Charles Howard had the feel of a gigantic onrushing machine: You had to either
climb on or leap out of the way. He would sweep into a room, working a
cigarette in his fingers, and people would trail him like pilot fish. They
couldn’t help themselves. Fifty-eight years old in 1935, Howard was a tall,
glowing man in a big suit and a very big Buick. But it wasn’t his physical
bearing that did it. He lived on a California ranch so huge that a man could
take a wrong turn on it and be lost forever, but it wasn’t his circumstances
either. Nor was it that he spoke loud or long; the surprise of the man was his
understatement, the quiet and kindly intimacy of his acquaintance. What drew
people to him was something intangible, an air about him. There was a certain
inevitability to Charles Howard, an urgency radiating from him that made
people believe that the world was always going to bend to his wishes.
On an afternoon in 1903, long before the big cars and the ranch and all
the money, Howard began his adulthood with only that air of destiny and
21 cents in his pocket. He sat in the swaying belly of a transcontinental
train, snaking west from New York. He was twenty-six, handsome, gentlemanly,
with a bounding imagination. Back then he had a lot more hair than
anyone who knew him later would have guessed. Years in the saddles of
military-school horses had taught him to carry his six-foot-one-inch frame
straight up.
He was eastern born and bred, but he had a westerner’s restlessness.
He had tried to satisfy it by enlisting in the cavalry for the
Spanish-American War, and though he became a skilled horseman, thanks to bad
timing and dysentery he never got out of Camp Wheeler in Alabama. After
his discharge, he got a job in New York as a bicycle mechanic, took up
competitive bicycle racing, got married, and had two sons. It seems to have
been a good life, but the East stifled Howard. His mind never seemed to
settle down. His ambitions had fixed upon the vast new America on the
other side of the Rockies. That day in 1903 he couldn’t resist the impulse
anymore. He left everything he’d ever known behind, promised his wife
Fannie May he’d send for her soon, and got on the train.
He got off in San Francisco. His two dimes and a penny couldn’t carry
him far, but somehow he begged and borrowed enough money to open a
little bicycle-repair shop on Van Ness Avenue downtown. He tinkered
with the bikes and waited for something interesting to come his way.
It came in the form of a string of distressed-looking men who began appearing
at his door. Eccentric souls with too much money in their pockets
and far too much time on their hands, they had blown thick wads of cash
on preposterous machines called automobiles. Some of them were feeling
terribly sorry about it.
The horseless carriage was just arriving in San Francisco, and its debut
was turning into one of those colorfully unmitigated disasters that bring
misery to everyone but historians. Consumers were staying away from the
"devilish contraptions" in droves. The men who had invested in them
were the subjects of cautionary tales, derision, and a fair measure of public
loathing. In San Francisco in 1903, the horse and buggy was not going the
way of the horse and buggy.
For good reason. The automobile, so sleekly efficient on paper, was in
practice a civic menace, belching out exhaust, kicking up storms of dust,
becoming hopelessly mired in the most innocuous-looking puddles, tying
up horse traffic, and raising an earsplitting cacophony that sent buggy
horses fleeing. Incensed local lawmakers responded with monuments to
legislative creativity. The laws of at least one town required automobile
drivers to stop, get out, and fire off Roman candles every time horse-drawn
vehicles came into view. Massachusetts tried and, fortunately, failed to
mandate that cars be equipped with bells that would ring with each revolution of the wheels. In some towns police were authorized to disable passing
cars with ropes, chains, wires, and even bullets, so long as they took
reasonable care to avoid gunning down the drivers. San Francisco didn’t
escape the legislative wave. Bitter local officials pushed through an
ordinance banning automobiles from the Stanford campus and all tourist
areas, effectively exiling them from the city.
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