Life, mouth 
open, as if trying to shout. When the man started for the door Willy 
began to run, heading for the alley and the dark shrubbery beyond.

Klatz laid the 8 power telescope on the dashboard, and slipped the 
doe-skin gloves on a finger at a time. He had watched the two girls leave 
the drug store, considered them, then noticed the man in the shadow of 
the doorway. The girls disappeared around the corner, and Klatz was 
reluctant to expose himself to the other man by starting his engine or 
turning on headlights. He waited, saw the other man go to the window, 
make a gesture, and saw a second man chase him down the street. Even 
now he stood, rubbing his arms, under the arc light.

Eventually the drug store's windows began to dim, and the last customer 
left. Klatz waited until he was certain of which direction she would 
take, and then he started his car; he backed to the corner and, lights out, 
eased the car around the block. There were two houses on this street, 
both with thick shrubbery, and between them an empty field. Klatz 
unfolded his heavy wool scarf and hung it loosely around his neck. From 
the back seat he opened a small leather case, and even in the dim light the 
row of scalpels glowed. From the glove box he took an aerosol can of 
ether and a length of rope. He had removed the bulb from the dome light, 
and so he was able to leave the car in darkness, squatting beside the rear 
fender. He looked at the sleeping houses, dark shrubbery, and felt safe.

Along the sidewalk the woman walked quickly, her red high heels 
sounding a note of urgency.

30


Figure without caption.
The A-V8

& How It Went

WHERE I WAS

Where I was was in the Plymouth, front seat, passenger's side. In my 
hands the coke was getting warm. Feet on the dashboard, between the V 
of my shoes I was seeing the yellowed crazed windshield. Beyond the 
bubbles which floated in the old sandwiched safety glass, near the 
Service window I saw the roadster. Thin wisps of exhaust still rose from 
the chrome pipes. It came hip-high to Skip, who leaned against the door, 
his polished jump-boots sticking out into that area of pavement where 

31


Yvonne would have to walk. Boots widened into levis into white 
tee-shirt and I saw him unfold the sleeve wrapped tightly against a huge 
muscle, where he kept the pack of Camels. His other hand reached up to 
slick back his hair, while he waited for Yvonne.

I was wondering where Speed was at.

Against my back the rough mohair itched, and the afternoon grew 
hotter. Lines of heat shimmered from the hood of the Plymouth, as if the 
engine had just been run. The truth was that the Plymouth, owned by the 
four of us — Bert, Macy, Wheels, me — didn't have any engine at all. We 
pushed it here to the drive-in and since there's never enough traffic to fill 
the lot the manager said it was okay if we sat. Which is exactly what we 
did every night and every Sunday afternoon — sat here like driving customers, 
shooting the shit, planning, dreaming, while our cokes grew 
warm in our hands.

Then I heard the distant scruuummp of the bike, coming down the 
highway.

WHAT THE A - V8 WAS

What the A-V8 was was a '29 A roadster, the old four-banger now 
replaced with a Ford V-8. What it was running: a 21-A block, ported and 
relieved, big intake valves; cam by Isky, flywheel chopped to twenty 
pounds, truck clutch, and a converted Lincoln ignition. On the outside it 
had finned aluminum Eddie Myers heads and a Thickstun dual manifold 
with Stromberg 97's. The head nuts were chrome acorns, the generator 
was chrome, and each carb was topped by a chrome bonnet. Even with 
primer paint and no upholstery that car was pretty, and mean enough for 
Indy.

Our town had never seen anything like it.

My brother Skip had the idea a long time ago, before the War. He was 
101st Airborne. Four years that car sat in our barn, the old engine hanging 
over the car like a dirty weight, rats nibbling at the seats. As I got 
older I got interested — I could look at it for hours, studying the fenderless 
body, picture myself driving to The Shack, and racing at night along 
every empty road in this State. When I was almost ready to start on her 
myself, Skip came home, tall and dark and muscled, a cigarette always 
between his teeth. He had saved some money, he said.

He got the V-8 engine from Clyde's wrecking yard, and together we sat 
day after day in the hot sun rebuilding it. Skip sent to California for some 
fancy stuff, and when we got it together that engine glowed like cold fire.

I want to say that car was beautiful, but I know some people feel different 
about these things. The Devil's own hell on wheels, our Dad called 

32


it — he hated anything lower or more streamlined than his stake-bed 
farm truck. He wanted Skip to invest that money in acreage. But while he 
saw the roadster as a hateful, foolish machine, he also recognized it as an 
Investment which could be sold when Skip was ready to settle down. It 
was the only sign of wealth our family had.

Figure without caption.
WHAT I SAW

What I saw was Skip leaning against the roadster grinning, and 
Yvonne coming out with a tray of cokes and burgers for the only other 
car on the lot, a 1946 Ford station wagon with Nebraska plates. She 
stepped over Skip's feet without altering at all the arched line of her back, 
and she crossed the asphalt, the fringe of her short red rodeo skirt swirl


33


ing around long legs. She wore a white blouse and white boots, and even 
I had to admit she was pretty. Placing the tray on the station wagon's 
window, she brushed her long blonde hair over a shoulder, and I saw her 
bright lips flash as she smiled. I watched her walk back, and as she got 
near the roadster she stopped. Skip straightened up and said something, 
then sat on the tire.

He had taken off all four fenders so it looked like a race car. Then he 
had borrowed a torch and channeled the body, until that car was so low 
it could barely get down our rutted driveway. He had put in '39 Ford taillights, 
and a swell Auburn dash panel he had found at Clyde's.

The car was finished except for paint and upholstery. Skip even had 
the paint, fire-engine red, at home. It wasn't that he was slow or lazy, but 
the week he'd figured to paint it Yvonne had come to work at The Shack. 
When he saw her he just lost interest in the roadster. Now when he wasn't 
working on the farm he was sitting here in the parking lot or taking 
Yvonne swimming at the river or driving clear to Dubuque for the 
dances. He was crazy about her.

I was disappointed okay, and only hoped that he would either get tired 
of her or if not, that he would give the roadster to me.

