A Long Day in the Frightful Life

It may be, through the process of adaptation to environment, that future city dwellers will be born with their heads turned sideways--the better to watch behind them. As residents and businessmen seek ways to protect their property and their lives, the soaring crime rate is perhaps matched only by the rising curve of paranoia. Already, the jungle that is the U.S. city is so crisscrossed with fear and alarm wires that the following account of a day in the life of a fictional citizen of a composite U.S. city, based on security measures that already exist, is entirely within the realm of possibility:

JOHN BRYANT fought through the fuzz of last night's sleeping pill as the 7 a.m. newsman, activated by the clock-radio, flicked through the details of yesterday's muggings, liquor-store holdups and sniper attacks. John groped for the light switch--and inadvertently brushed against the "panic button" on the $700 Tel-Guard alarm console connected to his telephone. Obediently, the system silently dialed the operator and automatically began repeating a recorded message: "Emergency at 250 Lincoln Street. Emergency at 250 Lincoln Street."

Still groggy, John shaved, dressed and went to feed the attack-trained Doberman pinscher that he had leased for $25 a week. Holding out the meat, he forgot and commanded, "Get it!"; the dog obediently bit his hand. He was still bandaging the wound when two policemen, answering the Tel-Guard summons, began pounding at his door. Fumbling frantically, John managed to undo the three locks on the door, but in the process he dropped the 7-lb. vertical steel bar from the $14.50 Police Fox lock on his foot. After apologizing profusely to the cops, he limped back inside to get his overcoat, checked to make sure that his can of Mace was in the pocket, re-locked the door and headed for the bus stop.

Ominous Click. John was already on the step of the bus when he discovered that he had nothing smaller than a $10 bill. "Off you go, Mac," ordered the driver; alarmed by a rash of bus robberies, the city had decreed that all riders must drop the exact fare into the locked fare box. Drivers were allowed to carry no cash on their person. In desperation, John stepped down and turned to a young woman on the curb to ask for change. "Miss," he began, "could you--" She let him have it with her G-G31 tear-gas device, a $24.95 gun that enfolds its target in a 12-ft. by 6-ft. cloud of tear gas and dye. Blinded, reeling, John staggered off down the street and hailed a taxi.

Slumping into the rear seat, he was still wiping his eyes when he heard an ominous click: up front, behind his bulletproof plastic shield, the driver had flicked a switch that locked both rear doors electrically to prevent passengers from taking off before paying the fare. "Where to, fella?" asked a voice from a loudspeaker overhead. John told him. The trip to the office was uneventful, until John put his $10 bill in a revolving tray in the partition and got back change for $5. When he pounded on the plastic and protested, the amplified voice informed him that he had only passed through a fiver--and that the driver was an off-duty cop. John decided to write off the $5.

Picture Payments. The rest of the morning passed peacefully enough--until shortly before noon, when John ducked out to shop for a present for his girl friend's birthday. He had spotted just the thing a few days earlier in a nearby department store: a $1.49 Protectalarm--a battery-operated siren designed to be carried in a woman's purse.

As he walked through the store, John was followed every step of the way by closed-circuit TV cameras that transmitted his image to a monitoring room upstairs. He found the Protectalarm, pulled out his checkbook, and waited patiently while a new clerk figured out how to work the still camera that photographed every customer paying by check. In her confusion, the clerk wrapped the package without first removing the tags. One of them was a wafer, specially radiated to set off a Knogo sonic alarm in the doorway of the store. John had barely reached the sidewalk when he was surrounded by detectives who accused him of shoplifting.

By the time the tearful clerk admitted her mistake and the stony looks turned to embarrassed smiles, John decided to call it a day. Exhausted, nerves frazzled, he walked home--carefully skirting shadows. He took a trifle longer than usual to open his triple-locked door. The delay proved unfortunate. Before John could slither inside his urban fortress, three thugs lurking in the vestibule relieved him of his wallet, his watch and his girl friend's Protectalarm. Then, for good measure, they gave him a whiff of his own Mace.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.