Spookaloo

This installment of the weekly serial about Frida’s adventures takes place in Spokane, Washington. Each little segment may not be specifically related, as in theme and focus, but they are tangentially connected by what we saw, observed and experienced in the “Lilac City.”

For instance, did you know that the word “lilac” is an Arabian word for blue? This piece of trivia won’t particularly relate to anything else here today, but it is something we learned while visiting this Pacific Inland city.

Which smoothly leads us to back to the first paragraph. A moment ago, while trying to spell tangentially, I made an error and typed in “tangenital.” Whoops! This mistake reminds me of a conversation I had on the phone this week. Somebody I know received a reminder email, “genitally prodding” her for something, which has nothing to do with anything other than I find that typo humorous and I heard about it while in Spokane.

If you can’t tell, I’ve received some constructive feedback on my writing segues and thematic material. One genital reader is offering to help guide me to better and clearer transitions, so I am practicing by telling you what I’m going to write about, then writing about it, and then telling you what I wrote.

So now I’m going to introduce you to Spokane. Kimmm’s grandmother referred to this Eastern Washington burg as Spookaloo, which I think is a fine nickname and henceforth perhaps I shall call it that, too.

My first introduction to Spookaloo occurred last century, in the year nineteen hundred and seventy-four. My father and I took a road trip in our 1967 Chevy Impala and stopped for the World’s Fair. Remember the big whooptie U.S. fair of the Bi-centennial era? It is the scene of a now funny, then traumatic experience with my paternal figure called The Bumper Car Saga.

My 10-year old self had never ridden a Ferris wheel so big. It was the world’s tallest at the time, or maybe it just felt that way, and the people down below looked like ants. Stop, you say. What does a Ferris wheel have to do with bumper cars? Yes, I can see how this might bewilder. Let me explain.

In the larger context of the World’s Fair, I was about to make a long-term memory (although I didn’t know it at the time). It began with the Ferris wheel getting stuck for a brief eternity. I was riding alone and my open-air bench seat was just cresting the top when the whole thing came to a sudden stop. I’m making the comparison that it was a little frightening to be caught up there while waiting for it to be fixed, but nothing compared to the trauma of The Bumper Car Saga.

In my short history, I had always ridden amusement park rides that were wholly controlled by nefarious looking carnies. It was within this framework that I hesitantly took my dad’s suggestion and got in line for the bumper cars. When it was finally my turn, I had to let go of my dad’s hand and allow the thrill-ride engineer, with his skinny body, meth breath and bad teeth, lead me to a car and lower the security bar.

I waited for him to start the ride, but nothing happened. Abruptly, without warning, the other kids started crashing into me. It was jarring and confusing. My bumper car would not move with the exception of being smashed into. Within seconds, I was the favorite target and like a magnet, all the other cars were aiming straight for me. My body was knocked side to side and I looked up for help. What I saw was worse than getting hit.

Floundering, I had drawn a crowd outside the arena as well. The adults waiting for the ride to end were laughing and pointing at me. But that was not the worst of it. My father was in the lead. He was pointing and laughing at me. I died a couple of deaths. One from being targeted and crashed into over and over again for the entire time and the other from being humiliated in front of many people including the man who was supposed to have my back.

I had no clue that the bumper car came equipped with a foot pedal to power it myself. I was waiting for an outside source to make my car vroom and instead, I was stalled in the middle of a hostile crowd. I was temporarily helpless and I burned with the shame of it.

When that circle of hell ended, I climbed out of the stupid car with as much dignity as I could muster and it was the first time I was more angry with my father than afraid. I did not look at him.

I could not look at him.

He tried to take my hand, but I would not allow it. The joy of the World’s fair was gone and replaced with the knowledge that kids and adults alike could be cruel. The color and fun drained away and I even ignored my father’s offer of an ice cream cone. Epic.

Because I was hundred’s of miles away from home, I eventually had to talk to him and he explained that the exact thing had happened to him as a child and that now, as a grown up, he could understand why the adults had been laughing. That didn’t make me feel any better. Nor did the phone conversation with my mother later that evening when she broke the news that my kitty, Mr. Bojangles, had disappeared.

I cried and felt very alone and let down. That was my introduction to Spokane.

I agree. It was very brave of me to return to the scene of the crime. While at the Waterfront Park, I peeked at the bumper cars and eerily enough, they were cordoned off with yellow caution tape. The arena was empty, but the echoes of laughter still haunt the place.

Shaking off the past, we toodled around downtown, gawked at Spokane Falls and on a whim decided to ride the gondola. We attended the Museum of Arts and Culture and caught a glimpse of the Wicked Witch of the West’s hat just in time for the 70th Anniversary of the Wizard of Oz.

After playing tourista, we visited extended family who live on the lake and we lazily enjoyed coffee and conversation on the dock. A pair of loons nodded as they swam by and then Mr. and Mrs. Duck greeted us. The fish were jumping, an eagle swooped nearby, and a marmot ran for cover.

The extended family includes a hormonal 13-year old boy. Nana says that his “whores are moaning.” The kid is quite active, funny and unpredictable. After the first day, he asked if he could go to Italy with us. We were impressed because that took goolies.

He made up a word for boys who think with their dangly bits instead of their brains and calls them “stupicles.” Nana said his “stupicles” were definitely descending. It is one of those multiple parts of speech words, used frequently in this household to describe both the person and their actions. I will now provide you with an example.

As we walked the short distance from the lake to the house, two young boys buzzed us on quads. I was about to comment on the potential danger when Nana gestured discreetly that one of them had already crashed in an earlier accident resulting in permanent brain damage as well as losing half his face. I’m new to this vocabulary term, but I think the parents were demonstrating stupicle behavior.

Remember, I’m still in thirteen year-old world. He walked around with his iPod, reading us random stupicle jokes. Here are two of them: “Your mama is so stupicle, she brought a red magic marker to the hospital because they needed to draw blood,” or “Your papa is so stupicle, he sold his car for gas money.”

I had a much longer list of things to mention about our week in Spokane, but it looks as though they might need to be put on hold for another time. To follow-up, as you’ve probably already deduced, we did not hit the mega jackpot lottery in last week’s drawing, but someone else, appropriately from Winner, South Dakota, won in our stead. Congratulations!

I told you I would write about Spokane, I wrote about Spokane and now I’m telling you that I wrote about Spokane.