Love and Other Consolation Prizes

by Jamie Ford

  The expo made Ernest feel as if he’d stumbled out of H. G. Wells’s time machine and into a strange future where he didn’t quite fit in. He was a Morlock in a world of Eloi, more of a workhorse than a show horse, as he wended his way through the throngs of beautiful, chattering, modern people, who all seemed to be speaking in different languages—Chinese, Japanese, the romantic languages of Europe, sprinkled among the assortment of American accents.

  Fortunately the Space Needle made it easy to orient himself as he saw a line of visitors trailing away from the base of the new landmark—hundreds of people, so many that they blocked the entrances of the IBM Center and the General Electric Building, and the sleek rocket-shaped concept cars in front of the geodesic dome of the Ford Pavilion. After fighting his way through the crowd that loitered near a bank of lockers and a row of seashell pay phones, Ernest found the ticket window.

  “I’ve lost someone,” he said to the clerk, as he scanned the crowd. “I think she might have wandered up to the observation deck. She’s not well, plus she’s afraid of heights. My whole family is out looking for her, if I could just…”

  The clerk looked at him as though he’d heard a million excuses to cut in line and a million more sob stories about missing children and misplaced wallets and purses. Then the man lit a cigarette and checked his clipboard. “Name?”

  “Ernest Young, looking for Grace Young.”

  The clerk flipped to the end of his paperwork and then said, “No need for the sob story, pal. You’re on will call.” He handed Ernest a VIP ticket and shouted, “Next!”

  Ernest regarded the ticket, confused but grateful, as he walked to the entrance to the elevators. While waiting, he gazed up at the rotating restaurant that sat atop the pitched columns, five hundred feet above them. Thousands of feet higher, rivers of clouds stretched across the sky, slowly drifting beyond the tip of the needle, which made the spire appear to lean, as though millions of square feet of concrete and iron were falling. Ernest had to look away to keep from feeling dizzy.

  “Gracie, what are you doing?” he whispered to himself as he watched the golden elevator capsules, one descending, and one rising. He could see faces in the elevator windows, some happy, some nervous and scared.

  Once inside the building, he crowded into the lift as a tall elevator operator in a short dress welcomed their group with a cheery smile and a brief introduction. As they ascended beyond the ground-level visitors’ center, Ernest heard a rhythmic booming, drumming, and the brassy strains of trumpets and trombones. The World’s Fair Band emerged into view below, dressed in white and yellow, parading down the street. The musicians seemed like a throwback to Ernest’s first fair, except their caps were now emblazoned with the spiraling pattern of a hydrogen atom. As though on cue, a pair of fighter jets streaked across the sky, split in different directions, and wiggled their wings at the fairgoers below, who waved pennants and caps. Ernest swallowed, remembering how an identical jet had flown overhead and crashed on opening day. A married couple on the ground had been killed.

  Ernest closed his eyes as the ground fell away beneath them. Then he opened them and for a moment was transported to 1909. He was back in the hot-air balloon, rising above an entire world that was celebrating the future.

  He blinked as the elevator slowed and the view from the window portals was blocked by steel girders and slabs of concrete. When the doors slid open, Ernest stepped out into a crowded black-tie party, where finely dressed men and women were celebrating with glasses of champagne. Ernest felt underdressed and certainly uninvited as he scanned the room for any sign of Gracie. He worked his way through the room and around a grand piano. He held his breath as he stepped into the open air of the observation deck, felt the wind, appreciated the towering height. The sun was setting, kissing the tops of the Olympic Mountains, as boats on Lake Washington and Puget Sound switched on their red and green running lights. People milled about with cameras, elegant couples, posing, smiling, waving exposed squares of Polaroid film. Ernest searched for Gracie as guests and dignitaries mingled together, waiting for their snapshot smiles to develop. He circumnavigated the deck, ignoring the view of the fair below as he searched.

  Then he saw a familiar woman, but much older, in a pearled gown as white as her hair. The spitting image of Madam Flora, she was walking toward him, also scanning the crowd. Her blue eyes lit up when she saw him, greeting him with open arms and a smile that he’d never forgotten.