WHAT THE A - V8 MEANT

What the A-V8 meant was the glint of sun on chrome, the wind slapping 
your face along the back roads after supper. It meant something 
sleek in a country of hay-racks and Massey-Harris tractors. To understand 
this you have to do more than appreciate machinery — you have to 
understand what it's like to be fifteen and live five miles from town, even 
a town which is only three grain elevators, standing like fingers over a 
depot, a tavern, two stores, a cluster of houses, and a drive-in.

Look at any map: there are roads leading any direction you want to 
go. Assuming you want to go, you got to have a car. A car with an engine.


WHAT I HEARD THEN

What I heard then was the distant scruuump of the bike, coming closer 
down the highway. I could tell by the exhaust it was running flat-out, 
heading along that stained concrete at a little over a hundred. Before the 
bridge I heard the exhaust begin to collect in those long pipes, and I knew 
he'd let up. Then he started down-shifting, changing through the four 
gears, the engine rising and falling as sound collected around him. He 
had dropped to second before Yvonne, and then Skip, looked up. She 
brushed her golden hair back and tucked her blouse into the waist of the 

34


red rodeo skirt, her eyes staring at some invisible point on the highway. 
Skip's smile faded and he flipped his cigarette across the pavement, 
watching her.

Second gear, the long trail of exhaust, and then low, the sharp noise 
swelling along the narrow quiet street. The rider laid the bike over and 
swung into the lot, to park beside the roadster. When he hit the kill button 
the engine quit, at once. The leg the rider swung over the seat was

Figure without caption.
35


covered with a canvas military puttee, and ended in a jump-boot. Although 
the day was a scorcher he wore an Ike jacket buttoned to the 
neck; he pushed back the goggles and removed the chamois flying helmet. 
He stooped to check something in the tire's tread, and then stood 
before Yvonne, his black hair falling across his wind-burned face.

With Speed on the other side of Yvonne, Skip was not smiling at all.

Figure without caption.
WHO MADE THE BET

Who made the bet is unclear to me, or even at what point we realized 
there was something to bet on. I was in the Plymouth, front seat, 
passenger's side, my feet on the dashboard, the coke getting warm in my 
hands, looking through the windshield at Skip and Yvonne and now 
Speed. It was someone in the backseat, Bert or Macy, or possibly it was 
Wheels pretending to be driving the Plymouth, who said: "I bet two- 
bits. On the bike." I don't know who said it, or if I even knew what it was 
I was betting on, I only knew my loyalty was to Skip and the roadster, so 
I put my feet down, dug into my pocket, and came up with twenty-four 
cents which I laid on the backrest of the front seat.

When I looked again I saw Speed and Skip arguing, with Yvonne 
standing behind them. They angled toward each other, Skip poking 
Speed's chest with his finger, and Speed waving his palm in the air as if to 
say bullshit.

36


Once, before Yvonne came to work at The Shack, they had been 
friends. They had grown up together and worked together, and had enlisted 
in the 101st together; they had gone through the War together. But 
the fighting they'd seen at the Battle of the Bulge was only a skirmish 
compared to the fights they'd had the past month.

The bike Speed brought back from England when he was mustered out 
was the first foreign machine we'd seen. Once two men came through on 
Harley-Davidsons, going to California, and there was a kid in the next 
county who had a Henderson Four before it killed him, but those were 
trucks compared to Speed's Vincent. Long, slim, and black, it was all engine, 
topped with a pad of leather and a small tank. When Speed grabbed 
a handful of throttle, the noise from the long sweeping pipes stampeded 
cows five miles away.

When they got back from the Service, every Saturday night Skip and 
Speed would crowd together on that small seat and leaning into the 
wind, would fly to Dubuque. Around dawn they'd return, drunk, 
singing, the bike waking every respectable citizen. After Skip got the 
roadster together, sometimes they'd take that; once they took both 
machines, racing every mile of the distance.

Figure without caption.
37


That went on until Yvonne came to work at The Shack.

Now Speed put the chamois flying helmet on and buckled it, pulling 
the goggles down. He walked stiffly to his bike, swung a leg over and 
brought it down on the starter. Skip was already over the door of the 
roadster and behind the wheel. Both machines exploded to life at the 
same instant, the sound filling the lot. Speed cut a wide circle around the 
Ford station wagon whose amazed occupants looked up from their 
cokes, and stopped in the middle of the road. Skip cranked the roadster 
back, then forward, the rear tires spinning into motion. Briefly he looked 
at the Plymouth and gave me the thumbs up, but he was not smiling. He 
swung the car into the road beside the bike, and the tempo of exhaust 
grew.

I looked at Yvonne, who stood beside the Service window, hands in 
the pockets of her red rodeo skirt; her pretty face, red with excitement, 
did not register the apprehension I felt. I wondered, who was she rooting 
for?

Together roadster and bike accelerated. Skip popped the clutch, and 
the rear tires squealed, leaving wide black marks on the road as the car 
fishtailed. The bike shot ahead quickly, but as I opened the door to stand 
on the running-board I saw that they were matched. A cloud of blue 
smoke swirled behind as Skip hit second gear and then they were far 
down the road, merging with the horizon.

I guessed that they would race to the bridge.

As I stood there on the running-board, listening, the exhaust collected 
against the blacktop and began to diminish. I strained against the silence 
— they had passed the bridge by now, for sure — but heard only the 
rustling of wheat, the buzzing of an insect, the clicking of expanded metal 
as the sun beat down on the Plymouth. On this Sunday there were no 
tractors churning across furrows, nor even a plane crossing the sky.

Finally the Ford wagon left. I watched Yvonne cross the parking lot, 
the tray glittering in the sun, her skirt swirling above the white boots.

Then I heard the metallic notes of exhaust, loping along the highway. I 
thought it was the roadster with a blown muffler, but the silhouette I saw 
was high and narrow. Speed rode easily, not pushing it, and without any 
fancy shifting he came into the lot in second gear. Slowly he got off, and 
sat down beside the chamois helmet he had thrown on the ground. 
Yvonne stood in the shade behind him, her fingers touching bright red 
enamaled lips.

