Horn of Plenty
The
accident had choked traffic to a standstill. From where he sat in his
car, Barney Baumann could see the lines of traffic glittering in the
sun, shimmering in the heat like a mirage from Hell, stretching away
to infinity on the endless freeway. In the lane next to him, a red
Camaro full of overindulged college kids blared senseless top 40 rock
that made him grip the wheel angrily. Inconsiderate brats! He wanted
to say something, make them turn it down, but their air of easy
insolence made him suspect he would be opening himself to ridicule
and abuse so he sat, baking in his car, seething silently, feeling
his impotence.
Poor Barney! He was
no Superman, nor even a Clark Kent. His method of dealing with
unpleasant people or situations was simple; he ignored them. But
later, at home, he would replay the scenes over and over again,
feeling his anger boiling up to choke him with poisonous fumes.
He was not a man
who could say, “This is the way I am, I can’t change it, so why
worry?” No, his mind was tormented by ‘ought tos’ and ‘should
haves.’ He had a real horror of the helpless and inept, and a deep
contempt for the tame modern man who, claws and teeth drawn, must
rely on others to fight his battles for him. His subconscious mind
blocked that contempt from turning upon himself, but deep in the
primitive corners of his brain he saw himself, naked and squirming,
squeaking pitifully for a greater force to champion his cause.
There is a thing in
some people that others can sense instinctively, a thing that enables
them to back down larger apes than themselves with impunity. It is an
aura, a force field of fearless aggression, a tiny flare of insanity,
perhaps, that warns others to keep a safe distances. Barney, on the
other hand…well, people always cut in front of him at the market
checkout stand. Even little old ladies. Mean, little old
ladies!
Trapped in the sun
in the traffic, Barney felt, was like being in Hell. From the Camaro,
Madonna moaned and whined like a bitch in heat about some
hormone-saturated lover who was gone, baby, gone. Barney sweated. He
fumed. He couldn’t roll up his window and enjoy the air
conditioning; his car would overheat. Stupid car! If his boss weren’t
so blind, he would see that he, Barney, should be promoted to
manager, but the guy just played favorites, only promoting the
numbskull brown-nosers who knew how to kiss ass. A promotion would
enable him to buy a better car, with air conditioning and a radio
that worked. Barney spent his time tormenting himself, feeling his
anger rising like mercury in a thermometer, until he had a throbbing
headache. But somewhere deep inside, a little Barney-demon squirmed
with pleasure at his self-inflicted pain.
Far ahead, traffic
began to move. It was a painfully slow process, as the two left lanes
were still blocked. The Camaro, Barney thought smugly, would be
sitting there for a while yet. He certainly wasn’t going to let it
in his lane! He felt a tiny thrill of power over those self-satisfied
young brats. He’d show them they couldn’t trifle with Barney
Baumann!
Finally, the car in
front of him began to edge forward. He was just easing off the brake
when a horn blasted in his ear, startling him. He jumped, and his car
lurched and died. The Camaro thrust its blood-red nose into his lane.
He all but strangled in helpless rage. Shouting angrily, he leaned on
his horn. The kids laughed and jeered. One young man stood up, facing
him, through the sun-roof. His eyes were blanked with mirrored
lenses. A cigarette dangled casually from his smirking lips. With
supreme arrogance, he saluted Barney, middle finger thrust high. He
mouthed an obscenity, moving his lips with studied exaggeration.
Barney, flushing with anger, looked away, filled with self-loathing
as he did so.
He wished he had a
gun, and embarked on a pleasant fantasy in which he pulled it out and
watched their superiority crumble to disbelief, then fear. They tried
to beg, but it was no use; he pulled the trigger again and again,
laughing as they exploded into bloody shards of flesh and bone,
spattering their arrogant youth all over that red Camaro.
Slowly, slowly the
traffic crawled onward. This lane, now that lane would stop for a
bit, the drivers looking with longing at the cars creeping past them.
Barney’s lane came to a stop. His anger made him reckless. A large
truck was edging up on his right, but there was a space, a small
space, if he could nose in just a little…
He leaned on the
horn and cranked the wheel. He was one mean son of a B when he wanted
to be, dammit!
