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Quick Write: Write a ½ reflection about: What questions do you have about what life will be like in the year
2053? Write them down and save your notes.
“The Pedestrian” by Ray Bradbury
To enter out into that silence that was the city at eight o'clock of a misty evening in November, to put your
feet upon that buckling concrete walk, to step over grassy seams and make your way, hands in pockets,
through the silences, that was what Mr. Leonard Mead most dearly loved to do. He would stand upon the
corner of an intersection and peer down long moonlit avenues of sidewalk in four directions, deciding which
way to go, but it really made no difference; he was alone in this world of 2053 A.D., or as good as alone, and
with a final decision made, a path selected, he would stride off, sending patterns of frosty air before him like
the smoke of a cigar.
Sometimes he would walk for hours and miles and return only at midnight to his house. And on his way he
would see the cottages and homes with their dark windows, and it was not unequal to walking through a
graveyard where only the faintest glimmers of firefly light appeared in flickers behind the windows. Sudden
gray phantoms seemed to manifest upon inner room walls where a curtain was still undrawn against the night,
or there were whisperings and murmurs where a window in a tomb-like building was still open.
Mr. Leonard Mead would pause, cock his head, listen, look, and march on, his feet making no noise on the
lumpy walk. For long ago he had wisely changed to sneakers when strolling at night, because the dogs in
intermittent squads would parallel his journey with barkings if he wore hard heels, and lights might click on
and faces appear and an entire street be startled by the passing of a lone figure, himself, in the early
November evening.
On this particular evening he began his journey in a westerly direction, toward the hidden sea. There was a
good crystal frost in the air; it cut the nose and made the lungs blaze like a Christmas tree inside; you could
feel the cold light going on and off, all the branches filled with invisible snow. He listened to the faint push of
his soft shoes through autumn leaves with satisfaction, and whistled a cold quiet whistle between his teeth,
occasionally picking up a leaf as he passed, examining its skeletal pattern in the infrequent lamplights as he
went on, smelling its rusty smell.
'Hello, in there,' he whispered to every house on every side as he moved. 'What's up tonight on Channel 4,
Channel 7, Channel 9? Where are the cowboys rushing, and do I see the United States Cavalry over the next
hill to the rescue?'
The street was silent and long and empty, with only his shadow moving like the shadow of a hawk in midcountry. If he closed his eyes and stood very still, frozen, he could imagine himself upon the center of a plain, a
wintry, windless Arizona desert with no house in a thousand miles, and only dry river beds, the street, for
company.
'What is it now?' he asked the houses, noticing his wrist watch. Eight-thirty P.M.? Time for a dozen assorted
murders? A quiz? A revue? A comedian falling off the stage?'
Was that a murmur of laughter from within a moon-white house? He hesitated, but went on when nothing
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more happened. He stumbled over a particularly uneven section of sidewalk. The cement was vanishing under
flowers and grass. In ten years of walking by night or day, for thousands of miles, he had never met another
person walking, not one in all that time.
He came to a cloverleaf intersection which stood silent where two main highways crossed the town. During
the day it was a thunderous surge of cars, the gas stations open, a great insect rustling and a ceaseless
jockeying for position as the scarab-beetles, (stout-bodies, brilliantly colored beetles. Bradbury is using the term as a metaphor for
automobiles) a faint incense puttering from their exhausts, skimmed homeward to the far directions. But now
these highways, too, were like streams in a dry season, all stone and bed and moon radiance.
He turned back on a side street, circling around toward his home. He was within a block of his destination
when the lone car turned a corner quite suddenly and flashed a fierce white cone of light upon him. He stood
entranced, not unlike a night moth, stunned by the illumination, and then drawn toward it.
A metallic voice called to him:
'Stand still. Stay where you are! Don't move!'
He halted.
'Put up your hands!'
'But-' he said.
'Your hands up! Or we'll shoot!'
The police, of course, but what a rare, incredible thing; in a city of three million, there was only one police car
left, wasn't that correct? Ever since a year ago, 2052, the election year, the force had been cut down from
three cars to one. Crime was ebbing; there was no need now for the police, save for this one lone car
wandering and wandering the empty streets.
'Your name?' said the police car in a metallic whisper. He couldn't see the men in it for the bright light in his
eyes.
'Leonard Mead,' he said.
'Speak up!'
'Leonard Mead!'
Business or profession?'
'I guess you'd call me a writer.'
No profession,' said the police car, as if talking to itself. The light held him fixed, like a museum specimen,
needle thrust through chest.
'You might say that,' said Mr Mead.
He hadn't written in years. Magazines and books didn't sell anymore. Everything went on in the tomb-like
houses at night now, he thought, continuing his fancy. The tombs, ill-lit by television light, where the people
sat like the dead, the gray or multi-colored lights touching their faces, but never really touching them.
'No profession,' said the phonograph voice, hissing. 'What are you doing out?'
'Walking,' said Leonard Mead.
