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Simplified Parking
By George M. Rock
Author of "Oil in Time," etc.
A "Windy" Bellows Story
THE passing of time found Mr. Charles Bellows growing more and more disconsolate. He'd had a good job, but a good job wasn't exactly what Bellows wanted. Indeed, deciding that no mere position could make him happy, he quit. He wanted to be a power in the business world, a man of wealth and wide influence.
For this modest ambition, no one could justly censure him. Even his roommate and best friend, Joe Plodson, thought it a creditable thing at which to aim. But it was Windy's impatience with the slow and not always so sure process of working up that caused people to regard him with concern or amusement, or both. "Shucks!" Bellows would say now and then, "I don't want to be dodderin' around with a walking stick in one hand and a box of pills in the other by the time I've made my pile. If I'm going to have that yacht, I want some enjoyment out of it!"
Plodson would nod, for he knew that there was no need in trying to offer Windy advice. The two had long been friends, and together they had come to the city to make their fortunes. Utterly unlike, they got along famously, chiefly because Plodson was willing to give his friend more credit than he deserved.
"Windy" Bellows, as he was called by most people, was inclined to plumpness. This was in no manner offset by the clothes he wore, which only a person totally colorblind would have called becoming. A lavender shirt with a burned-orange tie was Windy's favorite combination.
Bellows' temperament matched his clothes. He was anything but modest. He could talk at length on any subject under the sun, since facts, for their own sake, were not of much concern to Windy. He was a perfect mine of misinformation; but he had his opinions and he was not backward about expressing them.
Joe Plodson, on the other hand, was probably too retiring. He never spoke for the sake of hearing his own voice. Tall and slender, he dressed modestly; and his eyes, which were blue and steady under dark, level brows, gave him a frank and trustworthy appearance. Windy called him "Plod" because he was content to do his work well and make his way to higher things step by step.
Having resigned from the position which Joe got him, Windy began to look about for some pursuit worthy of his talents. He finally decided to become a promoter. Accordingly, he rented himself a neat office, inserted a couple of ads in the daily papers, and then he sat down to wait for someone to come along with something that needed promoting.
But a week and more passed, and no one entered Windy's office but the cleaning woman. It was most discouraging. He confided his troubles to Joe with such pathos that he was able to borrow twenty-five dollars.
"I'm bound to get a break one of these days," he told Plodson. "Yes, sir! Promoters, Plod, is what puts all these big things over, from railroads to prize fights."
Joe, however, decided not to lose any sleep over the matter. Windy had caused him plenty of worry when the two of them—on Windy's much- advertised brains and Joe's money—tried to accumulate wealth through various get-rich-quick schemes. He was now well occupied with his position as secretary to the head research chemist of a big oil company. He made Windy the loan with a warning that there'd be no more.
So, day by day, Windy sat in his office expectantly, reading news accounts of how well talking pictures were going over, and of the fortune made by the man who invented the convertible coupe.
"Something like that's what I got to get connected with," Windy told himself. "Something right up to the minute, and progressive." It was while he was figuring the many things he'd do, once he made his money, that a timid knock came on the outer door. Windy jumped to his feet, spruced his hair, rattled some papers and banged shut some drawers—so the visitor would not know they were empty—and then he answered the hesitant rap.
II.
"Ah," said Windy, and then he hesitated, looking over his caller with obvious disappointment. "Is there something I can do for you?"
The man stood in the hallway, fingering his soft, brown-felt hat nervously. He was small and shabbily dressed in an unpressed suit. His tie was frayed and on crooked, and his scuffed shoes were badly in need of polish. He had intelligent though meek eyes, but altogether he looked like a nut.
Still, Windy reflected, you never could tell. This fellow might be a poor inventor with a good idea. There'd be no harm, anyhow, in treating him with courtesy until he stated the object of his visit. He stood staring at Windy, as though undecided whether to bolt from the place, or to go on through with what he evidently considered a terrible ordeal.
When Windy suspected this as the man's intent, he reached out and gently but firmly pulled him inside. The first prospect, anyhow, wasn't going to escape without at least making known the object of his visit.
