"One thing you figure when you live here," a voice from the rear
injected, "is something has to give. If we go on the way things are, one
day everybody in this town will choke to death."
Brett pointed out, "Los Angeles is special. Smog is worse because of
geography, temperature inversion, and a lot of sunlight."
"Not so special," someone else put in. "Have you been in San Francisco
lately?"
"Or New York?"
"Or Chicago?"
"Or Toronto?"
"Or even little country towns on market days?"
Brett called across the chorus, "Heyl If you feel that way, maybe some
of you are headed for the wrong business. Why design cars at all?"
"Because we're nutty about cars. Love 'eml Doesn't stop us thinking,
though. Or knowing what's going on, and caring." The speaker was a
gangling young man with untidy blond hair, at the forefront of the
group. He put a hand through his hair, revealing the long slender
fingers of an artist.
"To hear a lot of people out West, and other places"-Brett was playing
devil's advocate"you'd think the only future is in mass transportation."
., That old chestnutl"
"No one really wants to use mass transport," one of the few girls in the
group declared. "Not if a car's practical and they can afford it.
Besides,
348-wheels
mass transit's a delusion. With subsidies, taxes, and fares, public
transport delivers a lot less than automobiles for more money. So everybody
gets taken. Ask New Yorkers! Soon-ask San Franciscans."
Brett smiled. "They'll love you in Detroit."
The girl shook her head impatiently. "I'm not saying it because of that."
"Okay," Brett told the others, 'let's agree that cars will be the main
form of transportation for another half century, probably a lot longer.
What kind of cars?"
"Better," a quiet voice said. "A lot better than now. And fewer."
"Not much argument about being better, though the question's always: Which
way? I'm interested, though, in how you figure fewer."
"Because we ought to think that way, Mr. DeLosanto. That's if we take the
long view, which is for our own good in the end."
Brett looked curiously at the latest speaker who now stepped forward,
others near the front easing aside to make room. He, too, was young, but
short, swarthy, with the beginning of a pot belly and, on the surface,
appearing anything but an intellectual. But his soft voice was compelling
and others fell silent as if a spokesman had moved in.
"We have a good many rap sessions here," the swarthy student said. "Those
of us taking Transportation Design want to be a part of the auto industry.
We're excited by the idea. Cars turn us on. But it doesn't mean that any
one of us is headed for Detroit wearing blinders."
"Let's hear the rest of it," Brett urged. "Keep talking!" Coming back,
listening to forthright student views again-views unencumbered by defeats,
disillusion, too much knowledge of practicalities or financial
limitations-was an emotional
wheels~--349
experience like having personal batteries charged.
"A thing about the auto industry nowadays,"
the swarthy student said, "is it's tuned
in to re
sponsibility. Sometimes the critics won't admit it,
but it has. There's a new feeling. Air
pollution,
safety, quality, all those things aren't just talking
subjects any more. Something's being done, this
time for real."
The others were still quiet. Several more students had joined the group;
Brett guessed they were from other courses. Though a dozen art spe-
cialties beside automotive design were taught here, the subject of cars
always evoked general interest within the school,
'Well," the same student continued, "the auto industry has some other
responsibilities too. One of them is numbers."
It was curious, Brett thought, that at the airport earlier he had been
thinking about numbers himself.
"It's the numbers that eat us up," the softvoiced, swarthy student said.
"ney undo every effort the car people make. Take safety. Safer cars are
engineered and built, so what happens? More get on the road; accidents
go up, not down. With air pollution it's the same. Cars being made right
now have the best engines ever, and they pollute less than any engine
ever did before. There are even cleaner ones ahead. Right?"
Brett nodded. "Right."
"But the numbers keep going up. We're bragging now about producing ten
million new cars a year, so no matter how good anybody gets at emission
control, the total pollution gets worse. It's wild I"
"Supposing all that's true, what's the alternative? To ration cars?"
Someone said, "Why not?"
"Let me ask you something, Mr. DeLosanto,"
350-wheels
the swarthy student said. "fou ever been in Bermuda?"
Brett shook his head.
"It's an island of twenty-one square miles. To make sure they keep room
to move around, the Bermuda -overnment does ration cars. First they
limit engine capacity, body length and width. Then they allow only one
car for every household."
A voice among the newcomers objected, "Nuts to that!"
"I'm not saying we should be that strict," the original speaker
persisted. "I'm simply saying we ought to draw a line somewhere. And it
isn't as if the auto industry couldn't stay healthy producing,the same
number of cars it does now, or that people couldn't manage. They manage
in Bermuda fine."
