by David Partington
Water thundered over the falls, plummeting nearly two hundred feet into the Niagara Gorge below—but so far as three oblivious teens were concerned, it needn’t have bothered.
“They’d rather stare at the little rectangles in their hands,” said Alexander to his elderly aunt Charlotte.
“It’s like they’re transfixed,” said Charlotte.
The falls were soon out of sight as the zeppelin, bound for Toronto, set out across the open water of Lake Ontario. With the scenery no longer of interest, most passengers now retired to the spacious indoor cabin where drinks were being served, leaving the three teens to read their paperback books in peace. Removing his top hat—it was 1902—Alexander led his Aunt Charlotte to a table amid much chatter and clinking of glasses.
Neither had ever been higher than a six-story building, and both were of an age that harbored doubts about anything new. Had the price of tickets not been so attractive, they would doubtless have taken a ferry.
No sooner were they seated than a fresh-faced young woman in a sailor dress stepped up to their table and introduced herself. “Good afternoon. My name is Alice. Would either of you like something to drink?”
For an unchaperoned female to provide her given name to complete strangers seemed rather forward—and her question was downright impertinent.
“Well, of all the nerve!” snapped Charlotte.
Realizing that the woman was taking orders, Alexander gave a bark of nervous laughter, then asked for two glasses of Madeira.
As soon as Alice turned to leave, Charlotte remarked on the blue-and-white sailor dress she was wearing. “I suppose it’s good for business to have her sashaying around in that get-up. With no corset and no padding about the hips or posterior, it doesn’t leave much to the imagination.”
Alexander held up his monocle to get a better look as she walked away. “It’s au naturel, as they say.”
The two travelers, dressed in classic black, now shifted their attention to their fellow passengers.
“Look at those lost souls,” said Charlotteof a couple in their late forties standing with drinks in their hands. “His mustache looks like something that washed up on a beach.”
“Fellows like that are usually wholesalers or card sharks,” said Alexander with assurance.
“And look at his lady friend. No—don’t look!” But it was too late; they’d been caught staring. “Oh, dear, now they’re looking at us.”
“Ye gods—they’re coming over.”
The couple—a Mr. and Mrs. Powell—asked Alexander and Charlotte if they could join them.
Alexander glanced sideways at his aunt. “We’d be delighted,” he said, standing up and giving Mr. Powell a hearty handshake. They sat down with their drinks, and pleasantries were exchanged. Though the Powells were significantly younger than him, Alexander tried to keep an open mind regarding their character.
“I gather the young miss has taken your order,” said Mrs. Powell. She looked across the cabin at Alice and scowled. “Her little sailor hat may go with the dress, but does she have to wear it at such a provocative angle?”
“She’s a saucy little minx,” agreed Alexander.
“And what about the young fop she’s talking to,” said Mr. Powell. “Talk about moral decay!”
The fop in question swizzled a stick in his lime rickey and gazed into Alice’s eyes as they spoke.
“What’s he trying to prove with that sports coat?” demanded Charlotte. “If those stripes aren’t a desperate bid for attention, I don’t know what is. Surely, she can’t find him attractive.”
The young man reached for Alice’s hand, but she yanked it away and, picking up her tray, returned to work.
“I’d wear a sports coat like that,” said Mr. Powell.He paused before adding, “If I were a raving lunatic.”
“Maybe he’s dressed like that for a daguerreotype,” said Charlotte. The Powells looked at her blankly. “You know—a photograph.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Alexander.
“Of course,” Charlotte went on, “In my day, we didn’t have photographs. We made drawings and used our memories.”
“Good exercise for the mind,” said Mrs. Powell, leaning back so Alice could place two small glasses of Madeira on their table.
“Oh, but once there were photographs, the young people changed,” said Charlotte. “I saw it happen! Suddenly, all they cared about was showing off for the camera. I recall one young gentleman who, not content with gallivanting around in a high collar, had himself photographed and then allowed his likeness to be published in a newspaper!”
“Without considering the fact that no respectable firm would ever hire a dandy,” said Alexander.
“Tell that to Mr. Striped-Sports-Coat over there,” said Mr. Powell. “The only goal of these people is to shock. And, of course, once their picture appears in the newspaper, it’s out there in the world.” He stretched out his arms for emphasis. “There’s no taking it back.”
“And as for the young ladies,” said Charlotte in a hushed voice, looking from side to side, “many of them know no better than to be photographed with the painted lips and eyes of a Jezebel.”
“Thereby ruining any chance of making a good match,” put in Mrs. Powell.
“Of course, this youthful fascination with newspapers isn’t limited to pictures,” Charlotte continued. “They all want to be mentioned in the society column too—as if it were a badge of honor.”
“Everyone caught up in the ‘social whirl,’ as it were,”said Mr. Powell, lifting his glass with his pinky finger extended.
“They all believe they should be famous; that’s the problem,” said Alexander. “Every nincompoop who invents a new dance step wants to be hailed as the next Edison or Graham Bell.”
