LOW EXPECTATIONS

LOW EXPECTATIONS

I remember talking with Mom about the list on top of Mike Finley's television.

"Who's on this list?" Mother asked.

"Kids, trouble makers, and Mike can't play with anyone on the list."

"Well I don't think we need a list, Dick, I would trust you to decide what's right and wrong.
Do you think we need a list?"

"If we had a list," Dad said under his breath, "I know who would be at the top."

"Les, be quiet. Dick doesn't need a list."

We both knew who Dad was referring to. My only real friend was John Nevers, and I was
always ready to follow wherever he led. John was not a budding rocket scientist, nor had he
dedicated his life to Good Works. My parents certainly did not encourage our friendship.

I remember that summer day sitting with our backs resting against the lean-to shed
behind the garage. In the grass between us lay my valuable stack of well worn comic books, and
we were in deep concentration over The Blue Beetle, Superman, Green Lantern.

"SHAZAM," he said.

I didn't respond, thinking he was so wrapped up in his reading that he had unconsciously
read aloud.

"SHAZAM, SHAZAM."

When Billy Batson said this, a great zigzag piece of lightning slashed across the comic
page and Billy turned into Captain Marvel. I figured reading time was over and it was time for
play. Now I would be the bad guy, and after a horrific fight would be knocked unconscious for
the third time today.

"SHAZAM, I've got it."

It was then John Nevers explained to me the idea that had suddenly entered his head, an
idea so preposterous, yet so innovative, it would change his entire life as he pursued it.

"What's the name of those things in the road?"

"Road kill?"

"Naw, those little bumps."

"You mean rumble strips. They tell you to slow down, there's a stop sign ahead."

Yeah, but they don't tell you anything, just Braaaap, Braaaap."

"But it means slow down."

"Why not have it SAY slow down?"

Where within the recesses of that primal brain did this idea come from? Maybe there is
magic for some in shouting SHAZAM. Maybe Billy Batson Nevers became Captain Nevers. Still,
he looked the same, a bit mischievous, a bit dull.

"Look, the faster or slower you cross a rumble strip the pitch changes. Change the
spacing, adjust the height of the rumbles. You could make those vibrations talk?

Our youthful imaginations ran wild.

"Yeah, why not have them play music as you cross?"

"Yeah, I can see Dolly Parton renting a strip of super highway to introduce her latest hit."

"Yeah, Bill's Diner one mile ahead. Hamburger special 65 cents."

"Fasten your seat belt, dummies."

"They'll build cars to resonate for clearer reception. Dampeners when you want to sleep."

"Drive the scenic drive and listen to Clair de Lune."

* * * * *

John went on to high school but the only subject he paid any attention to was physics. In
the other classes he doodled and day dreamed and of course, failed. In physics however, he took
copious notes, asked questions and aced tests. He was especially interested in the oscillations
and vibrations of sound. He also managed to purposely fail the final so he could repeat the
course. John also showed an interest in music and math when he found these skills would help
achieve his goals.

In his basement he built a two foot long test track with a miniature rumble strip. Ear
cocked, he ran his Hot Wheel cars back and forth for hours. Best results were obtained by the
little wrecker with vellum stretched over the window openings. Each day he varied the height and
spacing of the ridges and the speed of the wrecker then recorded the resulting pitch.

"Listen to this."

"Raaaamp, Raaaamp"

"Wha'd it say, John?"

"Wha'd it say? It said stop."

"Oh yeah, neat."

The next step was a full scale track with a real car. Our driveway was selected since the
Nevers' wasn't paved. Dad had to park in the street because of that idiot, John Nevers. John
scientifically laid out the thin strips of reinforced asphalt, paying special attention to spacing and
height, and in two week was ready for the test. Mike Finley's old Buick would be the Hot Wheels
for this run.

"Mike, what ever happened to your list on the TV?"

"Got thrown away. Every kid in the neighborhood was on it, and I spent so much time
sitting around the house they throwed it and sent me out."

We three climbed into the Buick, rolled the windows up tight and tried to tune out a rapidly
failing muffler. Two jerks and we were rolling. As we crossed the strips we held our breath and
listened hopefully.

"Braaaaaap"

Our spirits fell. John grabbed his notebook and wrote mathematical formulas. When you
see Sigma in an equation, you know you're in higher mathematics.

"Got it. 45 miles per hour. We've got to be going 45 miles per hour."

The Buick backed down our drive, across the street, and into the Bushnell's drive..

"GO, FLOOR IT."

The Buick bucked forward and flew across the street and up our drive.

"45 miles an hour. We made it."

"Listen"

"STOOOOOP" echoed through the car.

"YAHOO, we did it."

The Buick was going 43 miles per hour, brakes smoking, when we hit the garage door.
We went through the back of the garage at 31 miles per hour.

That night when I finally went home, there was a list on our TV. Just one name was on it.

* * * * *

Right now I'm waiting to see John Nevers for the first time in fifteen years. His secretary
said he would pick me up for dinner at seven o'clock.

I can't believe this. John just pulled up in a new candy apple red Lamborghini. I climb in
and flying across town we turn on River Road. A few minutes later we arrive at our destination, a
mansion with the acreage enclosed by a seven foot wrought iron fence. The uniformed gateman
acknowledges us with a smile and a wave of his white glove.

There is a quarter mile driveway which winds through meadows and woods. I catch sight
of the house, high on the hill, a stone edifice that seems never to end. As we proceed up the
drive the car begins to vibrate. Then a clear voice resonates from no where, "Welcome to the
estate of John Nevers, and World Headquarters of Roadway Expressions." I swear in the
background I hear John Philip Sousa's “Stars and Strips Forever.”

John looks over at me, winks, and says one word, "SHAZAM".

Story ID:	728
Written by:	Dick Dunlap (bio, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Story
Location:	Rockford Illinois USA
Year:	1949
Person:	John Nevers