American Dreams by John Jakes Read Free Book Online

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    machines, and he loved machinery. Autos were no longer jokes, as they had been at first; now they were symbols of power and wealth -- rolling, snorting, smoking marvels of the new century.
    Still, not everyone liked them. Dr. Wilson of Princeton had stated publicly that they were frivolous and ostentatious toys only the rich could afford. Thus they promoted unrest, socialism, and anarchy among the poor. Didn't that just prove Wilson was a stuffy old bore?
    Of course, autos were as yet far from reliable. Likely as not, you'd see one sitting broken down instead of moving. Wandering a country road in Ohio, he'd come on a butter yellow Stanley mired in a muddy ditch. A farmer with his mule team hitched to the frame struggled to haul it out.
    Call volunteered to push on a rear wheel. The farmer prodded his reluctant mules; brown ooze flew out behind the tires. The Stanley regained the road, and Carl's grin shone in his mask of mud.
    He often dreamed of sitting behind the wheel of an auto, driving fast.
    Back in Indianapolis, where he'd worked for three months earlier this year, the dream had become feverish. He hadn't stepped inside a legitimate theater since he was a boy, but he bought a gallery seat for a musical play called The Vanderbilt Cup. It celebrated the great Long Island road race started in 1904 by the socialite William K Vanderbilt. The show was touring with its original Broadway star, race driver Barney Oldfield.
    Oldfield was a former Ohio bike racer who had taken the wheel of an auto for the first time in 1903. He drove Henry Ford's big '999' against the favorite, the 'Bullet', owned by Cleveland auto maker Alexander Winton.
    '999' won.
    Barney Oldfield wasn't much of an actor, but he gave a convincing performance in the climactic scene in the second act. Two racecars, the Peerless Blue Streak and Barney's Peerless Green Dragon, raced side by 28
    Dreamers
    side on treadmills while painted scenery flew by behind them. The cars spewed smoke and sparks and blue exhaust flame in a frighteningly realistic way. Barney wore his familiar forest green driving suit, green leather helmet, and goggles. The cast cheered him on. Naturally he won. He was the uncrowned king of fast driving, and he wasn't being paid two thousand a month to lose.
    It was the first time Carl had seen Barney Oldfield, who was at the height of his fame. It was also the first and only time he saw what his sister meant about the magic of theater. The stage spectacle thrilled him.
    Carl's fever heated up again when Reeves said, 'Two fellows in a Fiat are running practice laps for a hundred-mile race the end of the week. Go Page 37

    have a look.'
    He ran out into the pale winter sunshine, wove between stable buildings to the track, where an engine roared in a cloud of tan dust. He stepped on the lower rail, dust settling in his hair and on his shoulders as the racecar sped toward the turn. It resembled half a tin can set forward on a chassis with unprotected wheels. The Fiat was right-hand drive, like all cars on the road. The driver and his riding mechanic perched in bucket seats, eating dust and wind. Each wore goggles and fancy gauntlets. Carl dreamed of being the man gripping the wheel.
    On the back stretch the Fiat gathered speed. Carl's jaw dropped. 'My Lord, they must be doing forty or fifty'
    He hung on the rail as the Fiat slewed through the turns, leaving a great rooster tail of dust behind. He watched it for nearly an hour. To Reeves, afterward, he said, 'I've got to learn to drive. I don't know where, or how, but I'm going to do it, you can count on that.'
    6 Paul's Pictures
    Nicky the chauffeur was waiting with the umbrella when Fritzi and her mother left Restaurant Heidelberg. On the drive home Fritzi said little. Obviously her mother was upset about her decision.
    The Crown mansion on South Michigan was an enormous Victorian castle, twenty-six rooms, twice remodeled and forever symbolic of its owner's success in the brewery trade. Joe