The Pedestrian by Ray Bradbury

Toenteroutintothatsilencethatwasthecityateighto'clockofamistyeveninginNovember,toput
yourfeetuponthatbucklingconcretewalk,tostepovergrassyseamsandmakeyourway,handsin
pockets,throughthesilences,thatwaswhatMr.LeonardMeadmostdearlylovedtodo.Hewould
standuponthecornerofanintersectionandpeerdownlongmoonlitavenuesofsidewalkinfour
directions,decidingwhichwaytogo,butitreallymadenodifference;hewasaloneinthisworldof
A.D.2053,orasgoodasalone,andwithafinaldecisionmade,apathselected,hewouldstrideoff,
sendingpatternsoffrostyairbeforehimlikethesmokeofacigar.
Sometimeshewouldwalkforhoursandmilesandreturnonlyatmidnighttohishouse.Andonhis
wayhewouldseethecottagesandhomeswiththeirdarkwindows,anditwasnotunequaltowalking
throughagraveyardwhereonlythefaintestglimmersoffireflylightappearedinflickersbehindthe
windows.Suddengrayphantomsseemedtomanifestuponinnerroomwallswhereacurtainwasstill
undrawnagainstthenight,ortherewerewhisperingsandmurmurswhereawindowinatomblike
buildingwasstillopen.
Mr.LeonardMeadwouldpause,cockhishead,listen,look,andmarchon,hisfeetmakingnonoiseon
thelumpywalk.Forlongagohehadwiselychangedtosneakerswhenstrollingatnight,becausethe
dogsinintermittentsquadswouldparallelhisjourneywithbarkingsifheworehardheels,andlights
mightclickonandfacesappearandanentirestreetbestartledbythepassingofalonefigure,himself,
intheearlyNovemberevening.
Onthisparticulareveninghebeganhisjourneyinawesterlydirection,towardthehiddensea.There
wasagoodcrystalfrostintheair;itcutthenoseandmadethelungsblazelikeaChristmastreeinside;
youcouldfeelthecoldlightgoingonandoff,allthebranchesfilledwithinvisiblesnow.Helistenedto
thefaintpushofhissoftshoesthroughautumnleaveswithsatisfaction,andwhistledacoldquiet
whistlebetweenhisteeth,occasionallypickingupaleafashepassed,examiningitsskeletalpatternin
theinfrequentlamplightsashewenton,smellingitsrustysmell.
"Hello,inthere,"hewhisperedtoeveryhouseoneverysideashemoved."What'suptonighton
Channel4,Channel7,Channel9?Wherearethecowboysrushing,anddoIseetheUnitedStates
Cavalryoverthenexthilltotherescue?"
Thestreetwassilentandlongandempty,withonlyhisshadowmovingliketheshadowofahawkin
midcountry.Ifheclosedhiseyesandstoodverystill,frozen,hecouldimaginehimselfuponthe
centerofaplain,awintry,windlessArizonadesertwithnohouseinathousandmiles,andonlydry
riverbeds,thestreets,forcompany.
"Whatisitnow?"heaskedthehouses,noticinghiswristwatch."EightthirtyP.M.?Timeforadozen
assortedmurders?Aquiz?Arevue?Acomedianfallingoffthestage?"
Wasthatamurmuroflaughterfromwithinamoonwhitehouse?Hehesitated,butwentonwhen
nothingmorehappened.Hestumbledoveraparticularlyunevensectionofsidewalk.Thecementwas
vanishingunderflowersandgrass.Intenyearsofwalkingbynightorday,forthousandsofmiles,he
hadnevermetanotherpersonwalking,notonceinallthattime.
Hecametoacloverleafintersectionwhichstoodsilentwheretwomainhighwayscrossedthetown.
Duringthedayitwasathunderoussurgeofcars,thegasstationsopen,agreatinsectrustlinganda
ceaselessjockeyingforpositionasthescarabbeetles,afaintincenseputteringfromtheirexhausts,
skimmedhomewardtothefardirections.Butnowthesehighways,too,werelikestreamsinadry
season,allstoneandbedandmoonradiance.

