6/6/12

The Pedestrian (1951) - Ray Bradbury


To enter out into that silence that was the

city at eight o'clock of a misty evening in November,

to put your feet upon that buckling concrete walk, to

step over grassy seams and make your way, hands in

pockets, through the silences, that was what Mr.

Leonard Mead most dearly loved to do. He would

stand upon the corner of an intersection and peer

down long moonlit avenues of sidewalk in four

directions, deciding which way to go, but it really

made no difference; he was alone in this world of

A.D. 2053, or as good as alone, and with a final

decision made, a path selected, he would stride off,

sending patterns of frosty air before him like the

smoke of a cigar.

Sometimes he would walk for hours and

miles and return only at midnight to his house. And

on his way he would see the cottages and homes with

their dark windows, and it was not unequal to

walking through a graveyard where only the faintest

glimmers of firefly light appeared in flickers behind

the windows. Sudden gray phantoms seemed to

manifest upon inner room walls where a curtain was

still undrawn against the night, or there were

whisperings and murmurs where a window in a tomblike

building was still open.

Mr. Leonard Mead would pause, cock his

head, listen, look, and march on, his feet making no

noise on the lumpy walk. For long ago he had wisely

changed to sneakers when strolling at night, because

the dogs in intermittent squads would parallel his

journey with barkings if he wore hard heels, and

lights might click on and faces appear and an entire

street be startled by the passing of a lone figure,

himself, in the early November evening.

On this particular evening he began his

journey in a westerly direction, toward the hidden

sea. There was a good crystal frost in the air; it cut the

nose and made the lungs blaze like a Christmas tree

inside; you could feel the cold light going on and off,

all the branches filled with invisible snow. He

listened to the faint push of his soft shoes through

autumn leaves with satisfaction, and whistled a cold

quiet whistle between his teeth, occasionally picking

up a leaf as he passed, examining its skeletal pattern

in the infrequent lamplights as he went on, smelling

its rusty smell.

"Hello, in there," he whispered to every

house on every side as he moved. "What's up tonight

on Channel 4, Channel 7, Channel 9? Where are the

cowboys rushing, and do I see the United States

Cavalry over the next hill to the rescue?"

The street was silent and long and empty,

with only his shadow moving like the shadow of a

hawk in midcountry. If he closed his eyes and stood

very still, frozen, he could imagine himself upon the

center of a plain, a wintry, windless Arizona desert

with no house in a thousand miles, and only dry river

beds, the streets, for company.

"What is it now?" he asked the houses,

noticing his wrist watch. "Eight-thirty P.M.? Time for

a dozen assorted murders? A quiz? A revue? A

comedian falling off the stage?"

Was that a murmur of laughter from within a

moon-white house? He hesitated, but went on when

nothing more happened. He stumbled over a

particularly uneven section of sidewalk. The cement

was vanishing under flowers and grass. In ten years

of walking by night or day, for thousands of miles, he

had never met another person walking, not once in all

that time.

He came to a cloverleaf intersection which

stood silent where two main highways crossed the

town. During the day it was a thunderous surge of

cars, the gas stations open, a great insect rustling and

a ceaseless jockeying for position as the scarabbeetles,

a faint incense puttering from their exhausts,

skimmed homeward to the far directions. But now

these highways, too, were like streams in a dry

season, all stone and bed and moon radiance.

He turned back on a side street, circling

around toward his home. He was within a block of his

destination when the lone car turned a corner quite

suddenly and flashed a fierce white cone of light

upon him. He stood entranced, not unlike a night

moth, stunned by the illumination, and then drawn

toward it.

A metallic voice called to him:

"Stand still. Stay where you are! Don't

move!"

He halted.

"Put up your hands!"

"But-" he said.

"Your hands up! Or we'll Shoot!"

The police, of course, but what a rare,

incredible thing; in a city of three million, there was

only one police car left, wasn't that correct? Ever

since a year ago, 2052, the election year, the force

had been cut down from three cars to one. Crime was

ebbing; there was no need now for the police, save for

this one lone car wandering and wandering the empty

streets.

