"Everyone please find a seat," the instructor says. "You'll find there's one for each of you. Today's class is full, so don't bother trying to find a secluded spot. Please complete the form in front of you, then handcuff yourself to your desk--and no cheating please."
Handcuffs? Everyone exchanges glances with each other, not sure they've heard correctly.
"My associates will be passing amongst you to ensure you comply with this request," the instructor continues. "Thank you for your cooperation."
The teacher's apes, ten of them, single out individuals and shove them into chairs and cuff them to their desks to illustrate the point. You find a seat quick and snatch up the handcuff that is fastened to the table's tubular frame before anyone gets the chance to manhandle you. The steel cuff is cold against your wrist and you don't seem to possess the body heat to take the chill off the metal.
You try to complete the single page form, but your pen stalls over the third question. For the life of you, you can't remember your Nissan's license plate number. Two apes slam a man into the seat in front of you and the impact rocks the floorboards under your feet. Inspiration strikes and you scribble in the answer.
"I'm Charles Matthews and welcome to this special edition of traffic school. This class is special because you people just don't get it about traffic safety."
About half the class laughs at the comment. You aren't one of them.
"You can cut the laughter because you're not funny," Matthews snaps.
The realization that something unusual is happening silences the class. Matthews has everyone's full attention.
"All of you here are on at least your fifth major traffic violation. Fines and suspended licenses haven't worked on you, but this time you're going to learn the error of your ways. Don't think for one second this is going to be like all those other tedious traffic schools you've blown your Saturdays on. This one is different and this one will make a difference."
Not everyone has gotten the message. There are quite a few exaggerated gestures and grunts. One person coughs and says, "Bullshit."
"You can roll your eyes and mutter naughty words under your breath, but I can assure you that all of you will change your driving habits for the better by the time you leave this room today."
Someone braver than Bullshit Man says, "What a crock."
"No, sir, you're wrong. This isn't a crock, as you quaintly put it. What's your name, sir?"
"Markus Conrad."
"To prove it, Markus, I will give you a hundred dollars if you still feel the same way at the end of this session."
With practiced ease, Matthews pulls out his wallet and removes a bill. Obviously, this is a stunt he must pull with every class.
"Look, there it is--a nice crisp, shiny one hundred dollar bill to show my good faith as part of this wager."
"And what do I have to give you?"
"All I ask for is your honest opinion at the end of the class. Deal?"
Conrad shrugs. You can tell already this class isn't going to work on him. He's going to be back here in six months listening to the same spiel.
"Actually, this bet that I have with this gentleman," Matthews points to Conrad, "is the crux of what I am here to teach you today. Bad driving is all about probabilities. When you break the rules of the road, you are really saying, 'Can I get away with this? Will I be caught?'"
The class has settled and people are listening. You hope there won't be any more interruptions because you just want to get out of there.
"And the answer is yes, you will be caught. Just look at yourselves if you don't believe me. You're stuck here again wasting another summer's day.
"Okay, let's move on.
"The more intelligent of you will have realized that there are one hundred of you here."
You hadn't noticed, but Matthews is right. There are a hundred desks, ten rows by ten columns.
"There is a very good reason why. This helps me illustrate the probabilities of bad driving with a sample of a hundred.
"What percentage of drivers will complete their entire driving career without an incident? And when I say incident I mean a ticket, a fender bender, personal injury or death. C'mon, what percentage?"
The classroom environment must be having an effect, because a woman puts her hand up. That makes you smile. Matthews nods at her to answer.
"Ten percent?"
"Wrong, ma'am. I appreciate your optimism, but you're wrong. The days of someone saying they've driven fifty years without a blemish on their driving record are long gone. Again, if you want any greater proof, just look at yourselves."
Matthews' explanation hasn't gone down well. Most people have taken this fact as a trick question. You can't help agreeing with them. Statistics are so easily manipulated.