No one picked up the money we'd bet.

And that's all. I saw somewhere along the highway, in a corn field, our 
parents following the tire tracks, picking up any bright piece of metal — 
the family wealth, those bits of chrome. I thought without really 
knowing how easy a guy could let a woman do that to him — how you 

38


could ruin you life over a woman.

As I shut the door, one question nagged me: there was still that road 
leading to Dubuque, where I'd never been, and I wondered whether a full 
race, balls out Ford V-8 would fit into an engineless Plymouth sedan, 
without too much work?

39


An 
Attempt 
from 
the Store

Precisely at nine Jetzel peered from the dull green shade at the demol¬ ished street. Concealed within the flower in his lapel — a tiny eye in the pistil — the Mini-Spy lens aimed across the jagged vaults of base¬ ments and broken walls: open places, like an ill-stocked store.
Precisely at nine Jetzel peered from the dull green shade at the demolished 
street. Concealed within the flower in his lapel — a tiny eye in 
the pistil — the Mini-Spy lens aimed across the jagged vaults of basements 
and broken walls: open places, like an ill-stocked store.


40


Punctual as ever into this desolation the Chrysler whispered on fat 
tires, pushed by a silent, lacy exhaust. Beside the Urban Renewal levelings 
the hood dipped as the handbrake locked rear wheels; the driver 
swung an arm over the infinite curved leather and the woman came to 
him. Immerse and white, the auto tilted again, sideways.

A refrigerator on wheels, Jetzel thought.

The telescope pivoted into the shade's secret hole; Jetzel focused on the 
fence of grill mesh, moved across the endless, dazzling hood to the dark 
glass. Below the sunvisor he read the woman's lips: Rotarians Cliff O a 
week—

This cryptic message was closed by the man's mouth, coming down 
hard. Jetzel had the feeling of watching a bad movie from the front row.

A noise on the stairs and the scene swirled into the eyepiece as Jetzel 
stepped sideways to the dismantled teevee chassis, screwdriver in hand.

—Jet, did you order Animal Pride? Mayo's head was above the 
stairwell, inquiring.

No, the order had slipped his mind. Forgotten. And had been Inventing, 
you understand.

But what did it matter? Everyone for two blocks east was gone, their 
houses with them. Only foundations sank like jagged, broken teeth into 
weed-grown yards. And below, like the vacancy of lots, each shelf of the 
store became bare. It was as if the endless broad belts of Production 
were, like the freeway, routed far overhead.

In the silence Jetzel expected her to say again, Forget your inventions. 
Soon the construction workers will arrive. The store could sell hot 
pastami and corned beef sandwiches and coffee and magazines. We 
could Advertise. And he would have believed this Plan, for in the past 
her ingenuity had often carried them when his had failed. But what she 
did say — before her steps faded to where Mrs. Dorkshire waited below 
for a can of Animal Pride, to leave Jetzel prodding the exposed teevee 
tubes — what she did say was: —Jet, why are you wearing that flower?

Where he had gone wrong, he thought, was not in buying this store, or 
even in quitting high school. At sixteen he had earned his living. But in 
two years he had grown to hate the garage — the freezing floors in 
winter, dirt falling from fender wells in summer — and so, to Get Ahead, 
there was the electonics course, correspondence. In nine months he held 
a diploma and a job assembling transistors; thin fingers were needed, 
and therefore he was the only man among a room of women.

One of whom was Mayo.

Although he was Inside and wore a white shirt, and although the intricate 
conduits and filaments finer than human hair were natural to his 
fingerpads, nothing seemed to go right. He did not expect promotions — 
just yet — nor did he especially want to be among the Supervisors' neat 

41


offices: his place was on the line. But it was a surprise when the 
Company took credit — and patent — for the fuse-relay he had perfected 
during his own long nights. Oh, they raised him by thirty cents an hour, 
but he was still with the women, soldering connections.

He quit, of course, to work as an appliance installer for a wholesale 
house: for several months there was the security of private basements, 
where limp hoses yielded to the shadows. And later was a teevee repairman 
and an auto battery recaser, and somewhere along the way — 
perhaps a lens grinder or a telephone lineman — he had leased the automatic 
car wash, and Mayo went to work again, making change.

But like an eccentric flywheel things always somehow got out of control 
and so — after the affair with the film shop — he bought this store, 
and built the workbench which covered two walls of the small apartment 
upstairs. They saved the expense of renting a separate house and at night 
he and Mayo could watch several channels simultaneously on the discarded 
teevee sets. During the day, while Mayo ran the store, Jetzel continued 
to invent. The hairpin, thumb-tack, and cotter-key had made men 
rich — and looking into the unknown why not his self-regulating reo- 
juster, or the inert gas humidifier?

He invented, and one by one slipped the patent applications into the 
mail box's lip, where they became utterly lost. Washington did not 
answer his inquiries, nor did his Senator; letters to the Editor were not 
published, and the Attorney General's office only suggested, on a 
mimeographed form, that it was checking on every citizen's charge of 
communists within the government.

Yet his inventions turned up in the pages of Mechanix Illustrated or on 
an experimental automobile, under someone else's name.

And when the houses to the east were bulldozed to rubble for the freeway 
overpass, he recognized the Federal plot. His patents had been 
confiscated, his taxes raised, his zip code changed, and now he was being 
driven out of business. He might sell hot pastrami to the construction 
workers but when the overpass was finished and the trucks gone, all the 
traffic in the world would speed fifty feet above the store, over the empty 
landscape.

Along that empty, demolished street, as on every Saturday for two 
months now, the Chrysler turned the corner on fat, silent tires and 
parked until noon. All morning the two bodies groped under the vinyl 
top, lips together. Jetzel had occasionally watched; but when his bank 
account became empty as the shelves below, he began to observe.

It was not difficult to check the license, or to learn that the owner was 
both rich and married.

And if the store had been the investment the advertisement had 
claimed, then there would be an Ultra-Eavesdropper to receive whispers 

42


a block off, and also the Infra-Red Scope for night-time detection, and 
the martini olive transmitter. But the store was clearly a failure, and so 
there was only the Mini-Spy, which Jetzel had built himself.

