32 The Supermen
The Supermen
After taking a few turns on the merry-go-round, I say goodbye to my daredevil namesake and head down the pier to Pacific Park for some thrill seeking of my own.
On my way, I duck into the Playland Arcade where Mom and G-Lo had their epic Skee-Ball battle. The place is practically a museum, packed with a combination of modern video games and vintage arcade machines—some I’ve never even heard of before—plus an air hockey and foosball mecca.
Following the blue-and-white-checkered floor, I make my way to the back of the building where a row of Skee-Ball machines from different eras call to me. As I bend down to put a coin in one of the newer machines, a man clears his throat, catching my attention.
The old man watches me from the end of the row like Benjamin Button in a faded-blue Superman T-shirt and bright-red board shorts big enough to swallow him whole. What am I, a Superman magnet? Okay, universe. I hear you.
He eyes the quarters in my fingers and gives a subtle shake of his head, ruffling his silver hair. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“No?” I glance at the ancient chassis in front of him. Based on the impressive strip of tickets pooling at his feet, he’s been playing a while.
“Nope. See these?” He nods to his machine and the one beside it. “They’ve been bringing joy to generations since long before you were born. I suspect it’ll continue long after I’m gone.”
“You think the old ones work better?” I can’t help but smile at his logic.
“I prefer to think of them as classics.” He chuffs. “And yes. They most definitely do. There’s nothing like years of wax buildup to make these babies glide up the alley.” He holds up the polished wooden ball in his hand, and the sparkle in his eye makes me giggle.
“That’s a good enough reason for me.” I abandon the modern machine for the classic and shove my coins into the slot. A row of balls rumbles down the chute.
On my first try, the ball sails up the lane and over the hump, bouncing right into the fifty-point bull’s-eye ring. I let out a squeal. “Did you see that?”
“See what I mean? You can’t let old age fool ya.”
I immediately think of G-Lo. “You’re so right.”
My second roll doesn’t go as well. The ball drops into the lowest ring for ten points. “So much for thinking I could go pro.”
“Keep at it. You’ll get the hang of it.” The man rolls his next ball and scores forty points. “This isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve been doing this for a long time.”
“Not me.” I laugh. “I’m only here because my mom played here with my grandma when she was about my age, so when I saw the sign, I had to come check it out.”
“Play a lot of Skee-Ball, do they?”
“They did when they were here.”
He throws another ball up the alley, hitting the bull’s-eye again. “They don’t play anymore?”
“My, uh ...” I draw in a deep breath. “My mom died recently.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” His pale-gray eyes bore into mine. “Was she sick?”
“Cancer.”
He nods and lowers his head, his shoulders slumping under an invisible weight. “Cancer took my wife last fall.”
Tears well in my eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, don’t be.” A sad smile curves his lips. “I’m a lucky man to have had her as long as I did. We were married for the best damn sixty years of my life. Through a whole lot more good than bad. She loved the pier. Every Sunday we came to play Skee-Ball and watch the sunset.”
“Was she as good as you?”
A loud bark of laughter cracks the air. “Even when she was sick, she was hard to beat. I called her Wonder Woman.” He pats the big red S on his chest. “And she called me Superman.”
My eyes glaze over, and a lump forms in my throat.
“Listen to me, rambling on. You don’t want to hear about my life.” He shakes his head and turns back to his lane, rolling another fifty-point bull’s-eye. The light above his machine spins, flashing red, putting the sparkle back in his eyes. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a friendly wager?”
“You let me win,” I admonish him with a smile.
He waves his hand in protest, but he won’t look me in the eye. “You won fair and square. Just not my day, I guess.”
I laugh and tear off a few of the tickets I won, tucking them into my pocket before handing him the rest. “Here.”
“What’s this for?”
“For teaching me how to be a Skee-Ball shark.”
He hesitates a second before taking the tickets. “You don’t want to claim your prize?”
“Nah.” I pat my pocket. “I have these as a memento. You get something cool to remember me by.”
“I’ll do that.” He flashes a mouth full of dentures and opens his arms. “Your momma would be proud of you.”
Swallowing a sob, I hug my new friend goodbye and head toward Pacific Park.
The moment I step under the steel octopus marking the entrance, I’m caught in a wave of sensory overload.
My stomach rumbles at the savory aroma of greasy burgers and fries, fresh-baked pizzas and spicy tacos, and the decadent scent of funnel cakes and coffee.
But the bells and the flashing lights of the midway make me eager to try my luck.
