For Whom The Booth Tolls

Willis Braintree was a young man who had never wanted much out of life. "Why congregate at the goal line," he used to say, "when there's more room in the middle of the field?" So people pushed Willis around. He was the kind of fellow speed cops picked up for driving one mile over the limit, the kind who always flunked personality tests and did miserably on those magazine quizzes that rate your executive talent – the kind who's stopped and searched by store detectives every time he goes to buy some hair tonic at the supermarket. There was only one thing Willis desired, and that was to have a little authority over someone. Over anyone. His was a typical psychological problem. Most people who suffered from it, though, were able to find release by taking jobs in immigration offices or on postal routes. Where Willis differed was that he disliked uniforms and the kind of bossy people who exploited them, and felt a positive loathing for the regimentation that seemed to go with wearing them. Yet he felt he should try this route to salvation, which had (the textbooks said) bolstered the egos of a lot of people. The trouble was that when he tried to get such a job the personnel people laughed at him, and if he was actually taken on, the other men in uniforms who had been around much longer proceeded to boss and abuse Willis so badly that he had to get out.

One day, however, Willis found his calling. It happened quite by accident. Driving into town on the pike, he stopped at a toll booth to throw his quarter in and was about to continue along when suddenly all the red lights flashed and a siren began to whine and the attendants from all the booths ran over.

"You threw a bottle top in there," one shouted.

Willis blushed. "I don't believe so," he said.

"Come along with us now," said another one, "that's a punishable offense."

"I'm sorry," said Willis, "but I think what happened was that I'm not a very good thrower and my quarter must have missed the hopper."

"I've dealt with guys like you before," said the shortest of the attendants. "You'd better come along or I'll have to rough you up."

Willis followed the men docilely. He wasn't too upset. These things were always happening to him.

They all looked in the hopper. There was no bottle top. The short attendant grunted suspiciously and began to dismantle the machinery. Willis tapped him on the shoulder.

"Look," he said, "see that quarter over there on the concrete? That's my quarter. I have a lousy aim."

One of the attendants picked up the quarter. "OK, Mac," he said, "we'll let you go this time. But next time let's really throw, he?"

"Let's," said Willis agreeably, noticing that the man had made no apology whatsoever. It must be great to be a toll-booth attendant, he thought. "I'll try to improve," he said.

He walked back to his car. Maybe this was the job for him. A toll-booth attendant. Think of the power. And the uniform. The only trouble, of course, was that he'd get pushed around by the other attendants.

Then it came to him. What he needed was a toll booth of his own.

He started building it the very next day. It had concealed wheels, and a little hook, so that he could hitch it up behind his car. When it was done, he made a trip into town to get a uniform. The man at the pawn shop had just the thing, taken in trade, he claimed, from a Panamanian Rear Admiral. Willis put it on, drove home, and took his toll booth out on the road in front of his house. Then he stood back and looked at it. It seemed perfect, just like the real thing, with a hopper and lights that flashed and a sign that said this lane. His house was on a side road, however, and only two cars came along that day. They both paid without question. He charged the first a quarter, and the second seven cents. There was a very nicely made blonde driving the second car. She had local plates. And Willis had always felt a special fondness for blondes.

"Say, seven cents, that's cheap," she said.

"For you, any time, ma'm," said Willis. "Drive carefully, now, and come again."

The next day Willis grew more daring. After a whole morning when nobody came by at all, he hitched the booth onto the back of the car and took it out on a slightly bigger highway close by. He got about a dozen cars that afternoon. The last one was the blonde's.

"Hi," she said, "you been moved?"

"Yeah," said "Willis, "that's the way it is in the toll-booth profession. You never know where you'll be from one day to the next. Five cents, please."

"It gets cheaper all the time," said the blonde.

"Well," said Willis, "you get better looking all the time."

The girl cast down her long lashes. "I'll probably see you again," she said.

"Anywhere from Maine to California," said Willis. "Drive carefully now. And don't put no bottle caps in the hoppers."