Heturnedbackonasidestreet,circlingaroundtowardhishome.Hewaswithinablockofhis
destinationwhenthelonecarturnedacornerquitesuddenlyandflashedafiercewhiteconeoflight
uponhim.Hestoodentranced,notunlikeanightmoth,stunnedbytheillumination,andthendrawn
towardit.
Ametallicvoicecalledtohim:
"Standstill.Staywhereyouare!Don'tmove!"
Hehalted.
"Putupyourhands!"
"But"hesaid.
"Yourhandsup!Orwe'llShoot!"Thepolice,ofcourse,butwhatarare,
incrediblething;inacityofthreemillion,therewasonlyonepolicecarleft,wasn'tthatcorrect?Ever
sinceayearago,2052,theelectionyear,theforcehadbeencutdownfromthreecarstoone.Crime
wasebbing;therewasnoneednowforthepolice,saveforthisonelonecarwanderingandwandering
theemptystreets.
"Yourname?"saidthepolicecarinametallicwhisper.Hecouldn'tseethemeninitforthebrightlight
inhiseyes.
"LeonardMead,"hesaid.
"Speakup!"
"LeonardMead!"
"Businessorprofession?"
"Iguessyou'dcallmeawriter."
"Noprofession,"saidthepolicecar,asiftalkingtoitself.Thelightheldhimfixed,likeamuseum
specimen,needlethrustthroughchest.
"Youmightsaythat,"saidMr.Mead.Hehadn'twritteninyears.Magazinesandbooksdidn'tsellany
more.Everythingwentoninthetomblikehousesatnightnow,hethought,continuinghisfancy.The
tombs,illlitbytelevisionlight,wherethepeoplesatlikethedead,thegrayormulticoloredlights
touchingtheirfaces,butneverreallytouchingthem.
"Noprofession,"saidthephonographvoice,hissing."Whatareyoudoingout?"
"Walking,"saidLeonardMead."Walking!"
"Justwalking,"hesaidsimply,buthisface
feltcold.
"Walking,justwalking,walking?"
"Yes,sir."
"Walkingwhere?Forwhat?"
"Walkingforair.Walkingtosee."
"Youraddress!"
"ElevenSouthSaintJamesStreet."
"Andthereisairinyourhouse,youhavean
airconditioner,Mr.Mead?""Yes."
"Andyouhaveaviewingscreeninyourhousetoseewith?"
"No."

"No?"Therewasacracklingquietthatinitselfwasanaccusation.
"Areyoumarried,Mr.Mead?"
"No."
"Notmarried,"saidthepolicevoicebehind
thefierybeam,Themoonwashighandclearamongthestarsandthehousesweregrayandsilent.
"Nobodywantedme,"saidLeonardMeadwithasmile.
"Don'tspeakunlessyou'respokento!"LeonardMeadwaitedinthecoldnight."Justwalking,Mr.
Mead?"
"Yes."
"Butyouhaven'texplainedforwhatpurpose."
"Iexplained;forair,andtosee,andjusttowalk."
"Haveyoudonethisoften?"
"Everynightforyears."
Thepolicecarsatinthecenterofthestreet
withitsradiothroatfaintlyhumming."Well,Mr.Mead,"itsaid.
"Isthatall?"heaskedpolitely.
"Yes,"saidthevoice."Here."Therewasasigh,apop.Thebackdoorofthepolicecarsprangwide.
"Getin."
"Waitaminute,Ihaven'tdoneanything!""Getin."
"Iprotest!"
"Mr.Mead."
Hewalkedlikeamansuddenlydrunk.Ashe
passedthefrontwindowofthecarhelookedin.Ashehadexpected,therewasnooneinthefrontseat,
nooneinthecaratall.
"Getin."
Heputhishandtothedoorandpeeredintothebackseat,whichwasalittlecell,alittleblackjailwith
bars.Itsmelledofrivetedsteel.Itsmelledofharshantiseptic;itsmelledtoocleanandhardand
metallic.Therewasnothingsoftthere.
"Nowifyouhadawifetogiveyouanalibi,"saidtheironvoice."But"
"Whereareyoutakingme?"
Thecarhesitated,orrathergaveafaintwhirringclick,asifinformation,somewhere,wasdropping
cardbypunchslottedcardunderelectriceyes."TothePsychiatricCenterforResearchonRegressive
Tendencies."
Hegotin.Thedoorshutwithasoftthud.Thepolicecarrolledthroughthenightavenues,flashingits
dimlightsahead.

Theypassedonehouseononestreetamomentlater,onehouseinanentirecityofhousesthatwere
dark,butthisoneparticularhousehadallofitselectriclightsbrightlylit,everywindowaloudyellow
illumination,squareandwarminthecooldarkness.
"That'smyhouse,"saidLeonardMead.Nooneansweredhim.
Thecarmoveddowntheemptyriverbed
streetsandoffaway,leavingtheemptystreetswiththeemptysidewalks,andnosoundandnomotion
alltherestofthechillNovembernight.
Bradbury,Ray(1920),isanAmericanauthorbestknownforhisfantasystoriesandsciencefiction.
Bradbury'sbestwritingeffectivelycombinesalivelyimaginationwithapoeticstyle.
CollectionsofBradbury'sstoriesincludeTheMartianChronicles(1950),TheIllustratedMan(1951),
TheOctoberCountry(1955),ISingtheBodyElectric!(1969),QuickerThantheEye(1996),andOne
MorefortheRoad(2002).HisnovelFahrenheit451(1953)describesasocietythatbanstheownership
ofbooks.HisothernovelsincludeDandelionWine(1957),apoeticstoryofaboy'ssummerinan
Illinoistownin1928;andSomethingWickedThisWayComes(1962),asuspensefulfantasyabouta
blackmagiccarnivalthatcomestoasmallMidwesterntown.Hehasalsowrittenpoetry,screenplays,
andstageplays.