1963

1963

Violet walked to the front window to see what was coming into view at the edge of the high beams. 

“Slow down.”

Her vehicle began to decelerate smoothly, but she felt nothing. 

Must not have heard. 

“Slow down,” she repeated, louder this time. 

Still, nothing. She frowned.

"Slow down!”

The vehicle replied by displaying a speedometer on the smooth glass. She glanced at the screen. A number was slowly ticking down: 147…146... 145. She glanced to the side. It was dark, but the penumbra of the headlights was just enough to see some trees and shrubs for reference, which confirmed the vehicle and its smug speedometer were indeed correct.

She pursed her lips, shook her head, and gave out a nasal huff. I hate autono-mobiles. She looked up through the curved, transparent roof saw it was a clear night. Almost there.

After a few minutes, the vehicle had slowed down enough for Violet to spot the gravel road.

“Here. Pull over.”

Her autono-mobile silently slowed to a stop. It was standard model: a glassy, cylindrical log the size of a subway car that glided just above the ground.

“Open.”

The entire right side seamlessly slid up into the roof like a pocket door. She stepped out, turned around, and grabbed the top handle of her backpack with both hands, maneuvering it to the ground like a kettlebell. The glass door slid back down automatically.

“Wait here. I'll be back tomorrow. Manual override," she said impatiently as she waited for the window display to turn on, "1-9-6-3.” She always used the same code. I miss him.

Immediately, her numbers displayed on a yellow background, awaiting her response.

“Confirmed.” The background switched to green. The vehicle gave out a harsh, trichord chirp. Do they program irritating sounds on purpose?

"Power off.” The vehicle went dark and fell into formation with the other West Texas silhouettes—nearby Live Oaks and faraway wind turbines. 

At last, Violet was alone. There would be no people, and more importantly, no autonomous machines of any kind, until she returned to her vehicle tomorrow. A small smile curled up the corner of her mouth as she hoisted up her backpack. With a grunt, she strapped it on and set off down the gravel road. 

She quickly encountered the rust-caked gate that was supposed to swing open on its hinges, but instead had to be lifted and dragged about its anchor post. “Remind me to fix that, Vee,” she remembered Grandpa saying.

She was only five years old the first time they went out West, and like any five-year-old, she thought her grandpa had meant what he had said. On holidays and weekends when she slept over at his house, she faithfully reminded him about the broken gate on the ranch. It took a few years for her to realize he was not going to fix it. Maybe he likes it broken, she could remember thinking.

She slipped through, closed the gate, turned around, and stared down the road. “Race you there!” His voice rang in her head again.

Grandpa never raced, but at least that made sense. He carried the backpack, and was always somewhere in his 70s—Violet never cared to do the math. Still, his words had never failed to send her squealing and sprinting ahead. Tonight, though, she walked.

Thirty minutes later, the cabin came into view. It was twice as large as her autono-mobile and had an A-frame roof. She walked up to the door. The lock had no electronics, just a number pad with loose metal buttons that wiggled when she pushed them and left a strange smell on her fingertip. 

1-9-6-3. The lock clicked. She pushed it open—these hinges worked just fine. She took out a small lamp and a few other necessities from her pack. The rest could wait until morning. She fell asleep instantly on one of the old cots, just like when she was five.

The sunlight woke her up. It took a moment for her to remember where she was. Coffee, her brain grumbled. After putting a cup of water on the handheld stovetop, she washed up in the small bathroom, being careful not to ingest any of the water. Can’t be too careful with well water. She emptied a sleeve of instant coffee into her thermos and poured in the now-boiling cup of water, giving it a stir with the other end of her toothbrush. She put on fresh clothes, laced a light pair of shoes, and walked outside to the garage.

It was a chilly, sunny day. She paused in front of the garage's side door to sip her coffee. If anyone ever finds this, I’ll be arrested. She entered the same code on this lock, and it opened with the same click. The silhouette of the 1963 Chevrolet Corvette Stingray greeted her. She could just barely make out the baby-blue color with the pale light coming in from behind her. She walked to the front of the garage and pulled up the sectional door. The rectangular panels rattled into the ceiling. Sunlight flooded the space, and she was five years old again.

“This is our little secret, Vee.”

“Ok, Grandpa.”

“You can’t say a word about this to anyone, understand?”

“Yes, Grandpa.”

“Not even mommy and daddy.”

“Why’s that?” 

“I’ll tell you when you’re older. Now, promise me."

"I promise."

Violet was born in 2049, the same year Congress passed the Vance-Eagleton Act. She was around seven or eight when she understood its implications. One day each year, she and Grandpa went to the ranch... one day each year, they drove a gasoline car, with their own feet and hands... That meant she and Grandpa were outlaws, sworn to secrecy!

When she was five, the blue Corvette exactly matched her height. She asked if he had made it just for her, and in a way, he had. She loved it. She loved it, loved it, loved it. She loved the two headlights that popped up. She loved the metal frame that the engine could make hot. She loved the buttons she could press. She loved that you could tell it anything you wanted, and hear nothing back. But her favorite part was that split rear window: half for her, and half for him.

After her eyes adjusted to the light, she took another sip of coffee and opened the car's small door to sit down in the driver’s seat. Driver’s seat. The name always gave her a thrill.

Before she started, she went through the ritual in her head. Right foot, brake. Right hand, ignition. Right hand, gears. Right foot, gas. She performed it perfectly. Just like you taught me.

The two-door, gas-powered, human-driven Corvette was unbelievably loud inside the small garage. Violet could not even begin to imagine the noise from a superhighway full of these wild, mechanical beasts. How did people put up with all that racket? She knew human drivers and gas engines were outlawed in the name of public safety and pollution, but in her opinion the noise was a perfectly valid reason, too.

The Corvette crept out of the garage and onto the grey-white gravel road. Just as she toed the gas, a funny thought crossed her mind. Maybe, just maybe, the engine’s roar isn't so bad after all.