'Walking!'
'Just walking,' he said simply, but his face felt cold.
'Walking, just walking, walking?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Walking where? For what?'
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'Walking for air. Walking to see.'
'Your address!'
'Eleven South Saint James Street.'
'And there is air in your house, you have an air conditioner, Mr. Mead?'
Yes.'
'And you have a viewing screen in your house to see with?'
'No.
'No?' There was a crackling quiet that in itself was an accusation.
'Are you married, Mr. Mead?'
'No.'
'Not married,' said the police voice behind the fiery beam. The moon was high and dear among the stars and
the houses were gray and silent.
'Nobody wanted me,' said Leonard Mead with a smile.
'Don't speak unless you're spoken to!'
Leonard Mead waited in the cold night.
'Just walking; Mr. Mead?'
'Yes.'
But you haven't explained for what purpose.'
'I explained; for air, and to see, and just to walk.'
'Have you done this often?'
Every night for years.'
The police car sat in the center of the street with its radio throat faintly humming.
'Well, Mr. Mead', it said.
''s that all?' he asked politely.
'Yes,' said the voice. 'Here.' There was a sigh, a pop. The back door of the police car sprang wide. 'Get in.'
'Wait a minute, I haven't done anything!'
'Get in.'
'I protest!'
'Mr. Mead.'
He walked like a man suddenly drunk. As he passed the front window of the car he looked in. As he had
expected, there was no one in the front seat, no one in the car at all.
'Get in.'
He put his hand to the door and peered into the back seat, which was a little cell, a little black jail with bars. It
smelled of riveted (held together by rivets (metal bolts or pins) steel. It smelled of harsh antiseptic; it smelled too clean
and hard and metallic. There was nothing soft there.
'Now if you had a wife to give you an alibi,' said the iron voice. 'But-'
Where are you taking me?'
The car hesitated, or rather gave a faint whirring click, as if information, somewhere, was dropping card by
punch- slotted card under electric eyes. 'To the Psychiatric Center for Research on Regressive Tendencies.'
He got in. The door shut with a soft thud. The police car rolled through the night avenues, flashing its dim
lights ahead.
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They passed one house on one street a moment later, one house in an entire city of houses that were dark,
but this one particular house had all of its electric lights brightly lit, every window a loud yellow illumination,
square and warm in the cool darkness.
'That's my house,' said Leonard Mead.
No one answered him.
The car moved down the empty riverbed streets and off away, leaving the empty streets with the empty
sidewalks, and no sound and no motion all the rest of the chill November night.
THE END
Ray Bradbury by Chris Jepsen & Richard Johnston
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Ray Douglas Bradbury was born in Waukegan, Illinois, on August 22, 1920.
He was the third son of Leonard Spaulding Bradbury and Esther Marie Moberg Bradbury. They gave him
the middle name "Douglas," after the actor, Douglas Fairbanks.
He never lived up to his namesake's reputation for swashbuckling adventure on the high seas. Instead,
Bradbury's great adventures would take place behind a typewriter, in the realm of imagination. Today, as an
author, essayist, playwright, screenwriter, lecturer, poet and visionary, Ray Bradbury is known as one of
America's greatest creative geniuses.
Bradbury's early childhood in Waukegan was characterized by his loving extended family. These formative years
provided the foundations for both the author and his stories.
In Bradbury's works of fiction, 1920s Waukegan becomes "Greentown," Illinois. Greentown is a symbol of safety and
home, and often provides a contrasting backdrop to tales of fantasy or menace. In Greentown, Bradbury's favorite uncle
sprouts wings, traveling carnivals conceal supernatural powers, and his grandparents provide room and board to Charles
Dickens.
Between 1926 and 1933, the Bradbury family moved back and forth between Waukegan and Tucson, Arizona. In 1931,
young Ray began writing his own stories on butcher paper.
In 1934, the Bradbury family moved to Los Angeles, California. As a teenager, Bradbury often roller-skated
through Hollywood, trying to spot celebrities. He befriended other talented and creative people, like special
effects maestro Ray Harryhausen and radio star George Burns.
In fact, it was Burns who gave Bradbury his first pay as a writer -- for contributing a joke to the Burns &
Allen Show.
Bradbury attended Los Angeles High School. He was active in the drama club and planned to become an actor.
However, two of his teachers recognized a greater talent in Bradbury, and encouraged his development as a writer. Snow
Longley Housh taught him about poetry and Jeannet Johnson taught him to write short stories. Over 60 years later,
Bradbury's work bears the indelible impressions left by these two women.
As his high school years progressed, Bradbury grew serious about becoming a writer. Outside of class, he contributed to
fan publications and joined the Los Angeles Science Fiction League. At school, he improved his grades and joined the
Poetry Club.
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Bradbury's formal education ended with his high school graduation in 1938. However, he continued to educate himself.
He sold newspapers on Los Angeles street corners all day, but spent his nights in the library. The hours between
newspaper editions were spent at his typewriter.
