Walkabout (Intermission: The Voices) – June 26th, 2002

by Bing Futch

I’m afraid I’m losing you…

A lone voice drifts over a foggy expanse of dewed grass on a mountainside. The voice is high, sweet and clear, floating along on the chilled midsummer’s morning like a shower of snowflakes. It is the voice of a choir boy, not quite mature yet filled with the bold, innocent assurance of one that is truly gifted. The tones are drawn out, extended, an adagio melody that rolls across the outcropping of rock that I’m sitting on, vibrating it every so subtly. The liquid nature of the solo, rendered purely and passionately by the soloist, triggers a rippling wave of pleasurable sensations throughout my body. I tingle all over. Suddenly aware of a growing warmth right at the base of my spine, I stagger up slowly and place my left hand on the small of my back. Blood. There is no pain and I can’t see the ooze that is now coating my hand, but, for crissakes, it’s not like I have been sitting on a jelly donut. What else could it be? Sticky, warm, the tingling all over my body now. Surely I had been shot. But there was no report, no sound, no whipcrack of shattered air before the pain. There was no pain. Only an ever-expanding blossom of warmth and electric feelings, sparks and shudders, all still insanely delicious. My penis is hard.

I turn around to survey the scene. Maybe the choirboy shot me for blocking his view of the valley, who the hell could guess? As I mince around in a tight little circle, my hand finds its way up to my face and reveals a most puzzling thing: my hand is completely dry. Even more puzzling is the fact that no choirboy is evident anywhere on the grassy outcropping at the base of the mountain. Or anywhere in sight, for that matter. And still, the voice! It makes Charlotte Church sound positively amateur; the voice of a true angel. Piped through the most incredible sound system ever designed for an outdoor setting, with the air as the speaker itself. The voice is everywhere at once and then some. What the hell was that liquid I had felt? Where was the voice coming from? Why did I feel like every limb in my body had fallen asleep and was now waking up, agonizing little pins pricking under my skin?

You sonofabitch, what is it with you anyway?

“This was happening in 1988?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The dream. You started experiencing this thing with the voice in 1988, right?”

I nodded. Then, “sorry.” My eyes raised to meet hers. “Right.”

Tracy Davis looked over the top of her glasses at me and smiled, just a little. We had done this thing for the past six months, the dance was much easier than when it had begun.

“So what happened that year? Anything influential?”

That was the year that I moved out on my own for the first time, I thought. But as monumental as that might have been, it didn’t seem likely to be the cause of this recurring dream. Oh sure, I had analyzed it three ways from Sunday, applying every possible spin, going through textbooks on dreams and visions. Translated literally, the combination of singing boy and mountain meant that I would soon receive both good news and a favor. (According to Zolar’s “Encyclopedia and Dictionary of Dreams” Fireside Books, 1992.) Good news came in the form of a job with Wells Fargo Alarm Services. The favor came from Shirley Flexer, my then-girlfriend’s mother. Her boyfriend was central station manager. The dreams didn’t start until long after I had left my steady job at the Knott’s Berry Farm theme park in Buena Park, California and headed up to San Jose, primed for a new life and a fresh start.

“I moved out of the house. Fell in love with one of the girls on my train.”

“You worked the railroad?”

“Calico Mine Ride at Knott’s. I worked there for four years.”

“No shit? I take my daughter there all the time.”

“I’ve probably been your miner at one point or another.”

I did a little of my spiel for her. Hell, it was my time, rented by the hour, for the purpose of shrinking my head, tending to the brain garden, manicuring the mind and Tracy was an excellent gardner. Smart and funny, very Jewish, laid-back but with a definite air of Ivy League authority perching around the edges of her tiny frame.

“That was really cheesy,” she said after I’d given her a sample of our scripted dialogue.

“Try saying it every eight minutes.”

The Calico Mine Ride was one of the oldest attractions at the theme park, dating back to the early 1960’s. A series of electric-powered engines led six rail cars through a man-made mountain to watch a cast of costumed robots dig for gold. At one time, it was state-of-the-art fun and thrills, but by the mid-80’s it was quaint in its earnestness. It was most popular with young couples who saw it as the perfect make-out ride (as was Disneyland’s Adventure Thru Inner Space) as there were plenty of long, dark tunnels during which you could cop a feel un-witnessed. The attraction was one of the signature rides located in the Ghost Town area of the park, an area that I was highly valued within. Having been gregarious about learning new attractions, in two short years I had become certified on every ride in the Roaring 20’s section (except for the Himalaya styled “Greased Lightnin’”) and every ride in Ghost Town (except for Stagecoaches, whose operators always looked hot, sweaty and uncomfortable). Calico Mine Ride was the final score in a triple crown that included the Timber Mountain Log Ride and the now-bulldozed Haunted Shack, but taking the trains through the mountain was not only a dream come true – it was damn bully fun.

The ride is a far cry from today’s super-automatic creations with the redundant safety systems and one-button operation. No sir. Each of the six trains, powered by batteries that were charged overnight, needed an engineer to guide it along the tracks inside the mine, utilizing a throttle lever, third rail brakes, emergency brakes and bell and lights (which couldn’t be left on all the time or the batteries would die prematurely.) All this, aboard the engine (the heaviest of which weighed in at over a ton) which pulled six wooden passenger cars, each of them capable of holding ten people comfortably. Once departing the elevated station halfway up the mountain, it’s all downhill for awhile as the trains slip slowly into the darkness, past steaming geysers and digging miners. All that’s really required of the operator is to put the drive box in neutral, take hold of the skid brake with one hand and maintain firm pressure. The skids go down on the third rail and slow the train down. Foot on the deadman switch, microphone in the other hand, keeping an eye on the block lights and making sure that they’re green. Doing the spiel in the required crackly miner’s voice. If real miners knew that every one of them was being characterized as some shrill old coot that looked like Gabby Hayes, they’d throw themselves on their picks all over again.