“Now, don’t get me started on the telephone!” said Charlotte, setting her glass down sharply.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” said Mrs. Powell. “Nowadays, whole families sit around the dining room table in silence, just waiting for the infernal bell to ring so they can talk to somebody else.”
Mr. Powell’s eyes blazed. “People embrace all these new inventions without thinking through the consequences. I heard of a minister who was in the middle of a sermon when he had to excuse himself to answer a call from a man selling farm machinery.”
“Lord have mercy,” said Charlotte, clasping a hand to her bosom.
“But that isn’t the worst of it,” said Alexander. “Every year, they publish all the telephone numbers in a ‘directory’ so that every shady character in town can see your name, number, and street address. They’re keeping track of your every move.”
“I suppose the young people feel the need to advertise to their friends that they have the latest gadget,” said Mrs. Powell.
“Yes,” said Alexander, “but they fail to consider that a burglar can simply call the numbers in the directory until they find someone who’s not at home, then they can go over to their house and steal their belongings!”
Stepping up with a tray, Alice collected their empty glasses and informed them that the zeppelin was now approaching Toronto. Thanks to a favorable tailwind, the arrival would be slightly ahead of schedule.
The foursome went back outside to admire the view from the deck along with the rest of the passengers—except for the three teens who, having spent the entire trip outside engrossed in their books, now hurried into the quiet cabin to continue reading.
At first, Toronto was just a thin line on the horizon, only distinguished by a few belching smokestacks. But within minutes, passengers were flying two hundred feet above the city’s sparkling harbor, where sailboats and ferries bobbed.
“I suppose those ships will be the last of their kind,” sighed Mr. Powell. “It’s the end of sea travel as we know it.”
“All the captains will have to learn to fly zeppelins,” said Alexander, peering over the brass railing.
“They’ll probably drain the lakes,” said Mrs. Powell. “Keeping them filled would be a waste.”
After passing over a smelly brewery, some factories, and a tangled web of train tracks, the zeppelin cut its engines and drifted in silence toward a mooring mast high atop the Allied Air Travel building.
Once docking was complete, a gangplank was let down, and passengers began to disembark onto the roof.
The base of the building opened out onto a bustling street, where tickets and souvenirs could be bought. Alexander and Charlotte stepped into the throng with the Powells and other travelers, everyone talking and milling about, as Hansom cabs with sleek, black horses began to arrive.
“Altogether, not a bad experience,” said Mr. Powell, checking his pocket watch with satisfaction.
Mrs. Powell appeared resigned. “Like it or not, air travel is going to be part and parcel of this new century.”
‘”Madam,” began Alexander, halting in his tracks for dramatic effect. “This ‘new century’—the so-called ‘twentieth’—isn’t a proper century like those in the past. It’s a sham, slapped together with paper and glue. Amusing enough for children, perhaps, but not suitable for long-term use.”
As he spoke, people coming out of the building’s revolving doors were trying to get past him.
“Well, we can’t stand in the way—” said Charlotte, tugging at Alexander’s arm.
“Stand in the way of progress? I have nothing against progress per se,” said Alexander, raising a forefinger as he struck a note of caution,” but for every step we take forward, there is something we leave behind.”
“And what’s being left behind is you,old man,” said the man in the striped sports coat, shouldering past him with a suitcase.
Alexander adjusted his top hat with dignity as he glared at the departing figure.
The insolent young man now marched up to the information desk, declaring loudly that he needed to speak on a telephone. “My wife is coming to pick me up in our motorcar,” he said, surveying the crowd with a smug grin.
“Of course, sir,” said the attendant, reaching under the counter and pulling out the apparatus. A minute later, an operator had connected the young man with his wife.
“Snookums, it’s Reggie. Got here a tad early. Tailwind or some such thingamy.Anyhoo, you need to get a wiggle on and come to the station… What’s that?” Bystanders couldn’t help but listen in as he received some bad news. “Blast!” he said at length, putting the receiver back on the hook with fury in his eyes.” Can’t a fellow leave his house for even ten hours?” He began pacing and muttering under his breath, his characteristic swagger having dissipated.
As more cabs arrived, Alexander and Charlotte walked toward them, passing on their way the three teens from their flight—who were now riveted by a rack of postcards featuring photographs of Niagara Falls.
Just as the pair climbed into a carriage, the Powells rushed up.
“Did you hear?” asked Mrs. Powell breathlessly. “The man with the striped sports coat; apparently his motorcar was stolen while his wife was out walking the dog!”
“Not just the motorcar,” added Mr. Powell, “the whole house was ransacked.”
“Well, of course it was,” said Alexander with satisfaction. Looking over at Mr. Striped-Sports-Coat, he smiled and tipped his hat. “I mean, what do these people expect?”
~
Bio:
David Partington is an omnivorous mammal, most active during daylight hours. His work has been published in Bacopa Literary Review, Jake, Power Cut, The Literary Hatchet, Ruth and Anne’s Guide to Time Travel, and elsewhere.
Philosophy Note:
A short story about progress (both technological and social) and how people have been wringing their hands, perhaps needlessly, over the same concerns for over a century.
