Gazing up at the freeway’s massive concrete underside and at Arvin’s rope dangling far above him, Charlie knew he’d never climb back. “What the hell,” he said to himself, “I might as well go home. The cops’ll be around to watch things. Besides, the car’s all paid for.” He began searching for a bus or a cab. But everything, it seemed, was tied up in the jam.
In a bar where he stopped for a beer to cool off, he learned that every exit, every approach, every lane in the city’s complex freeway system was jammed. “And ya know, it’s funny,” the bartender told him, “there wasn’t a single accident. It all happened so gradual, they say. Things slowed down little by little, and the whole town stopped just about at once. Some guys didn’t even use their brakes. Just went from one mile an hour to a dead stop.”
It took Charlie two hours to walk home. When he arrived his wife, Fay, was frantic.
“Why didn’t you call?”
“I started to, honey . . .”
“And what happened to your pants?”
He glanced sheepishly at his torn sharkskin slacks. “I was shinnying down this tree. I guess somebody left a nail in it.”
“For God’s sake, Charlie, this is no time to kid. If you knew how worried . . .”
“I’m not kidding. You’re lucky I got down at all. Some of the guys are still up there—the older guys—the fat ones—couldn’t get over the rails. And a lotta guys wouldn’t leave. Probably be out all night.”
She looked ready to cry, and she stared as if he were insane. “Charlie, please . . .” He put an arm around her and drew her close. “What happened, Charlie? Where have you been?”
He guided her to the sofa and they sat down. His hairy knee stuck up through the torn cloth. “I thought you’d see it on TV or something.”
“See what on TV?”
While Fay sobbed and sniffled, he told her the whole story. By the time he finished she was sitting up straight and glaring at him.
“Charlie Bates, do you mean you just left our car out on the freeway?”
“What else could I do, honey? I couldn’t stay up there all night—not in a Volkswagen. I’d catch cold. I’d be all cramped up.”
“You could’ve got into somebody else’s car. This Arvin fellow would have let you. Somebody with a heater or a big back seat or something.”
“You can’t just barge into somebody else’s car and stay overnight, honey. Anyway, I wanted to phone. That’s why I came down in the first place.”
She rubbed his bare knee. “Oh, Charlie.” Leaning against him again she said “At least nothing happened to you. That’s the most important thing.”
She snuggled next to him, and they were quiet, until she said, “But Charlie, what’ll we do?”
“About what?”
“About the car.”
“Wait it out, I guess. Wait till tomorrow at least, until they break the jam. Then get back out there. Of course, that won’t be as easy as it sounds. Probably have to get over to the nearest approach and hike in—maybe two, three miles of freeway, up the center strip, I suppose— plus getting to the approach itself, which is right in the middle of town. Maybe I can borrow a bike. I don’t know quite how we’ll . . .”
“Say. Don and Louise have a two-seater. Maybe we can borrow that and both go.”
“Maybe,” Charlie said wearily. “Let’s worry about that tomorrow. I’m bushed.”
The next morning Charlie borrowed the big two-seater from Don and Louise, Fay packed a lunch, and they pedaled across the city, figuring to get there fairly early, to be on hand when their car was free, although an early solution was no longer likely. The morning news predicted another 36 hours before traffic would be moving. The jam now included not only the freeways, but all main streets and key intersections, where buses, streetcars and trucks were still entangled. It even extended beyond the city. Police had tried to block incoming traffic, but it was impossible. All highways transversed the city or its net of suburbs. Impatient motorists, discrediting police reports, finally broke the road blocks, and the confusion was extending in all directions by hundreds of cars an hour.
Charlie and Fay smugly bypassed all that, following a devious route of unblocked streets that he mapped out after watching the news on TV. They pedaled most of the morning. At last they mounted a high bluff and decided to ride an elevator to the roof of an apartment building that rose above the freeway where their car was parked. Charlie brought along a pair of Navy binoculars. From that vantage point they ate lunch and surveyed the curving rows of silent cars.
“Can you see ours, Charlie?”
“Yeah. She looks okay. A little squeezed up, but okay.”
“Lemme see.”
“Here.”
“Gee,” Fay said. “Some of those poor men are still sitting out there. Don’t you know their wives are worried.”
“Their wives probably heard the news. Everybody must know by now.”
“Still worried though, I’ll bet.” She hugged Charlie and pecked his cheek. “I’m so glad you came home.” Then, peering again, “I’ll bet those men are hungry. Maybe we should take them some sandwiches.”
“Take a lot of sandwiches to feed everybody stuck on the freeway, honey.”
“I mean for the men right around our car. That Arvin, for instance. You know . . . your friends, sort of.”
“I don’t really know them that well, Fay.”
“Well, we ought to do something.”
“Red Cross is probably out,” Charlie said. “Isn’t that a cross on that helicopter way down there by the city hall? Here, gimme the glasses.”
“I’ll be darned,” Fay said. “It is. They’re dropping little packages.”
“Here. Lemme see. Yeah. Yeah, that’s just what they’re doing. Guys are standing on the roofs of their cars, waving. I guess it’s been a pretty tough night.”
“The poor dears.”
Charlie munched a tuna sandwich and scanned the city like a skipper. After a few moments Fay pointed. “Hey look, Charlie. Over that way. A couple more helicopters.”
“Where? Down there? Oh yeah. Couple of military birds, looks like. I guess the Army’s out too.”
“What’re they doing—lifting out one of the cars?”
“No, not a car. It looks like a long, narrow crate. And they’re not lifting it, they’re lowering it endways. A couple of guys in overalls are down below waiting for it. There. It’s down. They’re anchoring it to the center strip. Wait a minute. It’s not a crate. One of the guys in overalls just opened a door on the front of it, and he’s stepping inside. Hey. People are jumping out of their cars and running down the center strip. They’re running from everywhere, climbing over hoods. Somebody just knocked over the other guy in overalls. I think there’s gonna be a fight. They’re really crowding around that door and pushing . . . No ... I think it’s gonna be okay. The guy inside just came out, and he’s tacking up a sign over the door. All the men are starting to walk away. The women are lining up along the center strip now.”
“The dears.”
“A woman just opened the door and stepped inside.”
“Oh, Charlie, I’m so glad you came home.”
“Me too.”
From the rooftop they could hear the police helicopter’s periodic messages. By the end of the first day, predictions for clearing the jam were at least two, perhaps three more days. Knowing they should be on hand whenever it broke, yet weary at the very thought of pedaling across the city twice each day to their vantage point and home again, they decided to rent an apartment in the building below them. Fortunately one was available on the top floor, facing the freeway. They moved in that evening, although they had little to move but the binoculars and a thermos. They agreed that Charlie would pedal home the next day to pick up a few necessities, while Fay kept an eye on the car.