Sound exploded
around him, paralyzing him momentarily. The truck eased on past him,
missing his fender by inches. The driver looked down at him and shook
his head in disgust at Barney’s ineffectual impudence. Red with
humiliation, heart and head pounding with reaction to the truck’s
mighty airhorn, he savagely wrenched his car back into his lane. It
just wasn’t Barney’s day, but then, it never was.
Much later, musing
over coffee, Barney somehow started thinking about horns. The horn on
his car, for example, was a sweet little tone that gently pleaded,
“Please? Please get out of my way, okay? Please?” An airhorn now,
that was power! It commanded, it ordered, “You will get out of my
way!” An airhorn would change things for him; he knew it. It would
bestow upon him some of the authority he felt was his right to wield.
It would cloak him in a fury of sound that would say, “Don’t mess
with me-I claim this space!” It would make him a man!
The next morning,
Barney went on a quest for airhorns. He inquired, he listened, he
rejected. By late afternoon, he had visited nearly all the auto parts
stores, with no success. He finally found himself at the last store
on his list, a little Mom-and-Pop operation in the older section of
town, trying to explain to the old man behind the counter exactly
what he wanted in a horn.
“It’s not just
loud,” he was saying, fumbling through his idea. “It’s more a
quality of sound that I’m looking for. Every horn I’ve heard
today has been, well, too polite, somehow. They just don’t have the
feel I want. I mean…” He looked helplessly at the old man and
flapped his hands, unable to articulate what he meant. The shopkeeper
peered at him over his spectacles and nodded.
“Think I know
what you’re trying to say, young man. They useta make a horn, the
BullRoarer 500, a few years back. Now, that was a horn! Drop a dog at
fifty yards, so I’m told. It was only on the market two, three
years, then the cump’ny went bust. Lawsuits closed ‘em down,
s’what I heard.”
“Do you have any
idea where I might find one? It sounds like just what I’m looking
for. I’d be willing to pay a finder’s fee if you can help me.”
To Barney’s disgust, a pleading note had crept into his voice.
“Weell…” The
old man said, turning to look at his back storeroom, “There’s a
chance, just a chance now, could be I got a couple of ‘em buried
back there. Tell you what. Call me in a week, and I’ll try to dig
‘em out. That’s the best I can do.”
The week crept by
slowly for Barney. It reminded him of when he was a kid, counting the
days down before Christmans. He called the old man daily from work,
and took the rest of the day off when the old fellow told him the
good news.
“Found it way in
the back, under a bunch a’ old stuff I never bother with any more.”
The old man led the way to the back of the store. It smelled ancient
and musty back there. “Thought you might want to hear it, so I got
it hooked up for ya.” The airhorn squatted on a workbench, the
curved chrome horns mocking his reflection, stretching and twisting
his features unpleasantly as he admired them.
“Get ready, now,”
said the owner. “Just gotta hook up this wire here, and…”
His voice was
annihilated by a blare of furious noise. Barney reacted to it with a
surge of fear and anger and then it was gone, leaving a vacuum of
silence in its wake.
The old man looked
into his eyes as he stood there staring back, breathless and flushed,
heart pounding. “See what I mean? Now you know why they took it off
the market!”
“I’ll take it!”
gasped Barney.
After he got the
BullRoarer installed, driving for Barney was skittles and beer. It
satisfied him deeply to see people react to the mighty sound demon at
his, Barney’s command. How he bubbled with inward glee when that
kid on a moped, who had been putting along at 15 miles per hour in
front of him, dumped the bike in a startled reaction to the wall of
sound Barney unleashed upon his now-bloodied head!
And that old lady,
doddering across the street with her walker; the light had changed
and she wasn’t halfway through the intersection, while he was in a
hurry! Well, she’d keeled right over dead as a doornail, and it
served her right. She should have succumbed years ago. Yes, he
thought happily, the BullRoarer 500 was the best investment he’d
ever made. He hadn’t had this much fun in years!