. If you tried it here," Brett said, "you might have a new American
Revolution. Besides, not being able to sell as many cars as people want
to buy is an attack on free enterprise." He grinned, offsetting his own
words. "It's heresy."
In Detroit, he knew, many would view the idea as heretical. But he
wondered: Was it really? How much longer could the auto industry, at
home and overseas, produce vehicles-with whatever kind of power plant-in
continually increasing quantity? Wouldn't someone, somewhere, somehow,
have to rule, as Bermuda had done: Enough! Wasn't the day approaching
when a measure of control of numbers would become esseritial for the
common good? Taxis were limited in number everywhere; so, to an extent,
were trucks. Why not private cars? And if it didn't happen, North
America could consist eventually of one big traffic jam; at times it was
close to that already. Therefore, wouldn't auto industry leaders be
wiser, more farsighted and responsible, if they took an initiative in
self-restraint themselves?
wheels-351
But he doubted if they would.
A fresh voice cut in, "Not all of us feel the way Harvey does. Some
think there's room for lots more cars yet."
"And we figure to design a few."
"Damn right!"
"Sorry, Harv! The world's not ready for you."
But there were several murmurs of dissent, and it was obvious that the
swarthy student, Harvey, had a following.
The lanky blond youth who had declared earlier, "We're nutty about
cars," called, "Tell us about the Orion."
"Get me a pad," Brett said. "I'll show you."
Someone passed one, and heads craned over while he sketched. He drew the
Orion swif tly in profile and head-on view, knowing the lines of the car
the way a sculptor knows a carving he has toiled on. There were
appreciative "wows," and really great!"
Questions followed. Brett answered frankly. When possible, design
students were fed these privileged tidbits, like heady bait, to keep
their interest high. However, Brett was careful to fold and pocket his
drawings afterward.
As students drifted back to classes, the courtyard session broke up. For
the remainder of his time at the Art Center College of Design-through
the same day and the next-Brett delivered a formal lecture, interviewed
automotive design students individually, and critically appraised
experimental car models which student teams had designed and built.
An instinct among this crop of students, Brett discovered, was toward
severity of design, allied with function and utility. Curiously, it had
been a similar combination of ideas agreed to by Brett, Adam Trenton,
Elroy Braithwaite and the others, on the memorable night, two and a half
352-wheels
months earlier, when the initial concept for Farstar had emerged. Through
the time he had already spent on early Farstar designs, still being labored
over in a closely guarded studio at Detroit, and now here, Brett was struck
by the aptness of Adam's phrase: Ugly is Beautifull
History showed that artistic trends-the latticework of all commercial
designing- always began subtly and often when least expected. No one knew
why artistic tastes changed, or how, or when the next development would
come; it seemed simply that human virtuosity and perception were restless,
ready to move on. Observing the students' work now-ignoring a degree of
nalvet6 and imperfection-and remembering his own designs of recent months,
Brett felt an exhilaration at being part of an obviously fresh, emerging
trend.
Some of his enthusiasm, it seemed, transmitted itself to students whom he
interviewed during his second day at the school. Following the interviews,
Brett decided to recommend two potential graduates to the company
Personnel and Organization staff for eventual hiring. One was the short,
swarthy student, Harvey, who had argued forcefully in the courtyard; his
design portfolio showed an ability and imagination well above average.
Whichever auto company he worked for, Harvey was probably headed for
trouble and collisions in Detroit. He was an original thinker, a maverick
who would not be silenced, or dissuaded easily from strong opinions.
Fortunately, while not always heeding mavericks, the auto industry
encouraged them, knowing their value as a hedge against complacent
thinking.
Whatever happened, Brett suspected, Detroit and Harvey would find each
other interesting.
The other candidate he chose was the gangling youth with untidy blond hair
whose talent,
wheels-353
too, was obviously large. Brett's suggestion of future employment, so the
student said, was the second approach made to him, Another auto firm among
the Big Three had already promised him a design job, if he wanted it, on
graduation.
"But if there's any chance of working near you, Mr. DeLosanto," the
young man said, "I'll go with your company for sure."
Brett was touched, and flattered, but uncertain how to answer.
His uncertainty was based on a decision reached, alone in his Los
Angeles hotel room, the previous night. It was now mid-August, and Brett
had decided: at year end, unless something happened drastically to
change his mind, he would quit the auto industry for good.
