The Haunted Pussy

Back in 1995, I helped organize a workplace jaunt to an amusement park near Richmond, Virginia. It was a Saturday afternoon, slightly overcast but otherwise warm, a perfect day to waste standing in line for roller-coasters. We pooled cars and everyone was enthusiastic. It was an "unauthorized" work trip, so we all felt just a little bit bad.

I've always been a big dark ride fan. You know — spookhouses. At the age of five I was traumatized beyond belief by a trip to Marshall Hall Amusement Park on the Potomac River near Mount Vernon. First, my siblings took me on the big roller coaster. There were no height requirements in 1963. I just remember that the restraining bar wasn't built for a toddler, so I spent the whole time clinging to something — anything — to avoid being thrown from the car. I managed to keep a brave face.

Later, I was beaten senseless in Laff In The Dark, a pitch-black, walk-through maze in which the large children lay in wait to rough up the small ones. I emerged, tearful, terrified, and was hit by powerful air jets, much to the amusement of the assembled crowed. I must admit that, nowadays, if I saw a shrieking five-year-old running out of a dark maze get hit by rude blasts of air, I'd have a hearty laugh or two.

(But one rarely sees that sort of thing anymore.)

From that day forward, I felt that spookhouses owed me something.

So on that day in 1995 I was anxious to try the "Haunted Mountain," a largish blob involving water and flumes and God-knew-what-else. The line outside was huge. We waited for quite a long time, until it was our turn to board the log. In we went.

Now, there was a problem with the Haunted Mountain. Apparently it was about to be decommissioned. We loomed into a void. Here and there we glimpsed dead scares through ambient light, but those were mostly in tatters. The flume went up and up, but there was nothing to look at. It smelled like mildew. People started making disparaging remarks. Occasionally we'd come across some park employees dismantling things under the glare of work lights. That was all. Then there was daylight up ahead. One of the workers was tilted back in a chair with a door propped open, talking on a radio phone.

A sudden drop, and everyone was drenched. A mean drop. I banged my leg on the side of the flume. The log slowly came to a stop with four sopping, miserable creatures inside.

A haunted pussy.

Tomorrow: Sculpture and Food!