Necessarily, he did what he could.

Now the thin rubber tube threaded inside the sleeve, from flowers to 
the squeeze-bulb in his palm. The hat in the mirror sat squarely, brim 
snapped across his face; the flower was a pink explosion on his blue serge 
lapel. Then he was down the stairs and through the aisles which separated 
empty shelves; past the silent cash register and his wife who, 
childless, was no doubt giving candy to the two Negro boys at the 
counter.

By the curb the Chrysler tilted, sluggish and rich. As he walked toward 
it, fingers clutching the squeeze-bulb, Jetzel saw two vague shapes 
merge. Closer, and he would get the license number; then a series of 
shots until he could photograph faces. To walk slightly sideways beside 
the fender he had practiced a limp.

For there had to be absolute evidence, whether he sold the photos to 
the owner of the car or to the owner's wife. Or perhaps the man in the car 
would pay — in one case it would be the lump sum, in the other a steady 
income.

Perhaps he could sell the evidence to all three?

As his fingers tested the bulb he saw two heads rise, straining over the 
leather toward the Chrysler's rear window. Limping more slowly, his 
eyes went to the intersection beyond the demolished buildings: a 
rat-brown car sat sideways, hood buckled and windshield gaping. From 
the passenger's seat a girl fell and disappeared into the bushes.

Awed, Jetzel began to move toward the green lawns where he saw a 
second car, a small economy model, halfway up the steps of the corner 
house, as if trying to enter. At least a half-dozen teen-agers climbed from 
the driver's door to fall moaning on the grass or to sit dumbly on the steps 
ahead of the hood.

But how? He had heard no crash. The false limp forgotten Jetzel began 
to run instinctively along the broken sidewalk. Over the smashed metal 
and shattered glass hung the smell of hot grease and, closer, Jetzel heard 
the hiss of water falling on an exhaust manifold.

Running, he saw a woman on the porch stare at the deflating tire. But 
when Jetzel arrived no one except the victims converged around the 
wrecks and they — he thanked God — did not seem badly hurt. Cuts, 
perhaps a broken nose on that boy — scars to remind them of their 
responsibilities.

Jetzel wandered into the yard, mildly disappointed. Where were the 
onlookers, the curious? The two cars leaned into their shadows, the kids 
sat dazed and stupid, while he alone was able to walk through this chaos.

43


— And that was a new recap, said the boy, a red cloth held to his nose. 
— And that was a new one.




Jetzel was mildly disappointed and awed and horrified. Black harsh 
streaks on the abrasive road led to a final mound of dirt under each tire. 
Fragments of glass were patterned like a hi-speed photo of an explosion. 
The forward slanting machines were turned in upon themselves. For no 
reason he recalled wrecks seen as a boy: a black sedan, its top resting on 
the railroad tracks which glazed off into infinity, the four wheels turning, 
turning. Or that day along the Pacific coast when a cyclist had raced his 
machine straight into the downturned tailgate; the head, helmeted and 
goggled, lay beside the road until the ambulance arrived, two hours 
later.

What he wondered was, Did the drivers who survived wake every 
morning to survey the mistakes of their past?

As Jetzel turned to inquire whether the police had been called the girl 
stumbled from the bushes to reel up the driveway, her hair already stiff 
with blood where fragments of glass glittered like sequins. Two eyes 
burned through the blood veneer; everything else was stained brown to 
her waist.

Passing through the windshield did that to her face, he saw, but dropping 
back into the car she had met the unyielding knives of safety glass. 
From the slashed neck blood spurted across her shoulder; frothy bubbles 
grew over the wound when she tried to speak to Jetzel. For it was directly 
to him she came, reaching through darkness.

Jetzel turned to the dazed gallery on the steps who surveyed the 
smashed metal or their own shoes.

— Help her!




The girl reeled closer, an insane dream. Jetzel saw now that much of 
the brown was in fact bright scarlet, and that this disguise did not cover 
the breast which hung from the torn, brown blouse. When his order was 
ignored he turned, to walk against the side of the small car. His mind 
raced into the stench of gasoline and hot metal. Fingers clutched his coat 
as he scrambled against the side of the car, and when the iron fist held 
tight he shouted: Keep calm!

When she spun against him, Jetzel looked into the wound, the parted 
skin a mouth spitting blood and bubbles. His hands hung near his 
pockets squeezing open and shut: her face darkened and peeling like 
wallpaper, laced with fine, deep cuts — and there was no nose!

— Get back, Mac.




Jetzel felt the bony hand fall away, saw the brown stain at the corner of 
his eye ooze to the ground, and he released his clenched fists. Dust hung 
suspended where the trucker had skidded into the gravel and now his 
arms, thick as axles, reached for the girl, shoving her to the ground while 

44


the blanket was flung tightly over the convulsive form.

— Shock, the trucker said.

And Jetzel, seized by an immobility perfect and final, would not have 
been surprised to see the man whip out bandages and hypodermic 
needle.

Within the blanket the girl struggled and below the grass was a spreading 
dark metallic stain; hair, shoulders were glazed with the absolute 
sheet of blood, and now it struck Jetzel that her life was flashing into the 
ground, that the long pulsing stream had a source within that was 
terminal.

Somewhere off in the morning was an urgent siren.

The trucker was crouched over the girl asking Jetzel for something or 
other and the girl was staring at him through blank, pearl-white eyes and 
the stunned survivors moaned on the steps as Jetzel moved quickly past 
the catastrophe.

Among the private ruins of open teevee sets Jetzel did not move until 
the sirens began again, linking distances. Flecks of blood, like spittle, had 
touched his jacket and the plastic petals. When he tried to wipe his palms 
he realized his fingers gipped the squeeze-bulb.

He had shot every film: when the negatives were developed his album 
would show the girl spring from the drive, moving toward him clutching 
the air while he, equally helpless, squeezed the bulb again and again, a 
progression of shots until the open, awful wound pulsed closeup flicking 
real blood over the lens.

