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      A Cure for Suicide

      Jesse Ball 9781101870129


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Charles Howard had the feel of a gigantic onrushing machine: You had to either climb on or leap out of the way. He would sweep into a room, working a cigarette in his fingers, and people would trail him like pilot fish. They couldn’t help themselves. Fifty-eight years old in 1935, Howard was a tall, glowing man in a big suit and a very big Buick. But it wasn’t his physical bearing that did it. He lived on a California ranch so huge that a man could take a wrong turn on it and be lost forever, but it wasn’t his circumstances either. Nor was it that he spoke loud or long; the surprise of the man was his understatement, the quiet and kindly intimacy of his acquaintance. What drew people to him was something intangible, an air about him. There was a certain inevitability to Charles Howard, an urgency radiating from him that made people believe that the world was always going to bend to his wishes.

On an afternoon in 1903, long before the big cars and the ranch and all

the money, Howard began his adulthood with only that air of destiny and

21 cents in his pocket. He sat in the swaying belly of a transcontinental

train, snaking west from New York. He was twenty-six, handsome, gentle-manly, with a bounding imagination. Back then he had a lot more hair than

anyone who knew him later would have guessed. Years in the saddles of

military-school horses had taught him to carry his six-foot-one-inch frame

straight up.

He was eastern born and bred, but he had a westerner’s restlessness.

He had tried to satisfy it by enlisting in the cavalry for the Spanish-American War, and though he became a skilled horseman, thanks to bad

timing and dysentery he never got out of Camp Wheeler in Alabama. After

his discharge, he got a job in New York as a bicycle mechanic, took up

competitive bicycle racing, got married, and had two sons. It seems to have been a good life, but the East stifled Howard. His mind never seemed to

settle down. His ambitions had fixed upon the vast new America on the

other side of the Rockies. That day in 1903 he couldn’t resist the impulse

anymore. He left everything he’d ever known behind, promised his wife

Fannie May he’d send for her soon, and got on the train.

He got off in San Francisco. His two dimes and a penny couldn’t carry

him far, but somehow he begged and borrowed enough money to open a

little bicycle-repair shop on Van Ness Avenue downtown. He tinkered

with the bikes and waited for something interesting to come his way.

It came in the form of a string of distressed-looking men who began appearing at his door. Eccentric souls with too much money in their pockets

and far too much time on their hands, they had blown thick wads of cash

on preposterous machines called automobiles. Some of them were feeling

terribly sorry about it.

The horseless carriage was just arriving in San Francisco, and its debut

was turning into one of those colorfully unmitigated disasters that bring

misery to everyone but historians. Consumers were staying away from the

“devilish contraptions” in droves. The men who had invested in them

were the subjects of cautionary tales, derision, and a fair measure of public loathing. In San Francisco in 1903, the horse and buggy was not going the

way of the horse and buggy.

For good reason. The automobile, so sleekly efficient on paper, was in

practice a civic menace, belching out exhaust, kicking up storms of dust,

becoming hopelessly mired in the most innocuous-looking puddles, tying

up horse traffic, and raising an earsplitting cacophony that sent buggy

horses fleeing. Incensed local lawmakers responded with monuments to

legislative creativity. The laws of at least one town required automobile

drivers to stop, get out, and fire off Roman candles every time horse-drawn vehicles came into view. Massachusetts tried and, fortunately, failed to

mandate that cars be equipped with bells that would ring with each revo-

lution of the wheels. In some towns police were authorized to disable passing cars with ropes, chains, wires, and even bullets, so long as they took

reasonable care to avoid gunning down the drivers. San Francisco didn’t

escape the legislative wave. Bitter local officials pushed through an ordinance banning automobiles from the Stanford campus and all tourist

areas, effectively exiling them from the city.