On the way back East, by air, be made another decision: Barbara Zaleski
would be the first to know.
chapter twenty-two
Also in August-while Brett DeLosanto was in California-the Detroit
assembly plant, where Matt Zaleski was assistant plant manager, was in a
state of chaos.
Two weeks earlier, production of cars had ceased. Specialist contractors
had promptly moved in, their assignment to dismantle the old assembly
line and create a new one on which the Orion would be built.
Four weeks had been allotted for the task. At the end of it, the first
production Orion-job One-would roll off the line, then, in the three or
four weeks following, a backlog of cars would be created, ready to meet
expected demands after official Orion introduction day in September.
After that, if sales prognostications held, the tempo would increase,
with Orions flowing from the plant in tens of thousands.
Of the time allowed for plant conversion, two weeks remained and, as
always at model changeover time, Matt Zaleski wondered if he would
survive them,
Most of the assembly plant's normal labor force was either laid off or
enjoying paid vacations, so that only a skeleton staff of hourly paid
employees reported in each day. But far from the shutdown making the
life of Matt Zaleski and others of the plant management group easier,
work loads increased, anxieties multiplied, until an ordinary production
day seemed, by comparison, an unruffled sea.
The contractor's staff, like an occupying army, was demanding. So were
company headquarters engineers who were advising, assisting, and some-
times hindering the contractors.
wheels-355
The plant manager, Val Reiskind, and Matt were caught in a crossfire of
requests for information, hurried conferences, and orders, the latter
usually requiring instant execution. Matt handled most matters which
involved practical running of the plant, Reiskind being young and new.
He had replaced the previous plant manager, McKernon, only a few months
earlier and while the new man's engineering and business diplomas were
impressive, he lacked Matt's seasoned know-how acquired during twenty
years on the job. Despite Matt's disappointment at failing to get
McKernon's job, and having a younger man brought in over him, he liked
Reiskind who was smart enough to be aware of his own deficiency and
treated Matt decently.
Most headaches centered around new, sophisticated machine tools for
assembly, which in theory worked well, but in practice often didn't.
Technically, it was the contractor who was responsible for making the
whole system function, but Matt Zaleski knew that when contractor's men
were gone, he would inherit any inadequate situation they might leave.
Therefore he stayed close to the action now.
The greatest enemy of all was time. There was never enough to make a
changeover work so smoothly that by preassigned completion date it could
be said: "All systems go!" It was like building a house which was never
ready on the day set for moving in, except that a house move could be
postponed, whereas a car or truck production schedule seldom was.
An unexpected development also added to Matt's burdens. An inventory
audit, before production of the previous year's models ceased, had
revealed stock shortages so huge as to touch off a major investigation.
Losses from theft at any auto plant were always heavy. With thousands
of
356-wheels
workers changing shifts at the same time, it was a simple matter for
thieves-either employees or walk-in intruders-to carry stolen items out.
But this time a major theft ring was obviously at work. Among items
missing were more than three hundred four-speed transmissions, hundreds
of tires, as well as substantial quantities of radios, tape players, air
conditioners, and other components.
As an aftermath, the plant swarmed with security staff and outside
detectives. Matt, though not remotely implicated, had been obliged to
spend hours answering detectives' questions about plant procedure. So
far there appeared to be no break in the case, though the Chief of
Security told Matt, "We have some ideas, and there are a few of your
line workers we want to interrogate when they come back." Meanwhile the
detectives remained underfoot, theix presence one more irritant at an
arduous time '
Despite everything, Matt had come through so far, except for a small
incident concerning himself which fortunately went unnoticed by anyone
important at the plant.
He had been in his office the previous Saturday afternoon, seven-day
work weeks being normal during model changeover, and one of the older
secretaries, Iris Einfeld, who was also working, had brought him coffee.
Matt began drinking it gratefully. Suddenly, for no reason he could
determine, he was unable to control the cup and it fell from his hand,
the coffee spilling over his clothing and the floor.
Angry at himself for what he thought of as carelessness, Matt got
up-then fell full length, heavily. Afterward, when he thought about it,
it semed as if his left leg failed him and he remembered, too, he had
been holding the coffee in his lef t hand.
wheels-357
Mrs. Einfeld, who was still in Matt's office, had helped him back into
his chair, then wanted to summon aid, but he dissuaded her. Instead,
Matt sat for a while, and felt some of the feeling come back into his
left leg and hand, though he knew he would not be able to drive home.
