one hollered two years ago, wanted to bomb the legislature, shoot the road contractors, steal the concrete mixers and earth-movers when they started the new highway three hundred yards west of here? What you mean, it won't be bad? It will, and you know it!"
"I know," said Charlie Moore, at last.
Ferguson brooded on the near distance.
"Three hundred little bitty yards. Not much, eh? But seeing as how our town is only a hundred yards wide, that puts us, give or take, about two hundred yards from the new super-road. Two hundred yards from people who need nuts, bolts, or house-paint. Two hundred from jokers who barrel down from the mountains with deer or fresh shot alley-cats of all sorts and need the services of the only A-l taxidermist on the Coast. Two hundred yards from ladies who need aspirin—" He eyed the drugstore. "Haircuts." He watched the red-striped pole spin in its glass case down the street. "Strawberry sodas." He nodded at the malt shop. "You name it."
They named it all in silence, sliding their gaze along the stores, the shops, the arcades.
"Maybe it's not too late."
"Late, Charlie? Hell. Cement's mixed and poured and set. Come dawn they yank the roadblocks both ends of the new road. Governor might cut a ribbon from the first car. Then … people might remember Oak Lane the first week, sure. The second week not so much. A month from now? We'll be a smear of old paint on their right running north, on their left running south, burning rubber. There's Oak Lane! Remember? Ghost town. Oops! It's gone."
Charlie let his heart beat two or three times.
"Fred … what you going to do?"
"Stay on awhile. Stuff a few birds the local boys bring in. Then crank the old Tin Lizzie and drive that new superfreeway myself going nowhere, anywhere, and so long to you, Charlie Moore."
"Night, Fred. Hope you sleep."
"What, and miss welcoming in the New Year, middle of July … ?"
Charlie walked and that voice faded behind and he came to the barbershop where three men, laid out, were being strenuously barbered behind plate glass. The highway traffic slid over them in bright reflections. They looked like they were drowning under a stream of huge fireflies.
Charlie stepped in. Everyone glanced up.
"Anyone got any ideas?"
"Progress, Charlie," said Frank Mariano, combing and cutting, "is an idea can't be stopped with no other idea. Let's yank up the whole damn town, lock, stock, and tar barrel, carry it over, nail it down by that new road."
"We figured the cost last year. Four dozen stores at three thousand dollars average to haul them just three hundred yards west."
"So ends that master plan," muttered someone under a hot-steam towel, buried in inescapable fact.
"One good hurricane would do the job, carriage-free."
They all laughed quietly.
"We should all celebrate tonight," said the man under the hot towel. He sat up, revealing himself as Hank Summers, the groceryman. "Snort a few stiff drinks and wonder where the hell we'll all be this time next year."
"We didn't fight hard enough," said Charlie. "When it started, we didn't pitch in."
"Hell." Frank snipped a hair out of the inside of a fairly large ear, "when times move, not a day passes someone's not hurt. This month, this year, it's our turn. Next time we want something, someone else gets stepped on, all in the name of Get Up and Go. Look, Charlie, go form a vigilantes. Mine that new road. But watch out. Just crossing the lanes to place the bomb, you're sure to be run down by a manure truck bound for Salinas."
More laughter, which faded quickly.
"Look," said Hank Summers, and everybody looked. He spoke to his own fly-specked image in the ancient mirror as if trying to sell his twin on a shared logic. "We lived here thirty years now, you, me, all of us. Won't kill us to move on. Good God, we're all root and a yard wide. Graduation. School of hard knocks is throwing us out the door with no never-mind's and no thank-you's. I'm ready. Charlie, are you?"
"Me,
"I know," said Charlie Moore, at last.
Ferguson brooded on the near distance.
"Three hundred little bitty yards. Not much, eh? But seeing as how our town is only a hundred yards wide, that puts us, give or take, about two hundred yards from the new super-road. Two hundred yards from people who need nuts, bolts, or house-paint. Two hundred from jokers who barrel down from the mountains with deer or fresh shot alley-cats of all sorts and need the services of the only A-l taxidermist on the Coast. Two hundred yards from ladies who need aspirin—" He eyed the drugstore. "Haircuts." He watched the red-striped pole spin in its glass case down the street. "Strawberry sodas." He nodded at the malt shop. "You name it."
They named it all in silence, sliding their gaze along the stores, the shops, the arcades.
"Maybe it's not too late."
"Late, Charlie? Hell. Cement's mixed and poured and set. Come dawn they yank the roadblocks both ends of the new road. Governor might cut a ribbon from the first car. Then … people might remember Oak Lane the first week, sure. The second week not so much. A month from now? We'll be a smear of old paint on their right running north, on their left running south, burning rubber. There's Oak Lane! Remember? Ghost town. Oops! It's gone."
Charlie let his heart beat two or three times.
"Fred … what you going to do?"
"Stay on awhile. Stuff a few birds the local boys bring in. Then crank the old Tin Lizzie and drive that new superfreeway myself going nowhere, anywhere, and so long to you, Charlie Moore."
"Night, Fred. Hope you sleep."
"What, and miss welcoming in the New Year, middle of July … ?"
Charlie walked and that voice faded behind and he came to the barbershop where three men, laid out, were being strenuously barbered behind plate glass. The highway traffic slid over them in bright reflections. They looked like they were drowning under a stream of huge fireflies.
Charlie stepped in. Everyone glanced up.
"Anyone got any ideas?"
"Progress, Charlie," said Frank Mariano, combing and cutting, "is an idea can't be stopped with no other idea. Let's yank up the whole damn town, lock, stock, and tar barrel, carry it over, nail it down by that new road."
"We figured the cost last year. Four dozen stores at three thousand dollars average to haul them just three hundred yards west."
"So ends that master plan," muttered someone under a hot-steam towel, buried in inescapable fact.
"One good hurricane would do the job, carriage-free."
They all laughed quietly.
"We should all celebrate tonight," said the man under the hot towel. He sat up, revealing himself as Hank Summers, the groceryman. "Snort a few stiff drinks and wonder where the hell we'll all be this time next year."
"We didn't fight hard enough," said Charlie. "When it started, we didn't pitch in."
"Hell." Frank snipped a hair out of the inside of a fairly large ear, "when times move, not a day passes someone's not hurt. This month, this year, it's our turn. Next time we want something, someone else gets stepped on, all in the name of Get Up and Go. Look, Charlie, go form a vigilantes. Mine that new road. But watch out. Just crossing the lanes to place the bomb, you're sure to be run down by a manure truck bound for Salinas."
More laughter, which faded quickly.
"Look," said Hank Summers, and everybody looked. He spoke to his own fly-specked image in the ancient mirror as if trying to sell his twin on a shared logic. "We lived here thirty years now, you, me, all of us. Won't kill us to move on. Good God, we're all root and a yard wide. Graduation. School of hard knocks is throwing us out the door with no never-mind's and no thank-you's. I'm ready. Charlie, are you?"
"Me,
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