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Technology Is Everywhere, But Compassion, Evidently, Is In Short Supply.
By Jeff Smith
I-17 AND BELL ROAD WEST--Isn't modern life miraculous?
Thanks to the inventions of the industrial/technological/microchip
age, I can put the next hour or two it looks like I'll be spending
gridlocked in Phoenix rush-hour traffic to good use.
A quick scan of my fellow sufferers reinforces my gratitude to
the twin gods of science and capitalism. Two decades ago, if I
were in similar straits, there would be nothing for any of us
to do but sit and simmer similarly to the cars and trucks that
got us into this metaphorical mess, this precise traffic jam in
the first place. And like the radiators in these selfsame conveyances,
sooner rather than later some of us would boil over and blow.
Fists--perhaps even bullets--would fly and the poor soul whose
unfortunate contretemps with whatever unknown immovable object
up ahead had caused this tie-up might not end up the only fatality.
His would be logged as a traffic statistic and history would record
the others as homicides, but the teleology would be the same:
death by mechanical invention.
Today, however, I see a well-groomed young man in a Range Rover
and white shirt and tie with a cell-phone to his ear. He is gesturing
with casual nods of the head and small waves of the hand, controlled,
maybe practiced, for the edification of an audience of admirers
in other motor vehicles. Cellular telephones are not yet universal
in urban traffic, and there still are those who are impressed
at the sight of a yuppie doing business at 80 miles an hour. Or
at a standstill.
In the van ahead and two lanes to the right I can see the flicker
of a television screen. Mom and the kids heading home from soccer
practice are catching a film while the Phoenix Metro Fire Department
works at clearing the wreck from the freeway up ahead.
We know, thanks to the primitive device of radio, and the just-slightly-less-archaic
gimmick, the traffi-copter, that it's a roll-over accident clear
the hell up at Cave Creek Road we have to thank for our current,
10-mile backup on I-17. I won't be making it to Jones' house in
Flagstaff in time for supper, as advertised. Thanks to cellular
technology, which has largely replaced the older, more colorful
and more populist CB (for Citizens' Band) radio, I have moments
ago learned that at least one person has died in this rollover.
I heard this from a truck driver who opened the window of his
Volvo for a whiff of that wonderful diesel smoke he couldn't get
in his state-of-the-art, climate-controlled, sealed operator's
module. You didn't know Volvo had gone into diesel big-rigs? Oh
yes. Very aerodynamic and swoopy: Yuppiedom hits the truckstops
of America.
Anyway, this trucker heard from another trucker up ahead that
there was a body covered with a sheet being loaded onto a DPS
helicopter. So it's going to be a while before all of these weary
road warriors get wherever it is--or was--they imagined getting
before the death of the unknown soldier. Good thing we've got
car phones and TV sets and battery-powered video games and my
little laptop computer here to occupy what otherwise would be
wasted, frustrated, potentially murderous time while we wait for
the city-state to clear the road-kill off the highway, so we can
get on with our modern lives.
Which brings me to an indelicate question:
How much inconvenience is a human life worth?
I'm not talking in spiritualistic, political, bullshit platitudes
about the sanctity of the single soul--the sort of flowery excuse
that led us into World War I over the assassination of Archduke
Ferdinand at Sarajevo. I'm talking finite, quantifiable numbers--in
terms of man-hours lost, dollars of potential earnings frittered
away, tons of particulate pollution puked into the Phoenix atmosphere--that
we can run through our computers to come up with coolly calculated
bottom line that will decide for us when to call out the converted
snow-plows and simply squeegee the blood and guts and mangled
metal to the side of the road let the rest of us get on with our
diurnal commute.
Obviously this is not the sort of question we dare ask of anyone
who has recently lost a relative or friend to a traffic accident
within the last, oh, couple of weeks. It is by this same logic
that we disallow mothers and fathers, husbands and wives, from
sitting on juries to try accused murderers of loved ones. Emotions
of this order constitute a hindrance to rational decision-making.
And clearly, if we are to continue to live, work and play together
in increasingly congested societies of mechanized men and women,
we're going to have to make some hard decisions as to when polite
ritual overcomes practical sense. Hey, we know that was a human
being, moments ago, that is now a mere half-octave-lower adjustment
in the tone of the smart-ass traffic reporter ("I'm H. Geeee
Listiak, talkin' on the Camel...") and that former person
was some mother's son, but keeping 15,000 still-living commuters
sitting on their dead-asses for a hour while their frozen yogurt
melts and their favorite TV shows fall in the forest without them
to witness and make it all noisy, isn't going to bring the Loved
One back amongst the quick.
So howsabout let's just clear the table for now, and send a busboy
back after dark with a carry-out container, to be delivered to
the surviving family members. I know it's cold, but this is a
hard-old world we've created for ourselves, and by consciously
choosing to live in places like Phoenix, we have made our Faustian
bargain. We can't have it both ways.
So what's it to be, Phoenix? America? Planet Earth? Do we want
free-flowing traffic? Or are we going to keep on whining about
death with dignity?
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