"Come in! Come in!" invited Windy, dragging the little fellow into the office and shutting the door. "Well, what may I do for you today, sir?"
"I—I'm looking for Mr. Charles Bellows." He looked uncertainly around the one-room-office "suite." "The promoter," he added, by way of explanation.
"I'm Mr. Bellows," Windy said. "I gave the office staff a holiday today," he went on, by way of explanation, "because I'm expecting a great volume of business very shortly. Once that starts, there'll be very little time for play."
"No," said the visitor.
"Won't you take a chair, Mr.——" Windy asked, hoping the man would at least tell his name after the obvious pause.
"So you're Mr. Bellows?" the man asked, and it was offensively plain to Windy that the fellow was disappointed. Windy decided that he'd make an effort to grow a mustache, and start smoking cigars. The man repeated once more, with a rising doubtful accent to his voice: "The promoter?"
"Yes, sir," said Windy again. He decided that the only way to handle this person was with businesslike firmness. "Your name, please?"
"My name's Clayton. I'm a stationary engineer. I live out of town a piece, and come to the city every day in my car. I can't ever hardly find a place to park."
"That's certainly too bad, Mr. Clayton," sympathized Windy. "Tell me about it."
"But I didn't have any trouble today," Mr. Clayton went on, brightening a bit. "No, sir! I came right in and parked."
Windy saw that his mild irony was wholly wasted on this strange, self-centered man who now sat erect on the very edge of his chair.
"I'm certainly glad to hear that," Windy said. "Sometimes a whole day can be ruined because you get so mad trying to find a place to park."
The man beamed, jumping to his feet excitedly. "I'm certainly glad to hear you say that, Mr. Bellows," he smiled, grabbing Windy's hand and shaking it vigorously. "I was afraid I'd have some difficulty in convincing you!"
"Not at all," Windy gasped, wondering what this had to do with the price of eggs, or anything else, for that matter. "I believe in being open- minded."
"No, I just came right in and parked today," went on Mr. Clayton. "I wouldn't be surprised if you could see where the car is from here."
"I'd certainly like to," Windy told him, deciding that he might as well humor the fellow. It wasn't always possible to tell about those mild ones, particularly when they had light-blue, faraway looking eyes.
So they went to the window and scanned the street below. The curb, as far as Windy could see in either direction, was lined with parked automobiles. Here and there people were cruising around, looking for a place to stop, and the traffic lanes were jammed with still more cars and trucks. It was simply the normal business-hour crowd. Windy thought it would be a fond automobile owner who could locate his own car from such an elevation in such an array of parked machines.
"There it is!" exclaimed Mr. Clayton. "See— third from the end."
Windy looked and counted. His round, brown eyes got rounder as he stared at the strange-looking contraption.
"What is it?" he inquired. "A rebuilt baby carriage?"
"That's what it looks like, doesn't it?" agreed Mr. Clayton, for some reason pleased by Windy's caustic question. "You see now why I had such an easy time parking this afternoon. It's because the car is small—now, that is. You wouldn't believe it, looking at it from here, Mr. Bellows, but that car is a Complex Six!"
Now Windy had seen many Complex Sixes. He knew what they looked like. Therefore he regarded Mr. Clayton with more doubt than ever, and hoped that the man wouldn't get violent. Windy was glad to note, too, that his visitor was small and not very strong.
"It folds right up!" continued Mr. Clayton, warming to his subject. "All you've got to do is press a button, and presto! the car is half-size. That's what I've come to see you about. I invented it, and now I want to get it promoted!"
Windy pinched himself. It hurt. He knew he was awake. He almost had a vision. If what this man said was true— Windy saw himself helping to blaze the trail to an easy-parking future.
III.
Three middle-aged and prosperous-looking men sat in a room with tall windows and rich rugs. They smoked, nodded thoughtfully, and scattered ashes on the expensive furniture. Anyone who ever went to the movies could have said right off that they were businessmen; anyone who went to the movies often could have sworn they were bankers.