"Your name?" said the police car in a

metallic whisper. He couldn't see the men in it for the

bright light in his eyes.

"Leonard Mead," he said.

"Speak up!"

"Leonard Mead!"

"Business or profession?"

"I guess you'd call me a writer."

"No profession," said the police car, as if
talking to itself. The light held him fixed, like a

museum specimen, needle thrust through chest.

"You might say that, " said Mr. Mead. He

hadn't written in years. Magazines and books didn't

sell any more. Everything went on in the tomblike

houses at night now, he thought, continuing his fancy.

The tombs, ill-lit by television light, where the people

sat like the dead, the gray or multicolored lights

touching their faces, but never really touching them.

"No profession," said the phonograph voice,

hissing. "What are you doing out?"

"Walking," said Leonard Mead.

"Walking!"

"Just walking," he said simply, but his face

felt cold.

"Walking, just walking, walking?"

"Yes, sir."

"Walking where? For what?"

"Walking for air. Walking to see."

"Your address!"

"Eleven South Saint James Street."

"And there is air in your house, you have an

air conditioner, Mr. Mead?"

"Yes."

"And you have a viewing screen in your

house to see with?"

"No."

"No?" There was a crackling quiet that in

itself was an accusation.

"Are you married, Mr. Mead?"

"No."

"Not married," said the police voice behind

the fiery beam, The moon was high and clear among

the stars and the houses were gray and silent.

"Nobody wanted me," said Leonard Mead

with a smile.

"Don't speak unless you're spoken to!"

Leonard Mead waited in the cold night.

"Just walking, Mr. Mead?"

"Yes."

"But you haven't explained for what

purpose."

"I explained; for air, and to see, and just to

walk."

"Have you done this often?"

"Every night for years."

The police car sat in the center of the street

with its radio throat faintly humming.

"Well, Mr. Mead," it said.

"Is that all?" he asked politely.

"Yes," said the voice. "Here." There was a

sigh, a pop. The back door of the police car sprang

wide. "Get in."

"Wait a minute, I haven't done anything!"

"Get in."

"I protest!"

"Mr. Mead."

He walked like a man suddenly drunk. As he

passed the front window of the car he looked in. As

he had expected, there was no one in the front seat, no

one in the car at all.

"Get in."

He put his hand to the door and peered into

the back seat, which was a little cell, a little black jail

with bars. It smelled of riveted steel. It smelled of

harsh antiseptic; it smelled too clean and hard and

metallic. There was nothing soft there.

"Now if you had a wife to give you an alibi,"

said the iron voice. "But-"

"Where are you taking me?"

The car hesitated, or rather gave a faint

whirring click, as if information, somewhere, was

dropping card by punch-slotted card under electric

eyes. "To the Psychiatric Center for Research on

Regressive Tendencies."

He got in. The door shut with a soft thud.

The police car rolled through the night avenues,

flashing its dim lights ahead.

They passed one house on one street a

moment later, one house in an entire city of houses

that were dark, but this one particular house had all of

its electric lights brightly lit, every window a loud

yellow illumination, square and warm in the cool

darkness.

"That's my house," said Leonard Mead.

No one answered him.

The car moved down the empty river-bed

streets and off away, leaving the empty streets with

the empty side-walks, and no sound and no motion all

the rest of the chill November night.

Bradbury, Ray
(1920- ), is an American

author best known for his fantasy stories and science

fiction. Bradbury's best writing effectively combines

a lively imagination with a poetic style.

Collections of Bradbury's stories include

The Martian Chronicles (1950), The Illustrated Man

(1951), The October Country (1955), I Sing the Body

Electric! (1969), Quicker Than the Eye (1996), and

One More for the Road (2002). His novel Fahrenheit

451 (1953) describes a society that bans the

ownership of books. His other novels include

Dandelion Wine (1957), a poetic story of a boy's

summer in an Illinois town in 1928; and Something

Wicked This Way Comes (1962), a suspenseful

fantasy about a black magic carnival that comes to a

small Midwestern town. He has also written poetry,

screenplays, and stage plays.

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