He was out cruising
now, racing down the freeway fast, a rude driver. He cut people off,
he tailgated cars full of Cub Scouts. He provoked drivers into giving
him an excuse to unleash his mighty horn upon their heads and, when
he did! It got him respect!
Nobody messed around
with Barney Baumann any more!
He had a fantasy as
he drove. It involved a pack of bikers…Hell’s Angels, he decided.
It was a long, empty road somewhere isolated. Someplace like the
Mojave Desert. He’s driving alone, no he’s got a girl with him,
he sees them coming up on him through the rear view mirror, closing
in on him at terrific speed. They pull up alongside and slow down,
pacing him like a pack of hungry wolves. Coolly, he looks at them;
they are huge, dirty, hairy beasts. They all have tattoos and beards.
Some of them have girls on the back – no, wait. Wouldn’t want to
see girls get hurt. No, leave ‘em in. They’re all sluts anyway.
So, there he is with a virgin niece, surrounded by drug crazed
motorcycle outlaws. They start messing with him, kicking his car,
smashing his windows with chains. The leader pulls up next to him
with a hammer, indicating that he will smash the windshield.
Calmly, a slight
smile on his lips, Barney blows his horn. The leader, caught by
surprise, loses control of his bike and dumps it doing 70 miles per
hour. His fellow outlaws plow into the downed machine, and blood and
gasoline spill onto the asphalt. Suddenly, there’s a spark, and
‘Whoosh!’ Instant inferno! There are no survivors, only twisted,
blackened corpses dotting the highway while he, Barney, drives on,
only mildly annoyed at the damage to his car, which is only…”Oh
my God!”
Barney slammed on
his brakes, fought the skid, straightened out and stopped before he
hit the line of stopped cars. He hadn’t seen them around that
curve! He could see the accident up ahead. Two smashed cars rested,
steaming, by the side of the road, and a covered figure lay still,
surrounded by a knot of people. The road wasn’t blocked; the fools
ahead of him were slowing down to gawk! He glanced back. His car was
already buried in traffic. The sun was relentless, and he felt a wave
of anger when he thought about being trapped there, in the heat and
exhaust fumes, just so some joker up ahead could gape in horrified
delight at some poor slob who’d screwed up and got himself dead for
it.
Barney slammed his
fist down hard on the horn and it bayed to life. Heads turned, up and
down the line. A few people shook fists at him. The hell with them!
He’d teach them not to slow him down!
After thirty
seconds, even Barney had had enough of the Bull Roarer 500. He let up
on the horn but, to his horror, it kept baying. Frantically, he
pounded on the button to no avail. The horn was stuck. The sound was
fingernails on a blackboard. It was the high pitched whine of a
mosquito at night, the infuriating squall of a dirtbike. It was icy
saltwater poured on a cracked tooth. The horn was many things to
people, but in each mind it touched a raw nerve way down deep, a
nerve buried under thousands of years of civilized veneer. The horn’s
voice awoke the animal within, that thing of violence that sees red
and explodes mindlessly, smashing and destroying the objects of its
hatred.
They were
getting out of their cars! He grimaced and shook his head,
gesturing helplessly at the horn. A man swung a wrench, and the
windshield shattered over him in a shower of sparkling glass, cutting
him. A woman in a housedress and curlers battered his hood with a
jack handle while her two small children snarled around the tires
like hungry lion cubs.
Terrified, Barney
ripped at the wiring under the dash. The horn blared on. People
swarmed over his car, stomping and smashing, mad with violence while
above all their cries, above it all, the horn screamed insane
encouragement, raging for blood.
The side window
disintegrated and hands clutched his body, the fingers sinking into
his flesh like claws. They pulled him out of the window as he
screamed and struggled frantically, trying to explain, crying, “It’s
stuck! It’s stuck!”
The mob was beyond
listening. It was a blind, furious, mindless elemental with but one
thought, and it raged until the horn was silenced.
It took the
authorities weeks to identify Barney Baumann. As the coroner put it
to his cronies over a beer one evening, there wasn’t enough of him
left to make a sandwich.
