The Complete Collection. William Wharton

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СКАЧАТЬ 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. That’s the way he is, tight as a witch’s cunt; then bango, big-shot spender.

      The rest of that day we beat our way across Missouri. Late afternoon, we reach St Louis. We manage to get ourselves lost in a complex series of overpasses, underpasses and cross-over exits.

      We’re going round and round as if we’re on a roller coaster and getting nowhere. Looming over all is the most godawful thing I’ve ever seen. It’s some kind of steel rainbow. It curves up in the air hundreds of feet, but doesn’t go anywhere. It looks as if the people in St Louis decided to build their own Washington Monument and got confused; or the damned thing melted in the heat so it bent over and the top stuck into the ground. The Disney approach has totally invaded American thinking.

      After we go through the loop-the-loops at least six times, we give up. We cruise off our roller coaster in the shadow of that towering steel rainbow and into one of the most desolate black ghettos I’ve ever seen. There’s nothing but boarded-up brick buildings, cracked streets and thousands of people hanging loose on corners. Here’s this monstrosity looming over them, costing millions of dollars, and these people live in filth.

      We stop at a gas station and ask how we get on the main route east. After half an hour twisting through St Louis, we’re on the open road again. America is clots of people, joined by gigantic straight highways. Most of this country is practically empty.

      We start looking for a motel when we’re fifty miles into Illinois on the other side of St Louis. We stop at twenty different places but they’re all filled. We move on another thirty miles, going off at each little dink of a town, drifting up and down tiny streets in our Batmobile, looking for lit motel signs.

      Finally, СКАЧАТЬ