Eventually, with some help from Iris Einfeld, he left the office by a
back stairway and she drove him home in her car. On the way he persuaded
her to keep quiet about the whole thing, being afraid that if word got
around he would be treated as an invalid, the last thing he wanted.
Once home, Matt managed to get to bed and stayed there until late Sunday
when he felt much better, only occasionally being aware of a slight
fluttering sensation in his chest. On Monday morning he was tired, but
otherwise normal, and went to work.
The weekend, though, had been lonely. His daughter, Barbara, was away
somewhere and Matt Zaleski had had to fend for himself. In the old days,
when his wife was alive, she had always helped him over humps like model
changeover time with understanding, extra affection, and meals which-no
matter how long she waited for him to come home-she prepared with
special care. But it seemed so long since he had known any of those
things that it was hard to remember Freda had been dead less than two
years. Matt realized, sadly, that when she was alive he had not
appreciated her half as much as he did now.
He found himself, too, resenting Barbara's preoccupation with her own
life and work. Matt would have liked nothing more than to have Barbara
remain at home, available whenever he came there, and thus filling-at
least in parther mother's role. For a while after Freda's death Barbara
had seemed to do that. She prepared their meal each evening, which she
and Matt ate to-
358-wheels
gether, but gradually Barbara's outside interests revived, her work at the
advertising agency increased, and nowadays they were rarely in the Royal Oak
house together except to sleep, and occasionally for a hurried weekday
breakfast. Months ago Barbara had urged that they seek a housekeeper, which
they could well afford, but Matt resisted the idea. Now, with so much to do
for himself, on top of pressures at the plant, he wished he had agreed.
He had already told Barbara, early in August, that he had changed his mind
and she could go ahead and hire a housekeeper after all, to which Barbara
replied that she would do so when she could, but at the moment was too
busy at the agency to take time out to advertise, interview, and get a
housekeeper installed. Matt had bristled at that, believing it to be a
woman's businesseven a daughter's-to run a home, and that a man should not
have to become involved, particularly when he was under stress, as Matt
was now. Barbara made it clear, however, that she regarded her own work
as equally important with her f ather's, an attitude he could neither
accept nor understand.
There was a great deal else, nowadays, that Matt Zaleski f ailed to
understand. He had only to open a newspaper to become alternately angry
and bewildered at news of traditional standards set aside, old moralities
discarded, established order undermined. No one, it seemed, respected
anything any more-including constituted authority, the courts, law,
parents, college presidents, the military, the free enterprise system, or
the American flag, under which Matt and others of his generation fought
and died in World War 11.
As Matt Zaleski saw it, it was the young who caused the trouble, and
increasingly he hated
wheels-359
most of them: those with long hair you couldn't tell from girls (Matt still
had a crewcut and wore it like a badge); student know-it-alls, choked up
with book learning, spouting McLuhan, Marx, or Che Guevara; militant blacks,
demanding the millennium on the spot and not content to progress slowly; and
all other protestors, rioters, contemptuous of everything in sight and
beating up those who dared to disagree. The whole bunch of them, in Matt's
view, were callow, immature, knowing nothing of real life, contributing
nothing... When he thought of the young his bile and blood pressure rose
together.
And Barbara, while certainly no rebellious student or protestor,
sympathized openly with most of what went on, which was almost as bad. For
this, Matt blamed the people his daughter associated with, including Brett
DeLosanto whom he continued to dislike.
In reality, Matt Zaleski-like many in his age group-was the prisoner of
his long-held views. In conversations which sometimes became heated
arguments, Barbara had tried to persuade him to her own conviction: that
a new breadth of outlook had developed, that beliefs and ideas once held
immutable had been examined and found false; that what younger people
despised was not the morality of their parents' generation, but a facade
of morality with duplicity behind; not old standards in themselves, but
hypocrisy and self-deception which, all too often, the socalled standards
shielded. In fact, it was a time of question, of exciting intellectual
experiment from which mankind could only gain.
Barbara had failed in her attempts. Matt Zaleski, lacking insight, saw the
changes around him merely as negative and destroying.
360-wheels
In such a mood, as well as being tired and having a nagging
stomachache, Matt came home late to find Barbara and a guest already in
the house. The guest was Rollie Knight.
Earlier that evening, through arrangements made for her by Leonard
Wingate, Barbara had met Rollie downtown. Her purpose was to acquire
more knowledge about the life and experiences of black people-Rollie in
particular-both in the inner city and with the hard core hiring
program. A spoken commentary to accompany the documentary film Auto
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