Life, 1923-09-06 · page 17 of 40
Life — September 6, 1923 — page 17: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This cartoon satirizes early automotive congestion in cities by imagining an absurdly over-regulated future. A motorist must obtain police permission to take a Sunday drive, receive an assigned starting time (10:43 AM), follow a prescribed route (No. 9—deliberately routed through undesirable areas), and cannot return home until the police grant permission, on pain of arrest. The joke: bureaucratic control has become so suffocating that Sunday leisure driving—once a symbol of freedom—is now micromanaged and miserable. The motorist's son asks if the salvation hymn's promise of "every day'll be Sunday" will come true; the father's horrified silence suggests this dystopia is hell. This reflects genuine 1910s-20s anxiety about automobile congestion overwhelming American cities and the emerging regulatory responses.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
The Sunday Motorist HE car was at the curb. In it or near it, expectantly waiting, were the owner and his family. “Would you care to take a Sunday ride with us?” the motorist asked Thanks, it is very kind of you,” we replied. “When do you start?” As soon as the police give us our starting time,” he said. “We put in an application to go out this morning and Willie has gone to call Head- quarters now to see if it was granted by the Traffic Commissioner.” ~All that formality?” “Oh, yes. And quite proper, too, considering the number of cars and the congestion on the roads. Well, Willie’-—as his son returned—“what is the word from the police?” “Our starting time is 10:43, Pop. And you're to take Route No. 9.” “What's the idea?” we asked blank- ly. "Can't you leave when you wish and go where you want to?” Oh, no,” replied the Sunday motor- ist. “We have to go where the police send us. If a policeman stops us and asks for our route card and we're in another road, we'll be summoned to court and fined.” And is it a pleasant ride, this Route No. 9?” “No, indeed. We haven't had a car long enough to draw any of the nice r All the good roads are taken. e assigned by seniority, you Route No. 9 goes mostly by gas tanks and ash dumps on the out- skirts of the city, and is full of holes. Being out on it all day is no joke’"— this with something of a sigh. “But can’t you come back home when you feel like it? Surely the police—” “You don’t understand. The home- coming congestion on all roads is ter- rific. Once you're out, you have to your turn coming back. You get your place in line from the police and you stay in it. There’s nothing you can do about it except abandon your car, and then very likely they’d arrest you for wilfully obstructing traffic.” “Do you mean to tell me,” we be- gun, dumfounded, “that you can’t come home here until the police let you, once you're out?” “Precisely that. For even if I could find a way to sneak back to town, they'd arrest me for parking in front of my own house if I were in ahead know. ioe 1 : House Owner: TWELVE DOLLARS A DAY AND A FOUR-DOLLAR BONU: WHAT'S THE BONUS FOR? Painter: FOR REIN’ NEAT AND CLEAN, 0’ COURSE. of my time. This street is a one-way traffic street from 4 to 8 on Sunday evenings. You can’t beat the game. I've tried and I know.” “Pop,” interrupted the motorist’s son, a worried look on his face, “do you think it’s true what the Salvation Army song says, that every day’ll be Sunday by and by?” The motorist's cheeks blanched deadly white and he could not answer. The vision was too awful. A Hz. Folwell. M® JACKSON: What you-all tote sech a big watch fo’? Mr. Jonnson: ’Cause I’se an im- portant man an’ my time is valuable. The Aping Hair W# =N Grant, some fifty years ago, And Burnside were the idols Of all young men, both high and low, And beer was drunk by seidels, And facial foliage flourished rank, A youth would coyly turn side- Ways to display with modest swank His funny fluttering burns But now screen actors bear the crown And many a lad that we know Wears next his ears a mat of down— Why not his valentino? J. S. P. HEN, too, the night has a thou- sand alibis. comicbooks.com