Not until the siren returned to the distance did he fit an eye to the telescope 
: at the intersection the winking shards of glass, on the lawn an 
immense stain of brown; and swinging the lens across the ruined landscape 
he saw the elusive, fading oil stains — like a review of his past — 
where the Chrysler had been.

45


Overtures 
to 
Motion:

Figure without caption.
A Portrait of the Writer

The horses rattled in the same traces; the wagon still traveled on bent 
hubs, so the wheels canted a foot sideways for every foot forward. But 
this fair Benton was three inches taller, and soon he would not need to tilt 
his head to look directly into his father's eyes, when they spoke.

46


And, although the same rolling scrub trees and clay banks moved past, 
Benton felt a year's change: an engine inside drove bones to the skin's 
limits, extended the taut ropes of tendons.

Thinking this, he was not surprised when the balloon's pink and red 
bulk did not stir restlessly this year. What he saw, at the last rise, as he 
squinted along the valley floor to the sprawling gridwork of ridge-poles, 
canvas, and makeshift shacks, was a cross shaped shadow of red and 
blue. Benton's eyes did not release the bright cross during the wagon's 
fretful descent: the gliding curve of fabric and wood, tapering from the 
three sets of wings to the high, broad tail-fin, and all held together by the 
framework of struts and wires blazing in the sun. Centered behind the 
wings was the motor: a bright continuum of baffles and tubing and riveted 
plates.

Then the wagon settled on the valley floor, and the hunched buildings 
interfered. As Benton helped his father unload the sides of smoked meat, 
he swore he would not go down that road toward the field and the aeroplane 
— until after dinner.

He unhitched the team, and watered and picketed them in the shade 
behind Main street. But energy still pounded at his temples, so he walked 
up and down the town, seeing nothing, talking to no one; his boots 
struck the dirt in hard, heavy steps, calculated to tire him. Walked, and 
shifted his itching shoulders against the hot sun.

Fraaaaaaap. Ahhhh, he heard, a rising and falling sound; a mechanical 
imitation of energy and pleasure. He looked, for the first time, at 
the aeroplane. But its propeller, a gleaming, razored log, was still.

Fraaaaap. Ahhhhh, he heard, and the noise turned his head the other 
way, where a cloud of dust moved up the hill, toward town.

Cyclone, a man yelled. Horses shied, pawing the air.

The cloud mounted, and then Benton made out the dust-brown dot at 
its head — a motor-car. It passed out of sight, but soon reappeared at the 
end of the street; its horn warned twice, but the motor-car did not slow 
for the dogs which ran to meet it.

Fraaaaaaaap, he heard, the high tires speeding at him; and as he 
jumped to the board sidewalk, a sound of Ahhhhhhhhh, when the driver

— hunched over the wheel, goggles dull with dust, cap worn backwards


— jerked the lever beside the seat. Benton saw the flash of the brass radiator, 
beaded with dust, like sweat on a golden muscle; the wooden 
spoked wheels spinning in reverse; he smelled the sharp odor of gasoline 
and leather. The machine roared past, in the noise of pleasure, and 
beyond the town spun to a stop beside the aeroplane.




Benton had said he wouldn't go, that he could not be satisfied with 
anything once he had seen the aeroplane, perhaps touched its varnished 
fabric; yet he jumped into the crowd of men and boys who ran through 

47


the falling, filtering dust.

At the field, the Driver faced the group of angry townsmen. The 
Sheriff touched his gun handle, but when his hand came back it was only 
a finger he pointed. The Driver had slid his goggles to the top of his head, 
and now he spread his legs and the four eyes stared down. "You folks got 
to get used to this Century," he said. Laughing, he walked to the rear seat 
of the motor-car, where he lifted out a piece of gleaming wood wider 
than the machine. Benton saw another man coming out of the aeroplane's 
motor — raising his legs around pipes and heavy brass tubes — to 
receive the new propeller. Gently, he laid it on the open strutwork of the 
fuselage.

"Okay, move back," the Sheriff said, waving people off the field. "Do 
not want any taxpayers killed."

Benton walked to the wagon, his fingers imitating how the Mechanic 
had fitted a spanner on a bolt; there was a kind of naturalness in the way 
such things went together. A union.

And as the family ate dinner beneath the wagon, Benton thought only 
about how a man could take metal, wood, and fabric, join these with his 
own hands, and fly. He did not hear his father mention that the smoked 
hams and bacon sides had been sold, nor did he hear his father's plan to 
buy some mill lumber. Absolutely committed to the machine, what he 
did hear was the sound of prairie grass brushing the aeroplane's lower 
wing, and the wind strum and chord through the taut wire-work which 
held the machine together: a tune he recognized.

As the family walked with the others to the edge of town, Benton 
decided he would ask his father for a dollar. That was what it cost, he had 
heard, to go up. But when they reached the field, where grass bent like 
silk in the wind, he did not ask. For his father was laughing, softly, and 
when Amos walked past, the father said: "Going up again this year, 
Amos?"

"Nosir," Amos said, his arms pumping at his sides. "I am not. It likely 
won't get offn the ground."

"That's what I told the boy again," his father said. "It ain't going nowheres." 
The two men laughed, in agreement.

His father did not believe in these machines, and so it was useless to ask 
for the dollar. Last year, when the price was twenty-five cents to ride the 
balloon, when there was an offer of two free tickets, Benton had not 
gone. We could go, Pop, he had pleaded. Nothing's free, his father had 
said, and anyways, it ain't going nowheres. He had been right, last year.

It was Amos, the blacksmith, and Parson's, the town drunk, who had 
climbed into the wicker basket, where a crackling, smokeless fire shimmered 
the field into a mirage. And it was Parsons who, as the warm bag 
shot skyward, had fallen to one side, tipping the delicate assemblage; 

48


when the shower of sparks began to eat away the fabric, Benton had 
heard three identical noises: his racing heart, his father's laugh, and the 
ropes which supported the basket burning through — popping sounds, 
like hickory knots.