  Maisie.

  They met amid the current of people, two stones in a river that eddied and swirled about them. The lines of age, the extra curves and wrinkles, the heaviness of time and circumstance had caught up to the Mayflower, just as those years had accumulated on him. Her hair was short, like when they’d first met. And instead of a hummingbird hat she wore a faded antique ribbon pinned to her shimmering dress. He recognized it as a commemorative souvenir from Hurrah Day.

  “Hurrah,” she said, but the word came out more as a question.

  “What are you doing here?” Ernest asked. He stood stunned, gazing at the smiling face he hadn’t seen in decades. “And do I call you Margaret now?”

  She beamed. “You can always call me Maisie if you want to. No need to stand on ceremony. I’m too old to care what people think of me now. And I was about to ask what made you call me after all these years, but…”

  Neither one spoke. Instead they hugged each other, held on as though each couldn’t believe the other person was real. Then they hugged again.

  “Well, I can see by the look in your eyes, this meeting is a surprise to you,” Maisie said. “Just like the first time we met…”

  “All those years ago.”

  “I’ve always wanted to see you,” she said. “I’ve wondered how this would go, after all this time. But, I’m guessing this meeting is someone else’s doing, isn’t it?”

  Ernest looked around, expecting to find Gracie lurking nearby, smiling, giggling, happy or heartbroken, lucid or delusional, he wasn’t sure. But she was nowhere to be found. “Fahn goes by Gracie these days.”

  “And she’s still your…wife?”

  Ernest drew a deep breath and exhaled, nodding. “Something like that.”

  Maisie smiled, but Ernest could feel the disappointment.

  “And you’re married again?” he asked.

  “Oh, I’m long since widowed,” Maisie said. “Twice over.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. You look beautiful, as you always did. And it’s so wonderful to see you in person. I’ve followed you in the newspaper over the years—the society page might as well be dedicated to you. It’s just that…” Ernest hesitated.

  Maisie held his hand. “It’s okay. I’m happy to see you. My secretary said someone called and wanted to meet me here. When I saw your name—honestly, it was like a wish come true. And I thought, Lucky me. Ever since they began construction on the new fairgrounds, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about those days, those nights, and…our precious time together. There was something magical back then, amid that strange world, and I left it all behind.” She squeezed his hand. “I left you behind.”

  Ernest noticed that she wore an impressive array of sparkling diamonds, but that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. “We were just kids,” he said. “You’ve grown up just fine. Flora would be so proud. Even Miss Amber would be impressed.”

  Maisie nodded slowly and looked around the elegant party, at all the important guests in ball gowns and tuxedos, the vintage champagne, the magnificent view of the city. “I got everything I wanted,” she said. “And nothing that I needed.”

  She dabbed a bit of mascara from the corner of her eye. “And look at me now. Throwing a gala and adding your name to the guest list.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  “I found your address in the phone book and sent you notes over the last few years,” Maisie said. “But you never wrote back, so I wasn’t sure if you’d actually received them. Or perhaps you were mad at me for leaving. And no
w look at you—look at us, you’re here and I’m so happy.” Then she let go. “And also so very sad.”

  Ernest apologized. “This must be Gracie’s doing. I showed her your postcard. She must have called and set this up,” he said. “She hasn’t been herself for a while. Now she’s reliving the past, maybe trying to rewrite it somehow.”

  “Ah,” said Maisie, collecting herself. “Fahn did always think…Anyway, I’d love to see her. Is she here?”

  Ernest shook his head as he looked around. “I don’t think so.” He drifted to the lip of the observation railing. He gripped the cold metal, and the breeze took his breath away as he looked down at the spinning carnival rides, the illuminated fountains, the long tendrils of shadow cast by the setting sun as it seemed to melt into the horizon. He noticed a garish swash of neon in the far corner of the fairgrounds as well as a row of flags marking the entrance to the International Plaza.

  Then he hugged his dear old friend once more, sad to be leaving, but hopeful as well. “I’m so sorry, but I have to find her. I wouldn’t show up and then run off if it wasn’t important—I think I know where she is.”