"Okay, let's kick things up a notch," Matthews says. "Anyone care to venture the odds of a fender bender in this country?"
No one is willing to play stooge this time and everyone keeps quiet. You sort of like Matthews' style but at the same time its pisses you off. You're being treated like a kid, but maybe that's the point.
Matthews smirks. "Looks like I'm having an effect on you people already. Good. I'm impressed. Mr. Conrad, looks as if I'm going to be keeping my hundred."
Conrad grunts.
Matthews goes up to the white board and scribbles the answer. He stands back for everyone to see. "For the record, the odds of a fender bender in this country are ninety-five percent. That means only five of you in this room won't take a trip to a body shop during your driving career. Anyone care to differ with that statistic?"
A couple of hands go up. A third hand goes up, falters then drops.
"Only two of you. Is that because you two haven't had an accident?"
Matthews receives a pair of confirming nods.
"Two out of a hundred. Just proves my point, doesn't it? To ram that point home, I want to show you what ninety-five percent looks like. For five of you, you'll find a red dot on the top right hand corner of your desk."
Everyone glances at their desk to see. You check yours and find that you don't have a red dot.
"Will those people please raise their hands?"
Five hands go up.
"Thank you. You're the lucky winners. You five aren't going to have your cars trashed by Chad and Luis and their Louisville sluggers here--but the rest of you, I'm afraid, aren't so lucky. Gentlemen, please set about your business."
The room erupts. People are shouting and screaming at Matthews. You jump to your feet, but the handcuff jerks you down, cutting into your wrist.
Chad and Luis collect the forms from the desks of the five winners and pick up baseball bats on the way out. Your classmates try to stop them, but they easily shrug off the angry hands. They leave the classroom and the buckling of metal and shattering of glass begins.
"Settle down please," Matthews bellows. "Stop your bellyaching and start learning. This is what bad driving costs. Is what I'm telling you sinking in?"
No one responds to Matthews' question. People are pouting and grumbling.
Your heart is pounding against your ribcage. This is outrageous and unbelievable, but there's nothing you can do so you swallow your anger for now. You'll be taking the matter up with the cops after this is over.
"Now, let's take a look at personal injury," Matthews says. "Anybody want to have a shot at the percentage of drivers will suffer a physical injury accident during their driving career?"
No one answers, not even Bullshit Man or Conrad. The violence dished out on the vehicles has had its desired effect. No one knows what to expect and no one wants to prompt Matthews' wrath.
"Not answering isn't going to change the stats. Okay, no one brave enough, that's cool. The answer is one in three. A third of you are going to suffer a personal injury--and right now. To be exact, the people sitting in the middle third of the room. My men will be coming amongst you now. Do not impede their beating, it will only make the punishment worse. If you comply you're likely t
o suffer only a concussion or a broken arm at the worst. Piss them off and they'll leave you a paraplegic."
Immediately, your heart rate spikes then settles just as quickly. You're not in the middle third--you miss that dubious honor by two seats. You whirl in your seat to fixate on the middle of the room as eight men wield bats and deliver punches to your classmates. There's no mercy shown. Women aren't shown any favoritism and get it just as hard as the men. A woman sitting two seats over from you tries to claw at one of the thugs' faces. He fights off her attack with a bone-crunching punch to the jaw. Something strikes the floor to the right of your foot. It's the woman's tooth, glued to the floor by a glob of blood and saliva. The thug decides that's enough for the woman and moves on.
You and the other unharmed people don't protest the barbaric beatings. You're just thankful you aren't on the receiving end of them. You watch blood ooze from broken skin and listen to the cries and pleas. The beatings end after a few short minutes, leaving people slumped over their desks and you feeling just as damaged as your fellow classmates.
Matthews shows no emotion. You can tell he's not getting any pleasure from this, but at the same time, he's not bothered by the atrocities. He simply waits for normalcy to resume.
