Chapter One

An Airing: 21st-Century Style

An Assembly Such As This

The Price of One's Menu Plaisirs

An Airing: 21st-Century Style

[Imagine that you have just arrived in 2009 Los Angeles from 1813 England, and you are having your very first ride in a curious horseless equipage called a "car":]

It is as fast as a fast-moving carriage, and without horses! But then it is much faster than a carriage, and the street is full of other cars in a variety of shapes, sizes, and colors, all moving faster and faster until ours speeds onto a vast stretch of road divided by painted lines into equally spaced sections full of these strange machines, all racing as if the devil were in pursuit, and I realize that I have grabbed on to Wes’s arm with one hand and am gripping a handle protruding from my door with another.

"Wait—no—too fast, I—"

“Are you all right?” Wes says.

“Please—do slow down.” I can barely get the words out. I am beginning to gasp for breath—all these cars speeding down this endless road, racing one another, emitting blasts like a ship’s horn, a large black squarish monster of a machine roars past Paula’s car and slips in front of her, and we nearly crash into its rear—this is hell, this is hell, I know this is hell, how did I end up in hell—cannot get enough air—cannot breathe.

“She’s hyperventilating,” says Wes.

Paula meets my eyes via a mirror that is above the inside wheel. “You want me to pull over, darling? Are you going to be sick?”

“Courtney?” Wes says.

I cannot answer just yet; I force myself to slow my breathing until I am able to take in a long, deep breath. “Of course I am not going to be sick. I may be frightened out of my senses, but I am not one of those fainting misses who needs to be physicked every minute.”

Anna turns round and leans over the back of her seat. “You’re perfectly safe, sweetheart. I promise you.” She looks sharply at Paula. “Would you stop with the Indy 500 lane changes? And a little less pressure on the gas pedal, okay?”

Paula bridles. “For God’s sake, I’m only doing forty-five. I couldn’t do more in this traffic if I wanted to.”

Wes simply pats my hand and gives me a reassuring nod. Behind him I get a glimpse of a white car that is next to ours; inside it is a party of young children. They see me watching them and wave and smile. One of them, a boy of about six, pulls his mouth into a grotesque grin with both hands while a younger boy of perhaps four years jostles him and giggles.

I feel my own mouth lift in a smile, and I realize that I have relaxed my grip on both Wes’s arm and the door handle. The sensation in my stomach is no longer a sickening lurch—the cars on either side of us and the trees and houses become a blur—and I surrender to the speed, the colors, the refreshing wind on my face, for somehow the glass next to me has lowered partway. If this is heaven, then I am traveling with the angels, and what indeed is there to fear?

"Car"—what an apt name for such a mythical equipage! "Car," a word which summons Shakespeare and Spenser and verses on Phoebus's "fiery carre."