The following day Willis had a good stretch and stayed out until nine at night, taking in forty-seven dollars and twelve cents. It wasn't the money that made him stay there, though. The money was good, but the important thing was that the experience did wonders for him. He was more assured, more impressive; he knew when to be arrogant, when to be merely nasty, and when to be charming. He took the personality test in the latest issue of Quest and found that his rating was 95 to 100, "You like girls and girls like you." Only a week ago, Willis realized, he would have been down there in the bottom category, 1 to 15, "You're a slob." And when the blonde came by again, he asked her out for a drink, just leaving the booth where it was. When he returned, there were coins in the hopper.

Within a week Willis was confident, and he took the booth out onto the turnpike itself. He found a quiet spot and settled down. It was wonderful. He'd never realized before how much money there was in turnpikes, and how much weight a man could swing there. He was tough. He sent back trucks. He didn't allow cars with trailers on, or anyone with Arizona plates. Somehow he'd taken a strong dislike to Arizona plates. After an hour he knew that he couldn't keep up with the flow of traffic unless he slowed the cars down. Business was booming. He got out the orange lane-markers which, with some foresight, he had picked up from a piece of construction work back down the pike as he came in that morning, and set them out in a neat diagonal line.

It was much easier then, with only one lane. The cars honked their horns, and the traffic stretched back as far as the eye could see, but Willis refused to be hurried. He assessed each case on its own merits. A man in an enormous limousine pulled up. "How far are you going?" Willis asked.

"Just to Morristown."

"That'll be twelve-fifty."

"Twelve-fifty? But you only charged my brother seventy-five cents when he came through here this morning."

"That's all right," said Willis. "Twelve-fifty to you."

Two cars later, a Good Humor truck pulled up. The driver was wearing a white uniform. If you set aside the braid and the epaulettes, it was even something like Willis' uniform. Willis made him pull out of line – it was too good an opportunity to miss – and wait until all the other cars had gone through. He did the same thing with a jeep carrying a young Army lieutenant, and a postal truck.

"But the mails must go through," protested the mailman.

"Pull over with those other guys," said Willis.

"But neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night will stay these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds," said the mailman.

"The hell with that, buddy," said Willis. "Pullover to the side."

The next car was the blonde's.

"Hi there again," she said, "I see you're busy. I was thinking of asking you to buy me another drink."

"OK," said Willis promptly, "I'll be with you in just a minute. I just want to get this next guy. He's in uniform, and I can't stand guys who wear uniforms. Boy, I've half a mind to confiscate his car."

"You're a cute boy," said the blonde. She pulled over and walked sinuously to join Willis in the booth. It went to Willis' head – the authority, the dapper Panamanian uniform, the scent of perfume from the blonde. The car was a large red one, with a fancy spotlight on the hood, and Willis started to bawl out the man inside it.

"What kind of uniform do you call that, Mac?" Willis demanded in his surliest tone. Over on the shoulder the Good Humor man, the Army lieutenant, and the driver of the mail truck were waving at the newcomer, hoping he'd make a fourth for a pinochle game.

"I'm the chief of the turnpike police," the man said. "Who are you?"

• • •

Jail wasn't anywhere near as bad as Willis had expected. It wasn't long before he was made a trustee, and then he had authority over the other prisoners when they mopped the floors. He began to think seriously of making a career of being a trustee when the guard announced one morning that he had a visitor. It was the blonde from the highway.

"Gosh," she said, "you must be really important. I thought I'd never get in to see you."

"What's on your mind?" said Willis.

"They're letting you out in my custody," she said. "I like you. We can have some great times together."

"But what am I going to do with myself? What about my career?"

"I have a great idea . . ." said the blonde.

Two days later they started off. They kept to back roads mostly, and they never stayed in the same spot for more than a couple of days. Finally they even made it to Arizona, where Willis had a magnificent time. They rigged up a little trailer arrangement which they hooked to the back of the toll booth, and were very happy together. But if you're driving along some minor road, anywhere from Maine to California, and you come upon a toll booth containing a fellow dressed as a Panamanian Rear Admiral with a blonde leaning over his shoulder, make sure you have lots of change. Especially if you wear a uniform, or come from Arizona.