In the last twenty feet the burning bag became free, to slowly fold in 
upon itself, and float south. The basket had plunged its bottom into the 
hard earth and collapsed, spilling the three men. But before the stunned 
crowd had reached them, Parsons was on his feet, holding up his pants 
with one hand and staring at the broken suspender strap in the other, 
while Amos and the Pilot walked unsteadily away, in separate 
directions.

Today it was a different Pilot who stood in the back of the open 
motor-car, buttoning his heavy jacket. The crowd stopped where the 
Sheriff pulled on one end of a rope, and over the tops of heads Benton 
saw the Mechanic wipe his hands, and climb into the network of silver 
wires; with his flashing spanner, he played them like a harp. Over thick 
black hair the Pilot pulled a chamois helmet, wiped his goggles on his leg, 
and stepped to the ground. Benton saw the puttees and patent slick boots 
walk in jerky steps to the aeroplane where, without hesitation, the Pilot's 
hand shot out and caught a steel bar; he swung up, to perch ahead of the 
radiator. He raised one finger.

As the Mechanic slowly turned the propeller, someone laughed. Benton 
tensed, and realized it was his father. The propeller was rotated a 
half-dozen times. Then the Mechanic teetered on his toes, cupped both 
hands over the tip of the blade, and spun it by jumping to the ground.

The cloud of white smoke which enveloped the fuselage began to dissolve 
before Benton heard the staggered roar. The propeller whipped to a 
shiny blur. Then spun backwards, and stopped.

As if this were a bad sign, the Mechanic kicked the dirt where he stood, 
and scrambled back into the strutwork. He rotated the blade again, and 
shouted something to the Pilot. His hands cupped the propeller, and like 
a suicide he threw himself off.

After a hundred heartbeats, the propeller cleared the white smoke 
away. The ragged wheezing of pistons smoothed; the grass around was 
assaulted, the dust below driven up.

Now the Mechanic ran toward the crowd, his fist in the air, thumb 
raised.

At the other end of the Sheriff's rope, there was a struggle; men 
ducked under the rope, laughing, pushing one man ahead of them. The 
Mechanic got the dollar in one hand, while his other held the crowd's 
volunteer by the elbow, steering him toward the aeroplane; halfway 
across, the passenger reeled, spun around, and fell to his knees. Benton 
recognized the absurd, blank face: it was Parsons.

49


The Mechanic half-carried the unprotesting Parsons to the front of the 
machine, where the Pilot pulled him up.

The motor raised its tempo of anarchy. Grass flattened.

The sets of wings rocked, the invisible propeller sawed air, and the 
aeroplane began to move — although at first Benton imagined that he 
was moving. It bounced down the field, picked up speed, and turned into 
the wind; under his shirt, Benton felt his shoulders shift. Then the craft 
skimmed the waist-high grass, and just as Benton felt himself lifted off 
the ground, he saw the fuselage part — the back half jab the earth, crumple, 
splinter, and stop; the front half speed along the margins of flight, 
bumping, moving forward like a pole-axed steer, and then, as he realized 
the propeller had come loose, to slice the machine neatly in two, the 
mobile half flipped over and the engine stopped.

The Sheriff's rope gave under the surging crowd. Benton, running 
from his father's whooping laughter, was halfway across the field when 
he saw the Pilot rise from the grass, twenty feet past the aeroplane. When 
Benton got to the wreck, the Pilot was already there, staring at it through 
broken goggles; he kicked the wing, and walked quickly toward the 
motor-car.

The Sheriff and two other men began ripping apart the twisted mass of 
fabric and wood, until they found Parsons, his hands still clutching the 
sides of the wicker seat.

"Is he dead?" people asked.

"Yeah, dead drunk," the Sheriff said.

Benton was the last to leave. As the Mechanic circled the wreck, picking 
up pieces, Benton thought: Why, a man could put her together again. 
For the machine did not seem badly hurt — it was mostly that the bottom 
wing was on top. A man could right it, and fit the two halves together. 
And if done properly, she would fly. No doubt.

50


II

Summer was stasis, and unendurable: the hoe was a propeller, spinning 
in the sun; later, as the plants went skyward, the wind caressing 
their leaves was the sound of air over taut fabric. Every day Benton 
chopped the ground, as if digging himself to another place, but the journey 
was from the row point and back.

Hoe and bucket handle were hot as summer, and when he stopped to 
scan the horizon, where low hills shimmered into sky, his impatience 
turned to fear. Everywhere beyond that line, things were happening. 
While his feet toed the unyielding dirt, men were putting engines into the 
ground, to move the world ahead and past him; or sending their buildings 
into the sky, their metal ships to sea, their air-machines to the moon. 
He staggered with this vision of the world as a complex, mechanical arrangement 
of pistons and gears, gasoline and smoke, racing into the 
century.

Here, was stasis. The only change was the cage-work of mill lumber 
which grew to lean against the house. Benton saw the addition as a cage, 
but at one point, before the siding went on, the construction had resembled 
the framework of an aeroplane. The sturdy uprights, the gusseted 
beams, the windows like a closed cockpit. And inside, piloting this addition 
to the bedroom, was his father.

And when Benton did see the skeletal geometry of yellow pine and red 
cedar not as a cage but rather its opposite, he was reminded of the 
wrecked aeroplane.

He had been right: a man could put the two halves together, and it 
would fly. Because the day after the crash, he had heard, twelve men and 
Amos' biggest wagon had been hired to get the machine to the railroad; 
there it had been put on a flatcar, and taken to the State Capital.

When they had restrung and paneled and spliced her, no doubt she 
would fly at the next fair.

Above, the burning sky; below, the land. The wind blew, the leaves 
hummed like feathers, and the ground before his eyes became a study in 
motion: the rich alluvial soil lifted, moved downhill, or flung itself skyward 
in clouds, where it sifted to the grass across the creek. Benton 
chopped furiously at the ground, to stay it; and as dirt crumbled around 
his ankles, claiming him, he sank — but drove no roots.