Nor were these the only obstacles. The asking price for the cheapest

automobile amounted to twice the $500 annual salary of the average citizen— some cost three times that much—and all that bought you was four

wheels, a body, and an engine. “Accessories” like bumpers, carburetors,

and headlights had to be purchased separately. Just starting the thing,

through hand cranking, could land a man in traction. With no gas stations,

owners had to lug five-gallon fuel cans to local drugstores, filling them for

60 cents a gallon and hoping the pharmacist wouldn’t substitute benzene

for gasoline. Doctors warned women away from automobiles, fearing slow

suffocation in noxious fumes. A few adventurous members of the gentler

sex took to wearing ridiculous “windshield hats,” watermelon-sized fabric

balloons, equipped with little glass windows, that fit over the entire head,

leaving ample room for corpulent Victorian coiffures. Navigation was another nightmare. The first of San Francisco’s road signs were only just

being erected, hammered up by an enterprising insurance underwriter

who hoped to win clients by posting directions into the countryside,

whose drivers retreated for automobile “picnic parties” held out of the

view of angry townsfolk.

Finally, driving itself was something of a touch-and-go pursuit. The

first automobiles imported to San Francisco had so little power that they

rarely made it up the hills. The grade of Nineteenth Avenue was so daunting for the engines of the day that watching automobiles straining for the

top became a local pastime. The automobiles’ delicate constitutions and

general faintheartedness soon became a source of scorn. One cartoon from the era depicted a wealthy couple standing on a roadside next to its dearly

departed vehicle. The caption read, “The Idle Rich.”

Where San Franciscans saw an urban nuisance, Charles Howard saw

opportunity. Automobile-repair shops hadn’t been created yet—and

would have made little sense anyway as few were fool enough to buy a car.

Owners had no place to go when their cars expired. A bicycle repairman

was the closest thing to an auto mechanic available, and Howard’s shop

was conveniently close to the neighborhoods of wealthy car owners.

Howard hadn’t been in town long before the owners began showing up on

his doorstep.

Howard had a weakness for lost causes. He accepted the challenge,

poked around in the cars, and figured out how to fix them. Soon he was

showing up at the primitive automobile races held around the city. Before

long, he was driving in them. The first American race, run around

Evanston, Illinois, had been held only eight years before, with the winning

car ripping along at the dizzying average speed of seven and a half miles

per hour. But by 1903, automotive horsepower had greatly improved—

one car averaged 65.3 mph in a cross-European race that season—making

the races a good spectacle. It also made for astronomical casualty rates.

The European race, for one, turned into such a godawful bloodletting that

it was ultimately halted due to “too many fatalities.”

Howard was beginning to see these contraptions as the instrument of

his ambition. Taking an audacious step, he booked a train east, got off in

Detroit, and somehow talked his way into a meeting with Will Durant,

chief of Buick Automobiles and future founder of General Motors.

Howard told Durant that he wanted to be a part of the industry, troubled

though it was. Durant liked what he saw and hired him to set up dealerships

and recruit dealers. Howard returned to San Francisco, opened the

Pioneer Motor Company on Buick’s behalf, and hired a local man to manage

it. But on a checkup visit, he was dismayed to find that the manager

was focusing his sales effort not on Buicks but on ponderous Thomas Flyers. Howard went back to Detroit and told Durant that he could do better.

Durant was sold. Howard walked away with the Buick franchise for all of

San Francisco. It was 1905, and he was just twenty-eight years old.

Howard returned to San Francisco by train with three Buicks in tow.

By some accounts, he first housed his automobiles in the parlor of his old

bicycle-repair shop on Van Ness Avenue before moving to a modest building

on Golden Gate Avenue, half a block from Van Ness. He brought Fannie

May out to join him. With two young boys to feed, and two more soon

to follow, Fannie May must have been alarmed by her husband’s career

choice. Two years had done little to pacify the San Franciscan hostility for

the automobile. Howard failed to sell a single car.

From the Trade Paperback edition.Copyright © 2002 by Laura Hillenbrand

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Random House
Hillenbrand, Laura

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