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Transit in 1950—Our Prophecy
To properly appreciate the gently veiled sarcasm of the above
you have only to dash madly into the street (preferably at "Peebles'
Corner," the "Bridge" or Highland and McMillan), wave your arms
about in mid-air and hail the "rapidly" advancing relic of the Inquisition,
emiiloyed by the Traction Co. for the transportation of
brow-beaten citizens—8:15 or tliereabouts, it must be, and you with
the limit in 8:30 cvits passed long ago.
If the gentleman in the little glass house should have chanced
to include j'ou in his survey of the landscape, the "thing" stops.
The blue uniform dangling from the trolley ropes pleads with the
mob about the platform and the door: "Forward, please! F'orward!"
and the usual ripple of Hughes giggles rewards his good
intentions.
Meantime j'ou take matters info j'our own hands and eventually
(if the gods have breakfasted well) j'ou may even reach the inside
of the door. There j'ou stand on one foot, a few "suit cases" piled
about that one; your books sliding from underneath your arms at
strategic intervals; and absorb the latest "fads" up at Hughes. How
any mortal conversance can craAvl like a Cross-Town and j^et get
full value out of each and every bump on the track is known only
to those of a warmer clime than ours. At every lurch, a carload of
feathers, "fluft'-fluffs" and snickers descends upon you in a body;
you lose the inch of foot room j'ou had burglarized and join in the
general downfall. By the time Clifton Avenue hoves in sight you've
forgotten all about a poor, low-down class and arc interested solely
in escaping with as little damage to j'our personality as possible.
After waiting for the "grand exit" to come to a close, you limp oft',
turn around and confront an empty "Gilbert Avenue" trying to
look like a Cross-Town, following directly in back of your lately
abandoned "Car of Juggernaut."
page two hundred and fifty-three