Orson Scott Card - Freeway Games

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FREEWAY GAMES

Orson Scott Card

Except for Donner Pass, everything on the road between San

Francisco and Salt Lake City was boring. Stanley had driven the

road a dozen deadly times until he was sure he knew Nevada by

heart: an endless road winding among hills covered with sagebrush.

“When God got through making scenery,” Stanley often said, “there

was a lot of land left over in Nevada, and God said, ‘Aw, to hell

with it,’ and that’s where Nevada’s been ever since.”

Today Stanley was relaxed, there was no rush for him to get back to

Salt Lake, and so, to ease the boredom, he began playing freeway

games.

He played Blue Angels first. On the upslope of the Sierra Nevadas

he found two cars riding side by side at fifty miles an hour. He

pulled his Datsun 260Z into formation beside them. At fifty miles

an hour they cruised along, blocking all the lanes of the freeway.

Traffic began piling up behind them.

The game was successful – the other two drivers got into the spirit

of the thing. When the middle car drifted forward, Stanley eased

back to stay even with the driver on the right, so that they drove

down the freeway in an arrowhead formation. They made diagonals,

funnels; danced around each other for half an hour; and whenever

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FREEWAY GAMES

one of them pulled slightly ahead, the frantically angry drivers

behind them jockeyed behind the leading car.

Finally, Stanley tired of the game, despite the fun of the honks and

flashing lights behind them. He honked twice, and waved jauntily to

the driver beside him, then pressed on the accelerator and leaped

forward at seventy miles an hour, soon dropping back to sixty as

dozens of other cars, their drivers trying to make up for lost time (or

trying to compensate for long confinement), passed by going much

faster. Many paused to drive beside him, honking, glaring, and

making obscene gestures. Stanley grinned at them all.

He got bored again east of Reno.

This time he decided to play Follow. A yellow AM Hornet was just

ahead of him on the highway, going fifty-eight to sixty miles per

hour. A good speed. Stanley settled in behind the car, about three

lengths behind, and followed. The driver was a woman, with dark

hair that danced in the erratic wind that came through her open

windows. Stanley wondered how long it would take her to notice

that she was being followed.

Two songs on the radio (Stanley’s measure of time while

travelling), and halfway through a commercial for hair spray – and

she began to pull away. Stanley prided himself on quick reflexes.

She didn’t even gain a car length; even when she reached seventy,

he stayed behind her.

He hummed along with an old Billy Joel song even as the Reno

radio station began to fade. He hunted for another station, but found

only country and western, which he loathed. So in silence he

followed as the woman in the Hornet slowed down.

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Orson Scott Card - Freeway Games

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