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III

Fair day again, Benton had his ear tuned to the wind, should an engine 
cast its sccrrruuuuuuub-kkkkk over the gulleys and washouts. For he 
had heard it, yesterday. But the sun was a flame, the sky a reflector: he 
could not have missed seeing the aeroplane pass over. Or aeroplanes. For 
the faint sccrrruuuuuub-kkkk, breaking and shattering on the hard land, 
seemed to be the noise of several motors.

"Get cash," his father warned.

"Sure, sure," Benton said, edging to the door, listening. He returned, 
to get his hat and gloves. "Sure, Pop."

Today his father was not laughing: the leg, above the crusted bandage, 
was blue-green — like water reflecting sky. He would be laid up the 
Doc did not know how long. Which was why Benton must get cash for 
the hog.

Lying beside his father — like two plowed furrows — was Benton's 
mother. The Doc, who was treating both patients for the price of one, 
was more certain in her case: it would be just any day now. Anyway, the 
extra bedroom had been built; the family could grow.

He watched his parents — his father growing more furious on this bed; 
his mother, gentle in her pregnancy. Benton shuffled his boots, fiddled 
with his hat, and then — aware of the contrast his restless strength made 
— took the sandwiches and water-jug from his sister and strode from the 
room.

"Cash," his father shouted, "make 'em pay by the pound."

His voice raged as Benton whipped the team across the yard, through 
the trees and to the road — as if the boy's whip reached to flick the tender 
leg. The man helpless, another mouth to feed coming, and the family's 
wealth must be trusted to a boy with no head for practical business.

When the house was a dot behind him, Benton wrapped both reins in 
one solid fist and stood high on the wagon seat. His whip bit the oily 
flanks, until the horses hurtled in terror toward the valley, their heads 
thrown back, eyes rolling, the wagon bucking in pursuit. At each chuckhole 
the bent axles screamed a protest, and the hog was pitched on his 
side.

52


Benton had never gone so fast: standing on the seat, the wind laying 
his hat brim back, tearing at his shirt cuffs, he stood on the world. The 
scenery blurred past, unrecognized. His body rolled, the wind screamed 
down his throat, tore at his eyes — until it seemed he must be flying.

Not until the last rise sped to meet him did he release the reins. And 
when he felt the wagon begin the descent, he opened his stinging eyes to 
the valley floor. But saw no aeroplane. Or even a balloon, although he 
could barely remember the one two years before. There was nothing, except 
a thin plume of dust from the horse track. His heart flaked a beat, 
and his eyes closed again.

Today, there would have been a chance. . .

Down-hill the wagon screeched and groaned, and it was not until he 
yanked on the brake at the livestock building, and silenced the scream of 
the wagon's dry hubs, that he heard the report: SCCRRRUUUUUB- 
KKK. The sound shattered conversation, like summer thunder.

"Why, what is it?" he asked the first man.

"Fool nonsense," the man said, marking in a tally-book.

"But what KIND of fool nonsense?" Benton asked, standing on the seat 
to locate the noise.

"This particular fool nonsense," the man said, without looking up, "is 
motor-cars. At the trot-race track."

Dust clouds, brown duplicates of the trees, circled the horse track. As 
Benton's feet hit the ground in a fast run, he was recalled by the noise at 
his back — the hog struggled against the rope wrapped tightly around its 
feet.

Benton came through the slot between buildings and walked to the 
fence. The motor-cars were in the paddock: two-seaters, with hoods 
long as a wagon, and tires almost as tall as Benton. The body on each 
ended at the jutting steering wheel; behind this was a fuel tank, and three 
spare tires.

And as a plume of dust accelerated from the north turn, Benton heard 
the sound of anarchy which had carried to him over the baked street and 
sagging tent tops. A sheet of dirt spewed beside the leaning machine; it 
straightened, and the back half was lost in lines of speed.

Traaaaaaap, the crescendo grew as Benton jumped the top rail and 
dropped into the track, and when it passed he was in the middle of the 
machines — black, red, green, yellow, they opened like immense, rare 
prairie flowers — where Mechanics hammered and cussed and crawled 
into engines. His hand touched the great golden radiator shrouds; his 
finger traced the name plaques: Ford, Stanley, Bugatti, Peugeot, 
Daimler-Benz. . .

While he hoed and carried water, men had hammered out their ideas, 
and carved the oak wheels, and cast these parts: they had given motion 

53


to their dreams.

Fraaaaaap, came another down the straight, and Benton jumped when 
the boot struck his ankle. Two booted feet clawed the ground, followed 
by legs and a fat body; finally the greased face, divided by a huge mustache 
squinted up at him.

The Mechanic got to his feet and for a long minute studied Benton. He 
wiped his hands, then squeezed the boy's arms, and said: "Harjar like to 
work on her?"

Benton didn't understand until the Mechanic led him to the other side 
of the high hood. An angular, knee-high steel block waited in its own oil.

"Transmissin," the Mechanic said. On his haunches beside the motorcar, 
he regarded the boy, the dark metal, and the bottle in his hand; after 
a long drink he said: "She's too heavy for one. Harjar like to help?"

When the man's feet disappeared, Benton grabbed the steel — fingers 
slipping in delicious grease — and budged it. As if he had been waiting 
for this, with every muscle he directed the heavy metal upward, to the 
motor-car's floor. Steel edges crossed his palm; grease pushed in to stop 
the blood. When the world shifted, he laid his head against the warm, 
lacquered body.

"Harjar like to move it," the voice came up, "to the middle. Don't drop 
it, for chrissakes."

Benton slid the metal housing to the hole, and lowered it into the 
Mechanic's waiting hands.

"Holdit," the Mechanic said, "holdit." Through a crack Benton saw 
the man slipping bolts into holes, and, arms trembling, he realized the 
motor-car was being assembled, becoming continuous, from front to 
back.

When Benton's arms were dead, the Mechanic clawed his way from 
beneath the machine and sprawled beside the dull brown tire. "Well, 
harjar like working on her?"

Benton found himself accepting the bottle, and his first hard liquor — 
it tasted of rubber, smoke, gasoline, and lacquer. He drank again, corked 
the bottle and passed it back. "Like it fine," he said, and sat on the tire, as 
if he did this everyday.