"Okay, now that the crying has subsided, we'll carry on. Don't worry folks, we're nearly finished here. Only one thing left to discuss and that's the chances of a person being killed behind the wheel. Does anyone want to hazard a guess how many Americans die each year in road related accidents? No? Well, I'll tell you. It's fifty-five thousand. That's how many died during the eight years of the Vietnam War and that's a national tragedy, but what we lost in eight years over there, we lose every year here. On 9/11, the nation witnessed over 3,000 deaths in one day and our country went into mourning. Imagine 9/11 happening every twenty days and then you have an idea of how many Americans will die on the road this year. Does anyone feel like we've lost something now?"
The figures frighten you. Fifty-five thousand is a stadium full of people watching a football game. You couldn't imagine all those people being dead at once. The statistics haven't scared you. Matthews saying them has. There's a point to this diatribe and you can't help fearing it.
"So what do fifty-five thousand deaths boil down to as your odds of surviving your driving career? It's one in a hundred."
Matthews walks over to the giant roulette wheel. He pulls it to the center of the room and stares at it proudly.
"You'll have noticed this game show wheel here. It's a wheel of misfortune. The numbers on the wheel correspond with the numbers on your desks. Let's spin the wheel and see who's going to be unlucky."
Matthews puts his full weight behind the spinning of the wheel. It revolves so fast the numbers are a blur. The clack-clack-clack of the wheel spokes snagging against the pointer that will indicate the winning number is the only sound in the room.
Clack-clack-clack. Fear seeps into you like a cold winter's day. You know something bad is going to happen. You see it in Matthews' demeanor. He's resigned himself to a prescribed inevitability and there's not a thing you can do to stop it.
Clack-clack-clack. The wheel slows, but you silently urge it to continue. You don't care if you stay here for an eternity, you just don't want that wheel to stop turning. But your desire goes unsatisfied. The wheel slows to the speed where you can see the numbers clearly. The pointer has a real slowing effect now. The wheel won't make another revolution.
Clack. Clack. Clack. The wheel stops.
"It's unlucky twenty-two," Matthews says reading the number off.
You slam your eyes shut. You don't have to check the number taped to your desk to know.
"You're the one in a hundred."
You can't bear to open your eyes.
"What's your name, number twenty-two?"
It takes a moment, but you open your eyes and answer.
Matthews retrieves a pistol from a small desk against the wall and approaches you. Someone gasps. Everyone else holds their breath. He hasn't explained what the gun is for but explanations aren't necessary.
You plead and stammer. You can change your ways if given the chance. Matthews acknowledges your contrition and smiles in an attempt to comfort you, but it only has the opposite effect.
"Please stop fighting the restraint. Like I said, bad driving is all about probabilities and the odds have worked against you this time. Look on the bright side, you graduate and you can't harm anyone else, but you don't get to go home like everyone else. Unfortunately, you're going to have a head-on with a bullet from my .45." Matthews stops before you and presses the pistol against your forehead. "I have to ask you something. Have you learned something today?"
"Yes," you answer. "Yes, I have."
"Good," Matthews says and pulls the trigger.
Simon Wood
Simon Wood is an ex-racecar driver, a licensed pilot and an occasional private investigator. His short fiction has garnered him an Anthony Award and a CWA Dagger Award nomination. His titles include, Working Stiffs, Accidents Waiting to Happen, Paying the Piper, Terminated and We All Fall Down. As Simon Janus, he's the author of The Scrubs and Road Rash. His upcoming books are Did Not Finish and The Fall Guy. Curious people can learn more at www.simonwood.net
The Night is an Ally
by Scott Nicholson
It was July 12, 1942, and the sky over Jozefow had broken with high clouds under a sun the color of a blood blister.