  “It’s okay,” Maisie said. “Go.”

  Ernest kissed her on the cheek. “We’ll talk again soon. I promise.”

  SECRETS OF SHOW STREET

  (1962)

  Ernest took a shortcut through the old Armory building, where he had once gone dancing with Gracie when they were in their twenties. The place had been turned into the Food Circus, and it smelled like fried sausage, fried fish, fried dough, fried everything. He checked the nurses’ station and the dispensary while he was there, just in case, then exited the other side and crossed United Nations Way. Ernest felt the spray and mist from the International Fountain as hundreds of nozzles shot geysers of water into the air in elegant rhythmic patterns that seemed almost hypnotic. In the main courtyard he detoured around a troupe of spinning Russian dancers, and avoided being run over by a honking Fairliner tram and a swarm of Electricabs.

  Ernest passed a first aid station and then scanned the crowd, looking for a familiar face, hoping that by some miracle he’d catch a glimpse of Gracie on the move. Then he worked his way through the knots of tourists and passed the enormous Opera House, where an illuminated sign announced that Rod Serling and Ray Bradbury were discussing the future. He passed the Fine Arts Pavilion and the new Playhouse, and finally ended up in the center courtyard of the International Mall, which was bustling with costumed hosts from the Republic of China, Brazil, Denmark, Thailand, Korea, the Philippines, Sweden, the United Arab Republic, Mexico, Canada, Great Britain, and even the city of Berlin. Everything was abuzz except for the Spanish Fiesta Village, which was still closed.

  “Where is it, Gracie?” he muttered to himself as he looked for the Japanese Village, which he thought he’d glimpsed from the Space Needle. “Where are you?”

  Ernest noticed the Union 76 Skyride passing overhead. The cable car carried fairgoers back and forth above the expo. One little boy even waved. Then Ernest crossed the avenue, searching, until he heard a bawdy saxophone. He followed the curious music until he saw the flashing red neon in the distance and realized there was another place she might be.

  Gracie, no.

  The glittering lights marked the entrance to Show Street, the scandalous adults-only section of the Century 21 Expo.

  Ernest waded through an eager coterie of curious couples, sailors, and college-age boys—thousands of people, all heading in the same direction. He paused to let a group of Lummi dancers parade by in full regalia, singing, drumming, and banging sets of rhythm sticks. He gazed up at the humming neon sign that was occasionally obscured by smoke that smelled like alder wood, cedar, and fresh salmon from the nearby Indian Village. Then he drifted again with the motley tide of people flowing toward the mysterious, nighttime-only corner of the world’s fair.

  Ernest kept his eyes peeled—searching for any sign of Gracie as he passed an adults-only wax museum, whose teasing placards stretched his already-ripe imagination. He lingered at the entrance of the busy show hall, where Sid and Marty Krofft were putting on a topless puppet revue—the same routine that Pascual had talked so much about. Ernest kept walking as scalpers worked the margins of the crowd.

  The volume of visitors seemed overwhelming, and Ernest wondered if perhaps his hunch was off. But as he debated whether or not to leave, the crowd parted and he saw the entrance to Gracie Hansen’s Night in Paradise, an enormous dinner theater topped by a giant neon apple with a bite missing.

  Another Gracie, Ernest thought. Could his be inside the racy revue, with scantily clad showgirls and blue comedians? He didn’t think so—he’d read it had been sold out all week.

  That left the Girls of the Galaxy exhibit and the seedy Backstage USA, where ticket buyers could spy into the dressing rooms of off-duty performers between sets, in various states of undress. Though rumor had it that the ladies were often just knitting or reading, or mending their feathered costumes. Ernest opted for the former and paid to enter the darkened auditorium, where a dozen topless pinup models were posing in space-age costumes. He felt like a visitor to the set of Forbidden Planet as he heard warbling, futuristic sound effects and beheld a bizarre tableau of red-light science fiction come to life. He searched the audience as the stage rotated every few minutes to reveal a new scene, and Jose Duarte—the Man with a Million Voices—played emcee, introducing each new girl and her costume, or lack thereof, while concessionaires mingled through the crowd selling film and renting cameras.