They looked alike, with iron-gray hair and midriffs which even excessive golf could not keep from being conspicuous. Their names were Gibson, Hayes, and Larkin; and the greatest of these was Mr. Larkin. The latter was so great, indeed, that he didn't need to have the others about at all; final decisions always rested with him. It was to Mr. Larkin, therefore, that Windy Bellows addressed most of his remarks.
Since the memorable day that Mr. Clayton came hesitatingly into Windy's office, the self-styled promoter had been the soul of activity. He discovered that being a promoter without money was about as awkward as being a cook without a stove. Windy felt he knew what to do, but he had nothing to do it with. Plodson had refused to be interested—financially.
"Maybe you have a good thing this time, Windy," Joe had said, "and I guess it works as well as you say. But you can't do much on what little money I've got. You'll have to borrow anyhow, so you might as well borrow that much more."
"All right," said Windy sorrowfully, "you sure will be losing out on a good thing, Plod. A sure thing! Traffic problems get worse every day, and there's more and more cars being built. The time'll come when all the automobiles running in this country, if placed radiator to spare tire, would reach from here to there."
"Maybe so," said Joe, "but you can't talk business with me."
A little thing like Joe's refusal to involve himself wasn't going to stop Windy Bellows. He was confident that the folding automobile was a great thing, and convinced that he could get money backers for it sooner or later. His greatest problem was keeping Clayton from being too impatient. But the little, mild-mannered engineer was easily handled. Windy finally had him believing that fate couldn't possibly have placed him in better hands.
It was quite some time before Windy could gain an audience with the powerful Mr. Larkin. Again and again he was refused. But Windy shed insults like a duck sheds water, and he came back for more. Finally, just to get rid of him, Larkin granted Bellows an interview.
Windy had earned the right to his nickname. Once he started to talk, there was no stopping him. He captured the banker's interest that first day he spoke, and another appointment was arranged, to be followed by a practical demonstration of the easy-parking automobile.
"You can see, gentlemen," pointed out Windy in his best conference manner, "that the automobile impairs its own usefulness simply by being so plentiful. Cars get in each others' way. They're all right as long as they can keep moving, but once they're parked, they become a problem.
"How often have you had to walk many blocks because you could get no closer place to park your car? Nearly every time you use it. You have had to pass spaces just wide enough to accommodate your automobile, simply because you need a space twice its length in which to maneuver it into position. And how often have you had to move other cars in order to get your own out, once it is parked?
"All these things, gentlemen, will be eliminated by the type of car I am goin' to demonstrate to you this afternoon. Driving is not today's great problem, but parking is. A type of car that is instantly parkable is certain to revolutionize the motor industry. And such a car is already a reality, for it has been perfected by my client, Mr. Clayton. Gentlemen, I'll ask you to bear in mind today that I'm offering you the opportunity of a lifetime."
The bankers nodded thoughtfully. Windy's pictures of the horrors of parking were only too vivid. They forgot to voice their objections; and with something of the thrill and hesitancy they had experienced upon taking their first airplane ride, they filed out of the building.
The Complex was parked parallel to the curb, blocked in at either end by other cars. So changed had it been by the remodeling that it didn't look like a Complex anymore, but it was, nevertheless, still a presentable sedan. Windy explained that a car built from the first to be a collapsible model could have every bit as much style as the ordinary automobile.
The bankers climbed in, one by one, and Windy took his place in the driver's seat. He pressed a button and was rewarded by a whirring and grating noise. It was not loud, but the bankers leaned forward as one man in alarmed interest.
"It won't collapse on us, will it?" inquired Mr. Larkin anxiously.
"Not a chance in the world," Windy assured him. "You're just as safe in this car as you would be in bed."
In the meantime something curious had happened to the car. All four wheels turned automatically to a position almost at right angles to their normal place. Windy started the motor, shifted gears, and the automobile slipped sidewise out of its blocked-in parking space. The bankers marveled, and said they wouldn't believe it if they hadn't seen it.
"You ain't seen nothin' yet!" Windy assured them. "Just wait!"
IV.
The wheels were restored to their usual position, and the sedan went chugging serenely down the street. Presently it came to a place too narrow for a car to edge its way into. Windy asked the bankers to get out and to watch carefully; while he, too, left his seat and stood on the running board.
