I watch Kelly until she becomes lost in the crowd, feeling kind of guilty for having her go off by herself. I walk across the walkway, back to the tiny video viewing room.
The trip back across the walkway takes some time, and reminds me of Portland’s rush hour traffic. Instead of the sound of a thousand wheels rotating on the highway, the crowd reverberates with the seismic rumblings of a thousand cackling people. Like a massive herd of African Wildebeest, each struggling to be first in line at the next watering hole.
Inside the viewing room, I find I have the little theater to myself. I have to watch the early years of space flight once more, before the disaster of the Space Shuttle Challenger comes up on the screen.
I ready myself with pen and pad for any notes I may want to jot down. I watch the countdown, and I see nothing. I watch the lift off, and I see nothing. I watch the film until the Space Shuttle Challenger explodes into bits and pieces of smoking debris, falling down into the Atlantic Ocean below. I see nothing odd.
“What am I supposed to see?” I look around the room to see if I should be embarrassed for speaking out loud, but find that I am still the only one in the room.
During the hour of time that has passed, I have pushed the play button a dozen times. Each time the Space Shuttle Challenger disintegrates before my eyes. I see the disaster so many times; I become desensitized to its horror.
I find nothing that would be regarded as a new explanation that has been eluding mankind. Yet, Mr. Conrad seemed to feel that viewing this video would reveal something, something that would answer the question of UFOs. I wish he were here to point out the secret to me, if in fact it exists.
I feel kind of stupid and foolish. Maybe he was putting me on. He didn’t seem to have a favorable opinion of journalists. Maybe it was his chance to express his animosity for journalists in general, sending me on a wild goose chase, making me look foolish. Still, as I watched him speak, he did not speak as a man of betrayal. He spoke like a man that was sincerely revealing a secret that had been pent-up inside for a long time. There must be something on that video he wanted me to see. There must be.
I pushed the Play button one more time, and sat down. Before the video appears on the screen, something comes to my mind. I’ve been sitting down each time I have watched this video. Maybe if I stood right up next to the screen this time, I might be able to see something.
The video plays one more time. I watch the screen closely, straining my eyes to discover something new. The count down, there is nothing; the lift off, nothing. I see nothing I haven’t seen before. I give out an exasperated breath and ready my mouth for some word of rebuke.
I watch the Challenger as it climbs, waiting for it to blowup again. And then this time I spot it. Just before it reaches the moment of detonation, I see a bright streak, reddish in color, torpedoing a straight beeline towards the Challenger from the direction of the Earth. Just as this reddish arrow of light reaches the Space Shuttle, the Challenger explodes into hundreds of pieces.
The video continues, and I go over to a chair and collapse. The video comes to an end and the lights come back on. The little theater becomes as quiet as a tomb. Yes, a tomb. That sounds about right. Many treasures and secrets have been discovered in tombs. But today, in this little theater, I may have discovered a secret more important than any king’s or pharaoh’s tomb has ever revealed. I sit in silence and contemplate.
“Somebody shot down the Space Shuttle Challenger?” I ask the question out loud. “Somebody shot down the Challenger!”
“No! It can’t be true.” I cringe in disbelief. I’ve got to take this video to a lab and have an expert analyze it. I’ve got to find out what this all means.
I go to the counter outside, in front of the video viewing room, and purchase a copy of the video. I ask a flamboyantly adorned lady behind the counter of the location of the nearest photo lab.
“Yes there is a nice photo lab, just on the other side of the Seattle Center.” Clad with a chain of several gold bracelets, her arm makes the sound of whimsical wind chimes, as she raises her arm to point me in the right direction.
“Go to the Space Needle, and then turn west. You should run right into it. You will see the sign, ‘The Foto Lab’”
Pleasantly amused at her flamboyance, I smile and thank her. Then I am on my way to find Kelly, back somewhere in the crowd.
§
FOURTEEN
I present a modest manly wave to her, to capture her attention. Kelly walks up to me, swinging her arms with happy optimism.
