The Lost Tiki Palaces of Detroit

Mystery Spot

89 e are tourists. I have recently come to terms with this. My husband and I were never the kind who traveled to expand our minds. We always traveled to have fun—Weeki Wachee, Gatlinburg, South of the Border, Lake George, Rock City. We have seen swimming pigs and horses, a Russian palace covered with corn, young girls underwater drinking Pepsi-Cola from the seven-ounce bottle, an automobile tire over six stories tall, a cycling cockatoo riding a tightrope. I guess we always knew. This, our last trip, was appropriately planned at the last minute, the luxury of the retiree. It is one that I’m glad I decided we take, although everybody (doctors, friends, children) forbade us to go.“I strongly, strongly advise against this, Ella,” said one of my seemingly hundreds of physicians. But we needed a trip, more than we’ve ever needed one. Besides, the doctors only want me to stay around so they can run their tests on me, poke me with their mystery spot w 90 The Lost Tiki Palaces of Detroit icy instruments, spot shadows inside of me. And they have already done plenty of that. I decided to take action. Our van was packed and ready. We have kept it that way ever since retirement. So I kidnapped my husband John and we headed for Disneyland. This is where we took our kids, so we like it better than the other one. Besides, at this point in our lives, we are more like children than ever. Especially John. It is a lovely trip so far, quiet and steady. The miles are moving no faster than they should be, which is fine with me. When I see the sign, we are just about out of Nebraska and into some hillier terrain. It is along the rolling side of the interstate, a gaudy orange and yellow billboard, the kind that would have driven Lady Bird Johnson crazy, what with all her plans to beautify America. VISIT THE AMAZING “MYSTERY SPOT!” 43 miles Amazing, indeed. I decide we should give it a try. On this trip, if something looks like fun, we stop. No more traveling in a hurry for us. There were too many vacations like that with the kids. Three days to get to Florida, four to California—we’ve only got two weeks—rush, rush, rush. Now there’s all the time in the world. Except I’m falling apart and John can barely remember his name. That’s all right. I remember it. Between the two of us, we are one whole person. YOU CAN’T MISS IT THE BAFFLING “MYSTERY SPOT” 20 miles 91 Mystery Spot There are a lot of signs leading to this place. I watch for them and count them down like the kids used to do with the signs for Stuckey’s. Every day on the road, traveling with Kevin and Cindy, we’d encounter at least one of those crazy places with their pecan logs and tepid coffee. Sometimes the signs would start a hundred miles away. Then there would be a new one every ten, fifteen miles. The kids would get all worked up and want to stop and John would say no, we had to get some miles under our belt. The kids would beg and beg, and finally, when we were a half-mile away, he’d give in. The kids would scream yay and John and I would look at each other and smile like parents who knew how to spoil their children just enough. “Remember Stuckey’s, John? I haven’t seen one of those places in years,” I say. “Oh yeah,” he says, nodding, staring blankly at the road. But he doesn’t remember. This is something we have both gotten used to. Every once in a while, he knows enough to realize that he has forgotten everything, but these moments happen less and less these days. It doesn’t matter. I am the keeper of the memories. It has been that way for quite some time. With John’s mind, first the corners of the blackboard were slowly erased, then the edges, and the edges of edges, creating a circle that grew smaller, smaller, before finally disappearing into itself. What is left are only smudges of recollection here and there, places where the eraser did not completely do its job, memories that I hear again...