His first published short story was "Hollerbochen's Dilemma," printed in 1938 in Imagination!, an amateur
fan magazine. In 1939, Bradbury published four issues of his own fan magazine, Futuria Fantasia, writing
much of the content himself. His first paid publication, a short story titled "Pendulum," appeared in Super
Science Stories in 1941.
As he honed his writing skills, Bradbury often looked to established writers for guidance. During those
early years, his mentors included Henry Kuttner, Leigh Brackett, Robert Heinlein and Henry Hasse.
At last, in 1942, Bradbury wrote "The Lake" -- the story in which he discovered his distinctive writing style. The
following year, he gave up selling newspapers and began to write full-time. In 1945 his short story "The Big Black and
White Game" was selected for Best American Short Stories. That same year, Bradbury traveled through Mexico to collect
Indian masks for the Los Angeles County Museum.
In 1946, he met his future wife, Marguerite "Maggie" McClure. A graduate of George Washington High School (1941)
and UCLA, Maggie was working as a clerk in a book shop when they met.
Ray and Maggie were married in the Church of the Good Shepherd, Episcopal in Los Angeles on September 27, 1947.
Ray Harryhausen served as the best man.
That same year also marked the publication of Bradbury's first collection of short stories, entitled Dark Carnival.
The first of the Bradbury's four daughters, Susan, was born in 1949. Susan's sisters, Ramona, Bettina and Alexandra were
born in 1951, 1955 and 1958, respectively.
Bradbury's reputation as a leading science fiction writer was finally established with the publication of The Martian
Chronicles in 1950. The book describes man's attempt to colonize Mars, the effects of colonization on the Martians, and
the colonists' reaction to a massive nuclear war on Earth.
As much a work of social criticism as of science fiction, The Martian Chronicles reflects America's
anxieties in the early 1950's: the threat of nuclear war, the longing for a simpler life, reactions against
racism and censorship, and the fear of foreign political powers.
Another of Bradbury's best-known works, Fahrenheit 451, was released in 1953. It is set in a future in
which a totalitarian government has banned the written word. Montag enjoys his job as a professional
book-burner. But he begins to question his duties the when he learns of a time when books were legal and
people did not live in fear. Montag begins stealing books marked for destruction and meets a professor who agrees to
educate him. When his pilfering is discovered, he must run for his life.
Bradbury's work has won innumerable honors and awards, including the O. Henry Memorial Award, the Benjamin
Franklin Award (1954), the Aviation-Space Writer's Association Award for Best Space Article in an American Magazine
(1967), the World Fantasy Award for Lifetime Achievement, and the Grand Master Award from the Science Fiction
Writers of America. His work was also included in the Best American Short Stories collections for 1946, 1948 and 1952.
Perhaps Bradbury's most unusual honor came from the Apollo astronaut who named Dandelion Crater after Bradbury's
novel, Dandelion Wine.
Bradbury's lifetime love of cinema fuelled his involvement in many Hollywood productions, including The Beast from
20,000 Fathoms (a version of his story, "The Fog Horn"), Something Wicked This Way Comes (based on his novel,) and
director John Huston's version of Moby Dick. His animated film about the history of flight, Icarus Montgolfier Wright,
was nominated for an academy award
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Over the decades, there have also been many attempts to adapt Bradbury's stories for television.
Commendable examples include episodes of Alfred Hitchcock Presents, The Twilight Zone, and Bradbury's
Emmy-winning teleplay for The Halloween Tree.
But not all adaptations were so successful. For instance, Bradbury was seriously disappointed with a
Martian Chronicles network miniseries, broadcast in 1979.
Looking for more creative control, Bradbury turned to the relative freedom of cable television and developed his own
series. Ray Bradbury Theater ran from 1986 until 1992 and allowed the author to produce televised versions of his own
stories.
Even while working on TV series, novels, short stories, screenplays and radio dramas, Bradbury continues to publish
collections of his plays, poems and essays.
What does he do for an encore, you ask?
Beyond his literary contributions, Bradbury also serves as an "idea consultant" for various civic, educational and
entertainment projects. He provided the concept and script for the United States Pavilion at the 1964 New York World's
Fair and contributed to Disney's Spaceship Earth at EPCOT and the Orbitron at the Disneyland parks in Paris and
Anaheim.
As a creative consultant to the Jon Jerde Partnership, he also helped create trend-setting
shopping/entertainment plazas, including the Glendale Galleria in Los Angeles and Horton Plaza in San
Diego. These innovative malls (and their many imitators) reflect Bradbury's vision of a "small-town plaza"
tailored to the urban environment.
Today, Ray and Maggie Bradbury continue to live in Los Angeles. They have eight grandchildren and four
cats.
Ray Bradbury still writes daily and occasionally lectures. At an age when most men rest on their laurels, Bradbury
remains a dynamic storyteller and contributor of "obvious answers to impossible futures.".