“Now that you’re through watching your movies,” she smiles. “Are you ready to go?”
“You bet. You’re such a good pal, waiting for me so long. I’ll be ready to go, as soon as I run this video over to the photo lab. It’s just a couple of minutes away from here, on the other side of the Space Needle.”
Totally exasperated with my dawdling, Kelly’s eyes glaze over and her face transforms into a funeral mask. I wait a moment for her to comment, but she is too disabled with disgust. She utters nothing but silence in protest. She calmly sits down on a nearby bench and solemnly begins to file her nails.
“That’s good; you sit here and rest.” I try to find justification for my behavior.
“You’re probably tired from walking so much. I’ll be back in a flash.” I leave her behind, sitting on the bench.
As I quickly walk to the photo shop, I think about leaving Kelly there alone, sitting on the bench, tolerating my self-interest behavior in silence. I think I feel more guilt from her silence, than when she tells me off with words of complaint.
Entering the photo shop, I find an elderly man sitting behind an old wooden counter. He sits on a thickly cushioned chair watching a game show on a tiny television set. Just as he is about to light his pipe, I apply for his attention.
“Good morning sir.” I attempt to engage the elderly gentleman in greeting.
“Would you have time for a rush job?” The old gentleman looks up at me and scratches his head of abundant silver gray hair. He continues to hold on to his pipe, as if the pipe were an extension of his appendage.
Silently, and very peacefully, he continues with the task of lighting his pipe. I watch him, patiently waiting for his reply. I’m guessing that his many years of experience in life have taught him never to get too rushed about anything. He takes several puffs; until he is satisfied the pipe is properly lit.
His chair creaks a sound of straining leather, as he pushes himself out of his chair, and walks over closer to me.
“Now, how can I help you son?” he replies in a grandfatherly tone.
“I have a video here; I would like to get some of the frames blown up, if that’s possible.” He takes the video from my hand and slowly and deliberately looks at the title, printed on the side.
“It would be possible, but I would need to know the exact frames you want a picture of, and then how big you want them blown up.”
“I don’t know the frame numbers, but I could give you the approximate frames to blow up.” I propose. He continues to look at the videotape, as if it were about to reveal to him something important.
He takes a large drag from his pipe, and then allows the smoke he has inhaled to escape from his mouth before answering me. For a moment I can only see the outline of his head, as the smoke conceals his face.
“You give me the place in the video where to start and where to stop, and I’ll blow up all the frames in between. It will cost you more to do it that way, but if you don’t know the exact frames, that’s about all we can do.”
“If you could do that for me, that would be great. The cost is not the primary concern to me.” I analyze the video again in my mind, to figure which frames I want blown up.
“I guess if you were to take the thirty frames before and the thirty frames after the explosion of the Space Shuttle, plus every thing in the middle, that would probably give me what I want.”
The old gentleman turns his attention towards the ga
me show on TV, where somebody has just won a new car. He places the pipe in his mouth once more, then leans over onto the counter and jots down my instructions on an invoice.
“OK then. Now what size of enlargements would you like, son?”
“How big can I get?” I am excited now, but wonder if this nice gentle elderly man will be able to accomplish a rush order.
“I can give you poster-size pictures if you want.”
“You can? Great! Give me a poster of each frame then.” I don’t allow myself to think of what Lloyd’s reaction to the bill will be. Now can you have those ready for me tonight?”
“Yes, yes, I think I would be able to get that done for you. Keep in mind son, that it will cost you somewhere in the neighborhood of $3500 for the posters, which includes the extra charge for the rush.”
“That’ll be great,” I say this on the outside; on the inside I am thinking that Lloyd will have a complete fit.
“Fine then; Come back by five this evening and I will try my best to have them ready.”
I leave the photo shop feeling elated. Blast the cost of the posters, I convince myself. When Lloyd Hatch has a chance to see the posters, he will feel the same as I do. The secrets the posters will reveal are well worth the money.