For the bargain price of three dollars, I can either join the group of kids armed with water guns, hoping to win a one-eyed Minion, or join the teens wielding cushioned mallets and viciously bashing plastic moles over the head for a chance at a stuffed elephant.
Or I could skip both and use those three bucks on another funnel cake.
Flashing blue lights go off almost simultaneously on both games, signaling the winners, and I move on to what I really came for . .. the rides.
Above me, under a clear blue sky, the roller coaster rattles over the track to a symphony of shrieks and squeals. Behind it, the massive Ferris wheel looms large against a backdrop of the Pacific as I queue up for tickets.
Blocking the sun with my hand, I stare up at the umbrella-covered red and yellow gondolas swooping past. The Pacific Wheel must be over a hundred feet tall. One hundred thirty according to the sign.
The slow spin of the wheel mesmerizes me, and I must be losing my mind because I swear I see Dash in a red gondola. I pull my eyes away and shake my head, refusing to fall for the same hallucination again.
After paying for an all-day pass, I head for the Scrambler.
By the time I line up at the Ferris wheel, I’ve ridden every other ride at least once and eaten my weight in popcorn and cotton candy.
I’d love to stay longer, but I haven’t slept more than four hours in the past twenty-four, and my battery is reaching critical mass.
Thanks to sleep deprivation, my Dash sightings have exceeded a healthy level.
Does everyone in Southern California own a Superman shirt?
I seriously need a nap.
Sleep is highly overrated, imaginary Dash whispers in my head.
Since the real Dash is probably still stuck somewhere in the Midwest, I glower at my feet. “Overrated or not, I’m finding a place to hole up for the night as soon as I get off this ride.”
Since park rules forbid single riders, the attendant pairs me with the Golden Girls.
From their coordinating pastel capri pants, large floral-print T-shirts, and floppy straw hats and bags, all the way to their matching white hair, orthopedic sandals, and giant sunglasses, the four remind me of a way cooler version of Reverend Tom’s church lady group.
I can almost smell the tuna casserole and lime Jell-O.
Once the last of the ladies climbs in, I follow them into the circular booth and settle in.
“No lap restraints?” The lady with purple lilacs on her shirt gapes at the attendant.
“Nope.” The stone-faced guy slams the tiny doors across the opening, closing us into the giant red teacup.
“Is that even safe?” The lady with the red rose shirt grabs ahold of the center pole as our gondola jerks forward.
As we begin to climb, the guy shouts, “Don’t lean over the side.”
We stop halfway to the top while the attendant fills another gondola, and Pink Peony grabs Purple Lilac’s hand, practically climbing into her lap. “Oh, my word!”
Red Rose sighs. “Look at that view!”
“Stunning,” Daisy agrees with a nod.
The wheel rotates on its steel skeleton, taking us well over a hundred feet into the sky. All I can think is: I wish Dash were here.
Instead of gazing into the horizon like everyone else, I scan the pier below. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but I’m certain I won’t find it in the ocean.
Purple Lilac cranes her neck and peers over the side. “Did you lose something, dear?”
“Not exactly.” If she only knew how much I’ve lost lately. “Wishful thinking.”
“Nothing wrong with making wishes,” Daisy says with a smile.
“I guess.” From the top of the Ferris wheel, everyone looks the same. Anyone down there could be Dash.
The wheel rounds the top, and as we descend, faces come into focus again. My breath hitches as a familiar crop of artfully disheveled dark hair catches my eye. I shake my head and ignore it. Same hallucination, different city.
The guy turns toward the beach, giving me a clear view of him. All the blood rushes to my head, my heart hammering in my ears as if I’m trapped underwater. But it isn’t his hair, or his tall lanky frame, or even his black-frame glasses kicking my pulse into high gear.
It’s the royal-blue Superman shirt. I slept in that shirt!
I launch myself forward, coming off the seat and scrambling to my knees. The gondola wobbles, and all four of the Golden Girls gasp as I lean over the side and scream his name. “Dash!”
He whips around as if he heard me, but the Ferris wheel climbs into the sky again, and I lose him in the crowd. I reach for my phone to call him, then remember the dead battery.
“Damn it.” I slump back into the seat.
Rose presses a hand to her chest and catches her breath. “I was sure you were about to jump.”
“Oh, like that man in North Carolina? Such a tragedy, bless his soul.” Lilac lowers her head as if saying a quick prayer.
“Dear,” Daisy whispers. “May I ask what was so important you’d risk your life to get a peek?”