Reaching in, Windy punched another button on the dash. He was rewarded by further creaks and groans, but the car did its trick beautifully. While the amazed bankers looked on, it telescoped to approximately half its former length. Smiling broadly, Windy stepped off the running board and shoved the car up flush to the curb. It was parked in a space that no other automobile could have possibly got into!
"It certainly is quite a thing," commented Mr. Larkin.
"It certainly is," agreed Gibson and Hayes.
"But will it work?" asked Mr. Larkin. "I mean, aren't the frame and the other parts so weakened that they're apt to fall apart if roughly used?"
This, to Windy's mind, was nothing less than a challenge. He decided to give the machine a hard test.
"I'll take you out on some rough country roads and show you," he said.
Within two minutes Windy had the car back in the street, once more its normal size. The three financiers got in again, and Windy sped them out of town, turning finally down what was known as the Streamway Road.
The Streamway Road, though it passed through quite beautiful country, was notoriously bad. It had steep grades, mud holes, ruts, sharp curves, and practically everything else which goes to make a road difficult for passengers and car alike. But Windy turned confidently into it, while the banker marveled at his courage—and secretly praised their own.
Over ruts and through mire the car careened and spattered, giving the occupants a rare shaking up, but still holding together in spite of all. Mile after mile they went, until they passed all signs of human habitation.
"I'll say this is a proving ground," grunted Windy, hanging onto the steering wheel—a luxury denied the three dignified bankers, who sprawled this way and that, and tumbled about the swerving tonneau in a most unseemly manner. "But there ain't nothin' wrong with this old struggle-buggy, is there, huh? You can see it's just as strong as any—"
It wasn't that Windy had spoken too soon; he had simply gone too far. A dreadful uproar sounded from under the car. It sagged suddenly in the center, and came to an abrupt halt in the middle of one of the nicest puddles along the whole way, while the bankers went on their respective ears. It was all very funny, but none of those concerned thought so—and no others were present to see.
In fact, it soon developed that no others were within five miles. And even the most enthusiastic advocate of cross-country hiking would have hesitated before tackling the Streamway Road.
Windy tried to explain that the car hadn't accidentally folded up, or anything like that. Something underneath had just come loose, that was all, letting the chassis drop. But the bankers had nothing but bitter looks for Windy as they started to pick their way through puddles and ruts on the long road back to town. After the first mile, however, they resigned themselves to fate. The mud could not be avoided. The bankers plowed unhappily and distastefully through them.
"Gee!" said Windy sorrowfully, "what a break that was!"
It was a week before the Complex was in running order again. Clayton insisted that the accident was not the fault of the car. He'd forgotten one of the cotter pins, or something. Windy said things to him that made him very unhappy.
"We're going to have a heck of a time getting those men interested again," he told the inventor. "And don't blame me, either, if the whole thing falls through. But I'll try to do the best I can."
Windy's best was success. In spite of himself, Larkin was interested. He forgot the dire resolutions he'd made on that weary walk back to town as the soreness gradually wore out of his outraged muscles. Finally he promised Windy he'd give the collapsible automobile another trial.
"But this time," he said, "we'll take another car along with us, just in case anything happens."
"Nothing will," Windy promised. "I can assure you that everything'll be in perfect order."
So, again wondering at their own recklessness and deciding that they were still boys at heart after all, Bankers Gibson, Hayes and Larkin once more defied death and climbed into the rear seat of the remarkable folding automobile.
Windy scorned their protests by taking them back to the Streamway Road. Through puddles splashed the Complex, and over ruts and hills it breezed along. And though the bankers momentarily expected to be pitched headlong while the car went into a million pieces about their ears, nothing happened. Back to the main highway Windy turned, having covered the road in record time. He looked around at the bankers triumphantly.
"Nothing wrong with this puddle-jumper now, is there?" he demanded; and the three passengers had to admit that, as far as they could see, there wasn't.
Back to the city and back to the bank they went, and the automobile gave an excellent performance all the way.
But here it must be said in Windy's defense that he really did not see the manhole. The street- maintenance department was at fault, anyhow, in not having it barricaded while it was open. Scooting in sideways to the curb on the turned- around wheels, Windy parked the car directly over the gaping hole in the pavement.