  This is the future? Ernest frowned as he scanned the crowd—single men of every age, couples, groups of curious ladies, and foreign visitors. His head ached as he noticed a familiar figure, though it was not Gracie. Alone in the front row, perched near a velvet rope.

  “And here we have Sally the Saturness,” the emcee droned over the loudspeaker.

  “Having a good time?” Ernest asked as he found a spot at the rail, standing next to Hanny’s fiancé. A flashbulb went off from one of the back rows, and he heard the battery-powered whir of a camera.

  “You could say that again,” Rich said, then he did a double take as he recognized Ernest. He stammered, “Wait, Mr. Young—what on earth are you doing here?”

  Ernest smiled politely.

  Rich looked about the room. “Honestly, it’s not what you think. I was down here for research. Legal reasons, actually. I heard that the city tried to shut down all the cabarets for too much shimmying, can you imagine? So, I had to see the show in person—just to appraise the legal footing. For future reference.” Rich seemed to relax a bit as he realized that Hanny wasn’t in the room. “Now the girls here have to pose like statues, which is completely dull. Am I right?”

  Ernest tried not to shake his head. “I’m here looking for someone.”

  The emcee chimed in again, “And behold, the Heavenly Body of Venus.”

  “Really?” Rich smiled and tried to contain his surprise. “Well, I don’t blame you one bit. And for what it’s worth, you got here just in time. They told me this place reopened a few days ago and already they’re closing the show down again. They’re padlocking the doors at midnight. What’s a fella to do in a city like this?” Rich patted Ernest on the back and waved to a girl wearing purple pasties, whose skin and hair had been dyed green. The stage lights went out and the theater was filled with polite applause and an occasional wolf whistle. Then the lights came back on as more maidens of the galaxy struck high-heeled poses in sparkling metallic outfits, with towering wigs and painted skin.

  Ernest sighed, and left Rich in the dark without saying goodbye.

  TWICE IN A LIFETIME

  (1962)

  Ernest stepped outside into the carnival world of glitter-filled balloons, flashing neon, and music. A bank of sun guns lit up the underside of the Space Needle as everyone celebrated nighttime at the fair.

  He blinked as he heard a commotion; then he saw a group of elderly women and for a moment thought the ghost of Mrs
. Irvine was back on the march. But the group was only the Grandmother’s Kitchen Band, happily playing washboards and tin buckets. Ernest stepped back to let the procession pass, listening to the banging of pots and pans and the buzzing of hundreds of kazoos.

  The world keeps on spinning.

  Ernest had almost given up hope of finding Gracie anywhere at the expo when he noticed a guide to the fairgrounds in an overflowing garbage can. He unfolded the discarded map and scanned the page, skimming over the Christian Science Exhibit, the Hall of Industry, and the Antique Car Ride, until he finally found the Japanese Village, near the Islands of Hawaii Pavilion, adjacent to the entrance of the Gayway.

  He followed the map, walking past the rumbling compressor engines and hissing hydraulic pistons of the new carnival rides, the Giant Wheel, the Wild Mouse, and the Flight to Mars. He also heard the heckling, taunting seductions of midway barkers offering stuffed bears and Kewpie dolls.

  Then, nestled between newly planted trees, he spotted an arched torii that marked the Japanese Village. Ernest walked beneath the gate and approached the kimono-clad girls at the entrance, struggling to communicate in his best, broken Japanese. “Hi…Konichiwa. Um…shusshin wa dochira desu ka?”

  The workers stared back, brows furrowed.

  “Where are you all from?” he asked. “What prefecture?”

  The Japanese girls looked at one another in confusion, then back at Ernest as they smiled and shrugged and tried not to laugh.

  “Um, look, mister, I’m from Bothell,” one of the girls said in perfect English.

  “Yeah, we just work here,” another said. “I’m a sophomore at Franklin High.”

  “And I’m from Garfield,” the last girl said. “Go Bulldogs.”