Walking back to the exhibition, where Kelly patiently awaits, will take only a few minutes. The Space Needle towers above me as I aim for the Exhibition Hall, selecting the quickest path through the crowds of promenading people.
The pungent aroma of sickening sweet cotton candy and heavily buttered popcorn fills the air. People from all over the world are smiling, laughing, and having the time of their lives.
This celebration of life surrounding me seems to have no affect on my disposition, for I can only see Lloyd Hatch’s face, as he explodes over the cost of my hare-brained contrivance. The words ‘You’re fired!’ keep bouncing back and forth, from one side to the other, inside the medulla oblongata of my head. In just the short time it has taken me to walk back to the exhibition hall, my confident elated feeling has shrunk to a large wave of doubt.
My mind keeps playing the same image over and over again. The image is of Lloyd’s face, as he receives the invoice for those posters. I try to seek comfort for myself in the fact that the worst thing Lloyd can do is to fire me. Of course, thoughts of this extreme stamp of disapproval begin to erode away my confidence, which slowly evolves into more of an annoying anxiety.
As I look up, my troubling thoughts begin to disappear. There before me, only a few feet away, is someone that has total confidence in my keen sense of intuitiveness. I know that her usual esteem and respect for me as a friend will help me find and recover any confidence that may have fallen by the wayside during my return journey from the photo shop.
“Thanks for waiting for me,” I greet Kelly in kind of a cocky and self-assured manner.
Kelly finishes the sentence she is reading inside some photography magazine. Unemotionally, she lays her magazine down on her lap and looks up at me coolly.
“Yes, I’ve been sitting here waiting, and I hope you didn’t do anything stupid to get us both fired.”
I feel my face confess surprise at her greeting. I am forced to realize the admiration that I believed she held for me, was merely something of my own imagination. Like a hot knife slicing through soft butter, Kelly’s sharp words slice right through my soft, vulnerable layer of confidence.
To hide the wound her words exacted upon the very core of my ego, I quickly scoff at the validity of her insult.
“After Lloyd sees the story we drop on his desk, he won’t fire us; he will most likely give us a raise.”
Kelly makes a very unusual frown. I guess I have aimed a little too high.
“I think you know Matt that Lloyd will find fault with the best story; anything less than the best is grounds for dismissal.” Kelly points her finger at me, as she shakes her head pessimistically, back and forth. Tired of looking down on Kelly’s face, I sit down on the bench beside her.
“Lloyd is a hard man to work for, but I’m pretty sure that you and I are close to having the story of a lifetime. If this works out the way I think it should, it will be the story of the century.”
“Come on Matt! Quit acting like Mr. Macho. I know you better than that. You talk big, but are just a little puppy milquetoast inside.” As a noisy group of school children on a field trip walk by, Kelly talks louder to compensate for the noise. The volume of her expression of honest disbelief stabs with insult once again.
“I’m very sorry I had to leave you here alone for such a long time. I apologize for that. But I need you to be on my side right now,” I plead.
Just then, a heavyset lady walks over to our bench to sit down. We both immediately stop talking and stare over at the weary and corpulent woman. Realizing that we must be in some kind of deep discussion, she smiles uncomfortably, and then wanders off to find another bench to retreat to.
“What do you mean, on your side? What have you done, Matt?”
“Well, I may have stuck our necks out a little bit.” Kelly folds her arms and rolls her eyes back in disgust.
“I knew it, I just knew it. Now, I want you to tell me Matt, what have you been up to?”
An intrusive loud voice broadcasts over the public address speakers of the exhibition hall, interrupting our conversation for a moment.
“Kelly, you’re right. You know me pretty good. I’m not as macho as I try to pretend.” Kelly seems to soften a little at my sincerity.
“You can see right through my egotistical pretense so easily. I think you should also be able to recognize by now that I have the talent to know an important story when I see one.”