The bankers climbed out, and Mr. Larkin voiced his desire to try the new features of the Clayton Collapsible by himself. He had watched Windy operate the affair, and the buttons were all plainly marked. While Bellows and the other two stood on the curb, Larkin took his place behind the wheel.
It is more than possible, too, that Mr. Larkin became rattled at the last moment, or perhaps just a little careless. In any case, he punched the wrong button.
Working to perfection, the car promptly responded. The front and rear ends drew together, with the sides and top telescoping, the transmission shaft sliding into a slotted arrangement that it possessed, very like a plunger; and the seats breaking in the middle and folding downward into the space where the floor boards, which dropped like a trapdoor, had been. There was a startled squawk from inside the sedan, and then an ominous silence.
"Good heavens!" ejaculated Gibson and Hayes in unison.
Horrified, Windy leaped to the running board and pressed the proper button for unfolding the now abbreviated automobile. It snapped back to its original size. But instead of beholding a badly squashed banker, as they dreadfully expected, Windy and Hayes and Gibson looked into the car and saw—no banker at all. They stared at one another in utter amazement.
"He's gone!" whispered Hayes, shuddering.
V.
"It's impossible!" declared Gibson, who was much more of a skeptic.
"Gee," muttered Bellows with real fright in his voice, "I wonder—"
He was interrupted by a weak cry which seemed to issue from the depths of the earth.
"Listen!" he exclaimed, "I heard something!"
They listened. The call came again, unmistakably in the voice of Larkin.
"Help!" is what it said.
They got the car out of the way and helped Mr. Larkin from the hole. He was slightly mussed and very angry. He turned to Windy with fire in his eyes.
"Get away from here—you, and that infernal contraption!" he said in a voice high-pitched with rage. "If you ever come bothering me about it again, young man, I'll have you arrested for attempted manslaughter!"
Disconsolately, Windy watched while Gibson and Hayes, the very picture of solicitude, helped their companion into the quiet and safety of the bank.
"Well, Plod," he told his roommate that night, when Joe got home from work, "I'm sunk. Had some more hard luck today, and Larkin doesn't seem to be interested anymore."
"Couldn't he be persuaded?" Joe asked. "You've got a pretty good line, Windy. Go after him again. Never say die!"
"Heaven forbid," murmured Windy; and then he told Joe all about it.
Joe was glad he had not listened to Windy's sales talk too seriously, but he was willing and anxious to do all he could to help his friend out of the difficulty. If it were true, as Bellows said, that the collapsible car was really possible, he saw no reason why his friend should not ultimately find a backer for it.
"But," Windy admitted sorrowfully, "I haven't got anymore money. If I could go to Detroit, now—"
"I've heard you say yourself, Windy," Joe interrupted, "that there's no sentiment in business. I'm doubtful of that, but even so, I've never heard of bankers turning down paper money just because it was green. I bet Larkin and his crowd would be willing to back the collapsible car if they really thought there was a demand for it, no matter what their own experience had been. I guess there aren't many bicycle manufacturers who ride bikes, either. What you want to do, Windy, is show these same people that the car will make money for them."
"Easy to say," Windy objected, "but try an' do it!"
"All right," said Plodson. "We will."
Joe's plan was simplicity itself. It merely consisted of giving a series of public demonstrations, with an effort made to get the names of those people who would be interested in having one of the collapsible cars—if it could be purchased. Joe also thought it might be a good idea to get the names of those who might be interested in buying stock in a company manufacturing such a machine, when, as, and if issued.
"Remember, Windy, you will be selling nothing," Plodson warned. "You are merely demonstrating, to see if there's interest in such a machine to make it worthwhile putting on the market."
VI.
Accordingly, the next morning Windy had two signs painted on canvas. These he tied on the sides of the car; and, with Clayton—who was beginning to fear that success would never be his—he started out. Into the heart of the business district they went, tooting the horn madly. People stopped and read:
CLAYTON COLLAPSIBLE CAR
Park Where You Will When You Wish
MAKES DRIVING A PLEASURE!