First Lieutenant Heinz Wolfram exited the train at Sternschanze station as the cattle doors wheeled open with a dozen rusty shrieks, allowing the reserve policemen to exit from the same stinking cars that had transported Jews to Berkinau and Belzec. The effort to make Lublin judenfrei had taken over a month and had sapped the energy of Reserve Police Battalion 101. His men of Third Company were haggard, tired, and their bellies probably grumbling like his. Officers might have slightly better rations, but barely two years into the war, shortages were a staple of every rank.
"Herr Oberleutnant," said a guard on the warped wooden platform, raising his arm with a brisk stamp of his boot heel.
Wolfram nodded to acknowledge the salute. Rear guards hadn't yet lost the crispness of their routines. "Cigarette?"
The guard smiled and Wolfram shook one from the pouch in the breast pocket of his gray tunic. He lit the guard's and then one for himself. The tobacco was Turkish, dark and sinister like the people who had cultivated it.
"Shipping juden?" Wolfram asked.
The guard smiled from his pale moon face. "Two thousand, maybe. Three. What's the difference? The trains are slow."
"Two trains per week. Globocnik's orders."
The guard looked around, comfortable in his post, the real war three hundred miles to the east. "Globocnik? I see no Globocnik." He leaned close, conspiratorially, as if they were two friends in a beer hall. "I don't even know if Globocnik is real, ja?"
Globocnik, an SS police leader, was rumored to have had personal correspondence with the Fuhrer himself. Globocnik, who had career ambitions and sought a place on Himmler's staff, had stepped up relocation efforts after a German officer had been killed during a police action against the Jews. The officer in question had died in a drunken motorcycle accident, but the German leadership had never troubled itself over accuracy when a larger purpose was served. Martyrs were cheap, Wolfram well knew.
"So it's quiet here?" Wolfram asked.
The guard shrugged. "I sleep. No one here has guns."
"Good." Wolfram drew on his cigarette as the guard sauntered to the shade of the station's long platform.
"Rest for now," Wolfram shouted at the policemen who had debarked the trains, busily wiping their brows and sipping from steel canteens. They were mostly older men, those not fit for combat but who had been pressed into some sort of duty for the Reich. Though unfit for combat, Wolfram's platoon was organized, obedient, and well-trained.
Some, like Scherr there, the fat one, were all joviality and bluster, full of the nonsense that c
ame from believing happy lies. Kleinschmidt, a sausage maker, complained bitterly about his boots and the poor quality of the field kitchen's pork. Wassen had been a journalist and spent his evenings writing letters to his family. Few of the men in Wolfram's First Company platoon thought beyond the immediate soldier's concerns of a soft bunk and dry socks.
At age 32, Wolfram had no career ambitions himself; he thought only of his wife, Frieda, in the Hamburg apartment with their four-year-old son Karl. Wolfram had headed a small family lumber business and benefited from the initial lead-up to war. When certain high-level officers began hinting that a man like Wolfram was needed by the Fatherland, he enlisted in the Reserve Police.
During 1941, Reserve Police Battalion 101 had been largely concerned with stamping out partisan uprisings and rounding up communist Russians in Czechoslovakia. Later in the year, Jews were targeted as well. Wolfram had heard reports of entire Jewish sections of cities being burned to the ground, and truckloads of Jews occasionally disappeared. But such reports were like the wind, and Wolfram had filed enough of them to know that only a fool or a zealot dared speak the truth.
Scherr, his First Sergeant, approached Wolfram as the train engine let out a long sigh of steam. The smell of coal smoke briefly obliterated the cloying animal stench that came from the cattle cars.
"Shall I issue the orders?" Scherr said all too eagerly.
"Gather the men," Wolfram said.
Scherr obeyed, no doubt promising the men a night in the barracks and the eventual arrival of rations. As the forty reservists gathered around, Wolfram looked into their faces. He was younger than most, and a good deal healthier. Less than a third were Nazi Party members, and most were from the lower orders of society: laborers, clerks, and street merchants. Some were as old as Wolfram's father, and one, Drukker, reminded Wolfram of his own youth as he looked into the hard blue eyes.
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