The Complete Collection. William WhartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
together, with rough-cut signs hanging on chains. These have burned-out letters like brandings. Everything very woodsy. All these signs have arrows pointing toward Onondaga Cave.
But it turns out this isn’t a national park at all. This is a bit of free enterprise. Somebody bought these caves and developed a tourist attraction. They figured people are going stark raving mad driving cross-country with only Stuckey’s peanut brittle to break the monotony, so they’ll come in to see anything.
There’s a gigantic parking lot three-quarters full and seething with Americana in Dacron colors, checkered shorts and kids in Keds.
We’ve hardly gotten the car stopped and the motor turned off when an old guy, in what looks like an ice-cream-salesman costume, comes over and collects fifty cents for parking. Before we can move, he’s whipped out a sticker with an Indian arrowhead on it and stuck this thing on the back window. I dash to scrape it off but it’s practically vulcanized by the heat. That Mafia stud in Philadelphia will want some reason for an arrowhead named Onondaga; imagine explaining to the mob. He’ll probably cover it with a decal of crossed American flags.
This place is notorious for two things. Jesse James and his band are supposed to have hidden gold somewhere in the cave. That’s got to be good for at least an extra thousand admissions per year. The other thing, Mark Twain is said to have used this cave as a model for the one where Tom Sawyer and Becky get lost.
Can you believe it, three bucks to walk into a hole? But Dad’s a follow-through type so he plunks out the money.
A six-foot-tall Boy Scout herds us into the cave, passing out gems like how to tell a stalagmite from a stalactite. Would you believe it? A stalagmite might reach the ceiling, a stalactite holds tight to the ceiling; so much for geology.
First there’s the James brothers’ hideout. This is competition for the Knott’s Berry Farm Award of the Year. Even Disneyland is better than this. There’s one part with gigantic ‘gold nuggets’ sticking conveniently out of the ground. They also have a section with fluorescent rock and black light beamed on them, probably gathered those rocks from all over America.
But the cave is damned impressive in itself, as a cave. I see what Dad’s excited about. We’re down hundreds of feet in the ground. There are parts bigger than a whole wing of Versailles. It’s dripping with calcite in an enormous range of subtle colors. And it’s cool. It’s almost worth six dollars just to get cool. It’s a constant fifty-seven degrees, winter and summer; I can feel the cold sinking into me. I want my bones to get cold so I can hold on till we get back in the car.
But things are so hoked up. There are colored lights shining on every interesting rock so you can’t tell what color anything really is. Then, they have names for each geologic formation. One is called The Golden Horn. This is a stalagmite bathed in gold light to make it look like a huge golden horn sticking out of the ground. Everybody is shuffling past in the dark hanging on to ropes. There’s a hush over the crowd as if we’re going through Notre Dame.
Another place is called The Organ of the Giants. Some stalagmites and stalactites have run together so it looks a bit like a giant pipe organ. There are constantly changing colored lights playing on this. It’s something like old-time vaudeville or a funky light show. Come to think of it, what a great place this could be for a rock concert; call it the Underground Rock.
We finish in a huge natural amphitheater, bigger than any movie theater, with wooden seats all around. Our guide leads us in and we sit there till the place is about filled. Then they turn off all the lights.
A voice comes out of the dark from at least ten speakers; we’re surrounded by this voice. He talks about the primal dark and how it’s been dark in these caves for thousands of centuries. An organ begins playing and colored lights come up slowly on a beautiful display of arches, water-washed caves, stalagmites and stalactites. Well, that’s the way it’s been all along so I settle back.
But then comes the kicker. A projector behind us flashes the American flag onto the stalactites. They wiggle the projector so it looks as if the flag is blowing in a breeze. Worse yet, fat Kate Smith, one of Grandma’s all-time favorites, comes on singing ‘God Bless America’!
I stand up to leave. Everybody stands with me. They think it’s the national anthem. They’re standing, staring at that monster jiggling flag. I walk along the bench to the aisle, up and out.
Going outside into the wet heat again is miserable but it’s better than staying inside. I’m an American and all, but it doesn’t have anything to do with that kind of commercialized bullshit.
Dad comes out with the others. We don’t say anything as we work our way two hundred yards through air sludge to the car. He turns it over and the air conditioner starts pushing blessed cool air around. It’s just getting bearable when we pull past the last little stone pyramid with an arrowhead sign on it. Dad turns toward me.
‘Well, Bill, I think we’re both about ready for Paris.’
We start laughing. We go over it all and we’re getting at least six dollars’ worth in laughs.
We’re laughing along when suddenly we get two coughs; that big boat of a car gives up. We barely get it to the side of the road. The gas gauge registers almost empty. We meant to buy gas at the station outside the caves but, in our hurry getting away, forgot.
Still, I can’t believe we’re actually out of gas. The needle definitely lifts when we turn on the ignition; that should mean something. But Dad’s convinced it’s gas. We latch up that gigantic hood and there are four of the biggest Stromberg carburetors I’ve ever seen in my life. Just pushing down on the accelerator is like flushing a toilet with gasoline.
Dad digs the gas can out of the trunk and insists on walking back. He’s so sure we’re out of gas he doesn’t even want to check. I think we’re both afraid of fooling around with this monster.
It’s got to be two miles or more back to the caves but he says he’ll hitch. There’s a fair amount of traffic and with the gas can he shouldn’t have any trouble. I say I’ll go but he insists he needs the exercise. He crosses to the other side and starts slogging along. He’s going to be dripping wet with sweat before he gets there.
Just out of curiosity, I begin playing with the carburetors. There’s not much you can do with that kind of equipment when all you have is a pair of pliers and a screwdriver. At least, I can find out if fuel is getting to the carbs. It could be the fuel pump.
I pull off the gas lead lines and turn it over. Gas comes from somewhere; those lines pump gas like cut arteries. I look back for Dad but he’s gone; he must’ve gotten a lift right off.
I’m afraid to fool around with the jets so I hook everything up again.
Then, when I turn her over, she fires up like downtown; probably only a vapor lock from all the heat. I think of tearing off after Dad but I’m afraid we’ll miss each other. He’ll get a ride back from the gas station easy, Americans are great that way.
I figure now’s a chance to top up my suntan; I stretch out on the grass verge.
I must’ve fallen asleep; the next thing, Dad’s there. He has a can full of gas and looks fresh as a shrimp. He says he got a lift almost right away to the caves and a lady at the pump took him back. He’s pouring gas into the tank. He’s so pleased with himself, I don’t have the heart to tell him the car’s already working.
Also, at the gas station, he bought two pairs of sunglasses. We’ve been driving into the morning sun every day and our eyes are almost burnt out. We both have light blue eyes and can’t take glare. But these are some sunglasses he buys.
Of course, the car turns right over. We’re both smiling like lunatics. These sunglasses have mirror lenses, and are curved so they wrap around the face. With our beards and these glasses on, we look like monster insects from The Lost World, or gangsters or hip drug addicts.
But they do keep the sun out, they practically keep air out; be great for motorcycle riding. He must’ve paid a fortune for them.