Mitchell College - Thames Log Yearbook (New London, CT)

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Private Hell by joseph Krakol The man arrives earlier than the others. His appearance connotes solidity, yet he seems slightly afraid. He is aggres- sive yet defensive, which is no less irrational than the ambivalence he feels towards his mission. He utters no sound, for he can scarcely breathe - psychosomatic asthma, they call it. He has fasted for at least five hours, for the risk of vomiting isn't worth the fleeting pleasure of steak. He unlocks his cubicle and pulls out forty-five pounds of protectiveness, armor worthy of a medieval knight. Yet this neo-knight has more than his life to defend. He defends his pride and the pride of those whom he represents. The very nature of his mission is frustrating. If he succeeds, his plaudits are few. But if he fails, he's damned by his constituency. Such is the nature of his mission and the determinant of his personality. Ask him why he does it, heill say, I don't know? Ask others why he does it, their replies are just as nebulous: He's a masochistf' He has suicidal tendencies. He's too short for anything elsef' It's the only thing that he does well. Anyone who gets in there must have a screw loose. He does it for the money. But these analyses don't sting the man who has become callous to professional booers. His fear of personal failure transcends the humiliation of psycho-physical classification. Long ago, he quit asking himself the same stupid ques- tion. He couldn't answer WHY, why must others ask WHY? And why should this man even bother with others, he realizes he is special, his reflex-reaction time being less than two-tenths of a second. His lightning finesse is admired by his adversaries. What plagues him is why he cannot grow callous to the tension and unbearable anxiety that accompany his mission. Intuition tells him that if he ever grows callous to tension and anxiety, his reflexes would become dull concomitantlyg his effectiveness would deteriorate. And intuition is of the utmost importance to this man. It is an academic tool of his trade, it is almost a confederate upon whom he can rely during times of indecisiveness.

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Death on the Highway to Danger and Daring on the Highwaygv think what that will do for respectability and audience appeal. And yet, I can't help but feel that this might be a step in the wrong direction. Popularization might tend to defeat the original purpose of this approach to our problem in much the same way that, after an evening of Smash-'Em, Bash-'Em Stock Car Racing, the announcer's parting entreaty to Drive safely on the way home! falls on deaf ears as the fans, glutted with bloodlust and convinced that they can do better that Number 47 did, roar out the gate, eyes abulge and pulses racing. Maybe, then, we shouldn't take a chance on turning Mr. Average Dull Driver into Mr. Crosstown Careener. After all these failures, don't feel too despondent. I do have the answer. It's the next logical step from spectating, and is accomplished in a manner that is desirably effective, impressive, and easily cleaned up. The first thing we'll have to do is herd all of our drivers into the States' Motor Vehicle Offices. We could manage this easily enough by requiring a renewal of all operator's licenses, say, every three years. This would afford a second- ary benefit, also, in that it would weed out some of the drivers who obtained licenses in 1916 and have never been required by their native states to renew or be re-examined since - and who may have undergone such trivial changes in driving capability as having gone blind or deaf. fSuch people need something other than safety vehicles, I feel.j So, every three years we'll march the drivers into the Motor Vehicle Offices and have them requalify. Com- pletely. Written exam, eye test, physician's statements, road test. Then, as they heave a sigh of relief at having made it and step up to the cashier's counter, we will have an official escort them out behind the building. There we will have this set of railroad tracks about two-hundred feet long, terminating in a sturdy, ten-foot-high brick wall. Down on the other end, mounted on a railroad handcar chassis, will be a 1964 Ford Galaxie's bench front seat, across which will lie the two unbuckled but available ends of a seat belt. No dashboard, no steering wheel, no bumper, no two tons of sheetmetal. just a big seat with a seatbelt. Now, sir, if you'll kindly take your place on our Test Vehicle, we'll conclude your renewal procedure. A pause. You may buckle up, sir, if you wish . . .

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For the past forty-five minutes he has donned his armor, he never wavers from his habitual order of dress, an idiosyncrasy, some call it. Others call it superstition. But is it any more superstitious than the orderly sequence of preparation a priest performs before serving mass and saving souls? The man must save also, not souls, but nonethe- less, his ritualistic preparation gives him emotional, and thus physical, comfort. Superstition is not dishonorable to him. He'll do anything to feel comfortable. Dressing according to ritualistic perfection assures him that extra self- confidence which may help lead him toward executive perfection. At any rate, he invented HIS superstition which is more than can be said for the priest . . . But the priest saves souls. The man wonders if anyone would dare question the physical and psychological make-up of a priest. He wonders if priests would even bother to answer. One thing's for sure, priests don't suffer from psychomatic asthma. They fast, but for nobler reasons than he. The man dons his jersey last, ironing out the wrinkles with skillful tugs. He looks at his number - 11 - reflected in the mirror behind him. For as long as he can remember, he has had great affinity for that number, Why, he cannot answer. Most men of his position bear the number 1 - but he is too modest for that. 11 is his number. It might as well be his name. He covers his face with his mask, as tight-fitting as a death mask. Perhaps this mask has saved his life once or twice. Certainly, it has maintained his self-respect. The mask conceals the tension-grimace constantly worn by the man. The tension-grimace is a requirement. ,Without it, the man would not ever be ready to react. Thank God for the mask, for without it, his constituency would easily perceive that he is no better than mortal. But he must beg what about that two-tenths of a second reaction time? Nevertheless, thank God for the mask. Even though he doesn't bless himself before each mission like some of his pears, he prays every night. He has prayed to God for as long as he can remember. Prayer has given this man some peace of mind. Why, he doesn't know. He can't answer that question, either. But thank God for the mask. The horn sounds, calling the man to his mission. He would vomit if he could, but the fast has denied him even that base release. He knows from experience that the tension and anxiety subsides as soon as he hits the ice. This phenomenon has never failed him, and it has always intrigued the man. Perhaps the total concentration demanded by the two and one-half hour mission placed him in a state not unlike the extra-mundane, spiritual world of the priest. But who knows? Certainly not himself, nor the priest, for their roles are incomparable even though both must save because of the nature of their missions. The man instinctively skates towards his position. His strides are heavy and awkward. He seems to be drawn towards his goal by some nebulous attraction. Either that, or he is pushed towards it by some nebulous subconscious drive.