from the center of the dashboard, pressed it into his face, pushed a button on it and began barking. âBreaker, breaker, this is Kojak-the-Hack going west on Grant. Any CHiPs between my wheels and the deep blue? Over?â
H.G. gawked at the driver. It wasnât the device that impressed him, for heâd already seen the telephone in operation; rather it was the language. It sounded like a combination of Scottish and Gaelic with an added touch of Prussian, all delivered with an American twang.
âNegative, Hack, negative. All the CHiPs I seen is on their way to a 10â49 in Daly City. Happy RPMs. You gotta clean slate to the Golden Gate.â
The driver ended his conversation, then hunched over the steering wheel and glowered at the street ahead.
The light turned green.
The driver pushed his foot to the floor, and the vehicle roared across the intersection. In eight seconds Kojak-the-Hack had slammed
through the gears, and his yellow juggernaut was flying down Grant Avenue at sixty, lurching through traffic like a supercharged tank. He bounced in the seat and rode the wheel with his entire bulk, applying body English when needed. He also used his horn frequentlyâin most cases where a more prudent and sane motorist would apply the brakes.
At first H.G. just stared at the driver with awe and didnât know what to make of the manâs antics. Then he discerned that the driver was engaged in a very personal activity, one that seemed vaguely familiar, yet out of place. The grunts and groans of the driver were quasi-erotic, and H.G. realized that the man was in the middle of a private, sexual form of ritual, and he was so carried away that he seemed to have forgotten that H.G. was in the backseat. He talked to his cab as if it were an enthusiastic woman bucking under his squat, sweaty frame. H.G. had read with both scientific and prurient interest about certain activities common to lonely shepherds, but never before had he heard of lascivious behavior between a man and a machine. What would one term such an impropriety? It wasnât onanism because a machine was involved. H.G. thought hard, then coined it âtechnophilia.â H.G. blushed and looked away. True, the sensations of speed, power and acceleration were exhilarating, but in his view, sexual relations brought on an entirely different set of emotions. Or was it that along with advanced technology came depersonalization? Had sex, too, become mechanical? The driver ran a red light, then swung onto Columbus Avenue doing a good seventy-five. The tires squealed and smoked, and the cab almost turned over, but he deftly jerked the wheel back to the right, straightened out and increased speed.
âCome on, show me, baby! Come on! Faster, Faster!â
H.G. was left gasping and giddy by the turn; he laughed with excitement. The continued high-speed swerves were thrilling to him, and he found that he, too, was becoming emotionally involved with
the cab. He gripped the front seat with both hands and silently urged the vehicle to even greater mechanical feats.
The driver suddenly braked and turned onto Union Street. Then he accelerated again, and the cab sped up a very steep hill, every bolt and joint shuddering. At the top of the rise, the vehicle shot into the air and floated for thirty feet before nosing down and slamming to the pavement. Surprised, H.G. let out a whoosh of air, then clapped his hands in delight.
âAgain!â he cried. âAgain!â
The driver obliged. He did six more hill jumps and was about to attempt a seventh when the cab overheated and popped its loosely locked radiator cap. He cursed as the temperature-gauge needle bounced into the red, then stopped his beloved machine. He got out, lifted the hood and backed away as the clouds of steam billowed up and dissipated. The engine groaned and ticked.
While the cab rested, and cooled, H.G. sighed and leaned back in the seat. The wild ride had left him drained
H.G. gawked at the driver. It wasnât the device that impressed him, for heâd already seen the telephone in operation; rather it was the language. It sounded like a combination of Scottish and Gaelic with an added touch of Prussian, all delivered with an American twang.
âNegative, Hack, negative. All the CHiPs I seen is on their way to a 10â49 in Daly City. Happy RPMs. You gotta clean slate to the Golden Gate.â
The driver ended his conversation, then hunched over the steering wheel and glowered at the street ahead.
The light turned green.
The driver pushed his foot to the floor, and the vehicle roared across the intersection. In eight seconds Kojak-the-Hack had slammed
through the gears, and his yellow juggernaut was flying down Grant Avenue at sixty, lurching through traffic like a supercharged tank. He bounced in the seat and rode the wheel with his entire bulk, applying body English when needed. He also used his horn frequentlyâin most cases where a more prudent and sane motorist would apply the brakes.
At first H.G. just stared at the driver with awe and didnât know what to make of the manâs antics. Then he discerned that the driver was engaged in a very personal activity, one that seemed vaguely familiar, yet out of place. The grunts and groans of the driver were quasi-erotic, and H.G. realized that the man was in the middle of a private, sexual form of ritual, and he was so carried away that he seemed to have forgotten that H.G. was in the backseat. He talked to his cab as if it were an enthusiastic woman bucking under his squat, sweaty frame. H.G. had read with both scientific and prurient interest about certain activities common to lonely shepherds, but never before had he heard of lascivious behavior between a man and a machine. What would one term such an impropriety? It wasnât onanism because a machine was involved. H.G. thought hard, then coined it âtechnophilia.â H.G. blushed and looked away. True, the sensations of speed, power and acceleration were exhilarating, but in his view, sexual relations brought on an entirely different set of emotions. Or was it that along with advanced technology came depersonalization? Had sex, too, become mechanical? The driver ran a red light, then swung onto Columbus Avenue doing a good seventy-five. The tires squealed and smoked, and the cab almost turned over, but he deftly jerked the wheel back to the right, straightened out and increased speed.
âCome on, show me, baby! Come on! Faster, Faster!â
H.G. was left gasping and giddy by the turn; he laughed with excitement. The continued high-speed swerves were thrilling to him, and he found that he, too, was becoming emotionally involved with
the cab. He gripped the front seat with both hands and silently urged the vehicle to even greater mechanical feats.
The driver suddenly braked and turned onto Union Street. Then he accelerated again, and the cab sped up a very steep hill, every bolt and joint shuddering. At the top of the rise, the vehicle shot into the air and floated for thirty feet before nosing down and slamming to the pavement. Surprised, H.G. let out a whoosh of air, then clapped his hands in delight.
âAgain!â he cried. âAgain!â
The driver obliged. He did six more hill jumps and was about to attempt a seventh when the cab overheated and popped its loosely locked radiator cap. He cursed as the temperature-gauge needle bounced into the red, then stopped his beloved machine. He got out, lifted the hood and backed away as the clouds of steam billowed up and dissipated. The engine groaned and ticked.
While the cab rested, and cooled, H.G. sighed and leaned back in the seat. The wild ride had left him drained
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