They skimmed around a block and found a place against the curb where no normal automobile could have parked. A crowd gathered, just to see what it was all about. With great unconcern, Windy and Clayton got out, pressed the button controlling the folding mechanism, and startled everyone with the result. The car telescoped, the wheels turned sidewise, and with great ease the sedan—now no more than half-size—was drawn to the curb.
"Ladies and gentlemen," said Windy, standing on the running board, "you have just seen a demonstration of the new collapsible automobile— the greatest forward step in car construction since the development of the gasoline motor! See how it parks—anywhere, any time. All you have to do is press the button, and presto!—the parking problem is solved.
"No longer will ladies have to say, 'I can drive all right, but I have trouble parking.' There is nothing to it, ladies! And twice as many cars can be parked as formerly, once this model is in general use. Your garages, always more or less of a problem, can be half their present size. The advantages, indeed, are much too numerous for me to mention."
Windy finished his talk by requesting—as Joe had suggested—the names of all those who desired further particulars, and of those who would be interested in investing in a company formed to manufacture such bodies. As he was careful to point out that he had nothing to sell, he got quite a few names and addresses.
Throughout the morning Windy and Clayton drove around town, demonstrating the folding car. Interest, naturally, was widespread. Wherever they went they were sure of an audience.
"And now," said Windy, about noon time, "we'll go stop near the bank, just to show them bankers."
As the bank was on the town's busiest corner, they soon had an extensive audience. The sidewalks were jammed. Windy spoke with all his eloquence, and the names poured in. It was gratifying.
And then a man in uniform shoved his way through the crowd and tapped Bellows lightly on the shoulder.
"You're wanted," he said in a heavily official voice, "for disturbing the peace. Come along!"
With his ardor suddenly grown cold at the prospect of arrest, Windy meekly followed, first telling Clayton to drive away in the car.
"Just leave it to me," Windy said, with an attempt at bravado, "I'll fix it up somehow."
They went into the bank. Windy's spirits dropped lower. He knew now it was that old fossil, Larkin, who had registered the complaint. Windy saw dismal times ahead, and maybe hard labor— unless Plod would go bail for him.
Finally Windy found himself once more in the tall-windowed and richly furnished room. Banker Larkin sat behind his wide, glossy table and blew clouds of expensive smoke at Windy as he came in.
"Well," he said.
"Look here, Mr. Larkin," Windy began, "I wasn't doing you any harm. You're just tryin' to—"
"You may go, Otto," interrupted Larkin, nodding to the man who had brought Windy into the inner sanctum.
Windy looked at the fellow more closely, and breathed a sigh of relief. He was not a policeman, but a bank watchman. Maybe he wasn't under arrest after all.
"Say," sputtered Windy, "you're getting me in here under false pretenses!"
"I wanted to talk to you again," said Mr. Larkin with great dignity. "I have been watching the crowd's interest in that insane contraption you've got out there. It struck me, suddenly, that it's just idiotic enough to make a great success."
"Oh," said Windy, beginning to hope wildly once more. "You mean—"
"That I might be interested in backing it. That is not to say, of course, that I would ever again be interested in getting into it. But that is another matter entirely. You have shown me, however, that you don't mean to let one failure cause you to give up. And it's possible, I hope, to arrange the buttons and so on, so they will be foolproof."
"That was a foolish thing you did—" Windy began.
Larkin stopped him with an impatient gesture.
"I didn't call you in here to talk about that," he said sternly. "It may be the less said on that subject, the better. But I wanted to tell you that I will back the production of the Clayton Collapsible. Come back tomorrow at two-thirty, and we will arrange the details. Good day."
"So long!" Windy said, grinning; and then he discreetly withdrew.
"I told you," Windy was telling Clayton half an hour later, "that you couldn't have put yourself in better hands. Just wait till Plodson hears how smart I put that deal over."
"That's right," agreed the mild-mannered Mr. Clayton happily, "I knew you were the man for me the minute I walked into your office."
But when Joe heard the rest of the story, he merely smiled wisely, and kept still. He wasn't at all the kind to spoil Windy's great day by saying, "I told you so!"