The Mechanic burped, got to his feet, and raised the hood. While his 
fingers made adjustments, Benton stared into the complex of tubes, 
foundry brass, and riveted plates. His fingers touched the top of the 
motor, and somehow, as the dark metal pulsed, he knew that this would 
be called the Head. And the functional, neat bowl with its directed copper 
lines, nestled in the pocket under the porcelain exhaust pipes, would 
be called the Carburetor. Yet he had never heard these words.

"On the motor," he asked, touching the efficient, curved bowl, "would 
this be called the Carburetor?"

54


"Why yes," the Mechanic said, raising his greasy skull cap in mock 
salute. " 'Cept it is not motor', but engine. N-JINE. Motors are ee-lec- 
trical; engines, internal combustion."

"Ee-lectrical?" Benton said.

"Ain't never heard of ee-lectricity?" He laughed, and passed the bottle. 
"M'boy, the world is going right past you."

He woke to the staccato of engines.

First, he felt the barbs of straw under his head; then tasted the metallic 
whiskey; then realized all the engines in the world raised and lowered 
their voices beyond the stable door.

And last of all, he remembered: He had paid the Mechanic five dollars 
of his Daddy's money. To ride in this race.

The starting gun fired at him as he ran out the door and plunged to the 
ground, his legs unsure; he was standing when the wall of high, narrow 
tires and brass radiators charged, engines rising and falling — 
FRRAAAAP-AAHHHHHH — in mechanical anarchy and pleasure. 
The Stanley shook itself past him, a tire scraping Benton's knee, and acclerated 
in a silent burst of steam toward the first turn.

Benton flapped his arms as the Ford, straight and spindly, swung at 
him; the passenger waved back. Below the chamois cap and goggles, 
Benton thought he recognized the passenger: Parsons.

And this thought drove him into the lunging motor-cars, where the 
dust obscured him and the exhaust muffled his cries.

In the final motor-car he saw the Mechanic, grinning beneath his wide 
mustache. The Driver was a smooth faced young man, whose hand 
flipped the shifting rod in confident motions. They did not see Benton; as 
the motor-car passed, his fingers clutched the spare tires on the back, and 
with long running steps he followed his thoughts, to swing his legs into 
the high, narrow rubber circles. His body folded, his feet braced, dust 
and exhaust spun up to blot the world from sight.

AAHHHHHH, he heard near his ear, the motor-car sliding into the 
first turn, the clincher rims slicing his shoulder blades — sliding, sliding, 
and then FFRRAAAAAAP, as the track became a straight line. Benton's 
only regret was he could not see where he was going, but where he had 
been: the dust, the brown track unreeling, and, dimly, the continuous 
white line of the top rail. But he could feel the vibrations of movement — 
of power transmitted from engine to driving wheels — and he could sense 
the motions of speed — the motor-car angled forward to its destiny, the 
lines of speed blurring back from the great brass radiator shroud.

A long slide through the north turn: the motor-car leaning, tipping, 
jumping out of its groove toward the oblivious grandstands, then aligning 
itself toward safety.

Down the straight in a terrible burst of speed and past the crowd, 

55


where Benton saw men pointing at him.

In the dust of the south turn, Benton saw tires and a brass shroud six 
inches away. It was not fear, but whisky, he tasted, as the big Stanley 
plowed toward the spare tires. When he could almost read the Non-Skid 
printed on the tread pursuing, his machine slid beneath him, spun sideways, 
and as fenceposts flashed a hand's span away, the Stanley steamed 
past. His Driver accelerated back on the track, and as the north turn 
neared, the whisky bottle flew over his head — a familiar, silver glint.

Sliding, bouncing again, and at the grandstand the Sheriff ran alongside 
the motor-car, his huge hand reaching to pluck Benton from the 
race. Benton was reminded, for an instant, of his father.

Around and around, the track unreeled. Again at the south curve a 
machine raced through the dust at him, sliding and weaving, the passenger 
leaning over the side. When the tire was three inches from Benton's 
nose, he read Ford on the radiator; now he was certain, in spite of the exhaust 
smoke and dust, that the passenger was Parsons.

Through the turn the two machines moved as one; side by side they 
slid, subjects of centrifugal force. The Ford dropped back, its spinning 
wheel beside Benton's face, and it appeared that Parsons was leaning out 
to speak to him. At that moment the Ford pulled ahead, passed, and 
something happened which Benton couldn't see. Perhaps the Driver had 
to release one hand from the wheel, to pull Parsons back.

At first, there was only the impact.

As his machine glided at an angle to the curve, he saw the Ford dart 
through the inside rail in a shower of splinters and lumber; when its front 
wheels collapsed, the motor-car arched and tipped on its slim radiator as 
Parsons shot from the seat.

Under Benton's machine, the sound of breaking steel. The ground 
dropped away and the world was quietly upside down for a second; it 
was corrected with a stunning jar. The rod which held the spare tires to 
the frame pulled free, and Benton and tires were whirled high into space, 
spinning higher and higher; the smashed motor-cars, the dust, the 
grandstand, were left behind as the disc whirled across the flat country. 
Benton, finally flying, braced his feet and back against the rims as earth 
and sky and earth merged into a continuous dizzy blur.

When the coupled tires landed, it was precisely on the road. They 
bounced in progressively gradual arcs, with Benton spread in the center 
like spokes on a hub. When the leaping stopped, the tires balanced down 
the wagon ruts, spinning to the south, away from home. The land 
dropped away and the thin plume of dust traced Benton's accelerated 
voyage.

Benton had no regrets: he had sold the hog, and all but five dollars of 
the money was in his pocket. And the new baby would replace him at the 

56


table. He must leave, any way he could, before everything had been done 
and said.

The road unfolded and Benton, utterly committed, watched the new 
World spin dizzily past toward the hard, uncertain horizon.


photo by Barbara Drake
photo by Barbara Drake


Albert Drake


This edition consists of 1000 softcover copies 
and 26 lettered, hardbound copies 
signed by the author


$2.50
$2.50


Red Cedar Press