“Yes, I have no doubt that you know a good story when you see one. Now tell me, what did you do, and why do you need me on your side? How far did you stick our necks out?”
“I’d like to ask you to wait till five o‘clock this afternoon; then I will explain further.” Kelly bows her head slightly and places the fingers of her hand upon her forehead, followed by a noisy exhale in exasperation.
“Why do I put up with you Matt? You have such a knack of getting us tangled up into trouble.
“I don’t know why you put up with me. For the life of me, I don’t know why.
The only one that will get tangled up in trouble will be me. From now on, my mission in life will be to keep your pretty neck out of any entanglement of trouble.” My expression is kind of lighthearted, but genuinely sincere. Kelly tries to remain sober, but finally concedes to a warm smile.
She continues to smile, until her eyes twinkle at an invading amusing thought that pops into her pretty head.
“How do you plan on sticking your neck out, without getting my neck tangled up with it?” Folding her arms, Kelly implies that there exists no acceptable response which could bring a resolve to her question.
“Any future trouble that we encounter, I will swoop down and magically set you free from any threatening trouble by making it rest completely upon my shoulders.”
Matching dimples appear on either side of her velvet face, as she smirks sweetly in reaction to my pledge.
“I’m very curious how all of this is going to unfold, Matt. It fascinates me. I can’t wait till five o’clock just to see your magic in action. Just knowing that you plan to swoop down and come to my rescue, makes me feel really safe.”
Sarcasm never really looks good on a beautiful woman. I think this is because when you mix feminine beauty with mockery, it tends to make a man feel like a half-witted moron. Like most men, I chafe at the thought of exposing myself as a half-witted moron before a beautiful woman.
I stand up with the sole aim of moving on and leaving this conversation behind. Turning around briskly, I reach out my hand for Kelly’s.
“Let’s go back to work. We can talk about my attributes and virtues for only so long before we run out of subject matter. Let’s go over to the Crimes of History exhibit and check it out.”
“Yes, I�
�m getting tired of sitting.” She bounces up as if she was a jack-in-the-box, and takes my hand.
§
FIFTEEN
We slowly amble along, dodging and stopping for people as we cross the walkway to the next exhibit. A life-size wax figure of Lizzie Borden holding up an axe stands outside the Crimes of History exhibit. As we walk by Lizzie, I can’t help but stare at her eyes. Although she is made of wax, her eyes still seem to swear to insanity. A hideous chill springs and then subsides inside me at the thought.
A myriad of famous crimes of history is gathered here into one mammoth-sized evildoer exhibit.
It is systemized into a kind of circus of criminal celebrities. Jack the Ripper is highlighted and takes center stage in this arena of notorious villains.
Kelly draws closer to me, as we meander along through the exhibit. Inconspicuously, she moves her hand sinuously around the elbow of my arm, in order to make her feeling of vulnerability dissipate. I admit only to myself, that our surroundings are saturated with a kind of eerie presence.
I begin to explore the presentation of Jack the Ripper and wonder, while he was lurking through the dark cobble-stoned streets of London, did he realize that his grisly insidiousness would also make him infamous?
The display case before us is bejeweled with the relics of various feats of butchery. Among the gruesome fragments of criminal history are photographs of female victims after each had been deposited at the murder scene.
Partial manikins are clothed in authentic clothing of the period and displayed as the actual victim was found. Typical women’s and men’s clothing of the mid-1800s are displayed. Even an actual London policeman; or Bobby’s, uniform is on display, actually worn by a Bobby in the 1880s.
There appears to be hundreds of articles and reports written about Jack the Ripper. One whole display case is devoted just to police reports alone. There are also hundreds of sample letters that were sent to Scotland Yard by the general public. These informed the police of a friend or neighbor they thought was the Ripper. It seems to imply that the general public at that time was fearfully paranoid of this shadowy slasher. Anybody and everybody came under suspicion of being the Ripper.
Wyatt, Richard Page 13