“Here’s a view of the Glory Hole. Boy, we really struck it rich here. Yes sir, we’ve dug out over 11 million dollars worth of gold ore. Now that’s what I call a heap a’ diggin’!”

The dimly lit caverns hugged the mustiness of decades; it was atmospheric, lending an appropriately ancient odor to the effect. Maintaining pressure on the skid brake; just enough to creep by each scene and allow the passengers a chance to soak in the sights. Across a bridge over an underground lake, complete with waterfall, here using the emergency squeeze brake to slow. The waterfall, glowing midnight blue under the beam of a set light, splashed down upon some broken timbers upon which a red pair of long underwear twisted. We were warned, due to the waterspray, that using the skid brakes here would make them wet. Therefore, it would be difficult to stop during the steeper sections of track to follow. If for some reason, a train has stalled at the bottom of the chain lift, a red block light would warn you to stop and wait for clearance to enter the next block.

“What’s a block?”

“It’s like a zone on the track. Seven zones, six trains. Only one train per zone, or all the lights come on and the music stops and you get written up.”

“How bad was that?”

“Well, if you liked your job, you tried not to get written up. Too many of those and you could get fired.”

Or worse. Killed. You’re an asshole.

A lot of times, there’d be a train there at the bottom of the lift, so you’d have to pause by the waterfall on the bridge. Once you got the green light, you could inch the train down to the bottom of the lift, an area that quickly turns steep and requires heavy pressure on the skid brake handle. The next scene involves the discovery of a rainbow cavern, so the train is required to stop while kooky/spooky music plays out of hidden speakers and the black-lights splash neon nuttiness all over the place. It was always preferable to time it so that you got to the bottom just as the light turned green, allowing you to ease the train onto the lift by matching its speed. Once engaged, there was no jarring slip-back to rack the coconuts of riders and undue stress on the chain was avoided. The one danger to this practice involved a terrifying phenomenon called “Riding The Barrel,” which was what happened when the prongs on the train bottom failed to fall into the chain link, instead somehow straddling the big, fat couplets of each link. At some point during the two story climb, a distinct burning smell was the alarming clue to hang on as the whole train slammed backwards one inch – just enough to create a large banging noise and make white-knuckle jockies out of the entire train.

With a foot on the deadman switch, it was “first gear” as tracks gained altitude out of the colorful stalagmite and stalagtite chamber (“Sure are pretty, ain’t they?”) The switch, literally meant as a safety device in case the operator croaked, allows the electric motor to engage in three different gears. Top speed: maybe three feet per second. Just enough to haul the train up past elevators filled with fake gold, more flannel-wrapped dummies and bandsaws, past the tape-recorded sounds of machinery and the shouts of hardy men, riding twin rails on a very small scale, not connected to the track but resting on top as traditional trains do. Smokestack and cab top seemingly just missing the tunnel ceilings in places.

“Well, we’re coming out over this rickety old trestle now, it was built back in 1873 and I tell ya, I always breathe a whole lot easier once I get across to other side.” The tension-building highlight of the trip involved traversing a seemingly perilous outdoor trestle, sniping by a waterfall and squeezing under an over-hanging rock formation. It also served as a visual checkpoint to see if there was a train at the unloading dock down below. If everything was working as scheduled, the train was already unloaded and beginning to move forward on the L-shaped track towards the covered loading dock. If someone was poking along ahead of you (usually a senior operator giving you a hard time), it made for lots of waiting for green block lights. Sometimes late at night when only two of the six trains were operating, certain ride ops would give passengers who requested them “Love Tours”, extra long journeys into the mountain with no narration by the engineer. The normally eight-minute ride could be stretched to over 20 minutes on days of thin attendance.

After getting clearance from the unloading dock, the track headed back into the gunnite mountain, into the musty darkness, passing the multi-level Glory Hole once again and picking up speed. Here, the track goes downhill again, becoming steeper and steeper, so “second gear” is suggested in order to act as a dynamic brake. Signs warn of “Blasting Ahead!” and as the train shoots deeper into the darkness, red lights and warning alarms begin to wail. This is where everyone wakes up. The guide is screaming “get down on the floor of the cars!” and there’s a tinny explosion sound as the final stretch of track is negotiated. Plastic-fabricated timbers split slowly overhead, cued by obvious bursts of compressed air, and flashing lights underscore the drama with reds and yellows in the shape of flames. When the skid brakes are applied at the end of that flat stretch, the train slows down a bit to negotiate the quick right turn that leads outside into the daylight. It always flings people around in their seats.

“Whoo-ee, that sure was close,” goes the scritchy miner voice. “Let me see if everyone got out okay.” Counting the cars as they appeared one-by-one out of the mountain, the engineer would always make a joke. “We lost the people in the sixth car! Oh, wait – that’s alright, they’re all on the floor.” Cheesy, to be sure – but worth a smile. Not nearly as thrilling as when it debuted in 1960, the explosion tunnel sequence was almost embarassing in its lameness during the summer of 1988. Seasoned operators, however, had a way of spicing up this section of the ride, much to the chagrin of some seasoned ride supervisors. This involved throwing the train into “third gear” off of the trestle, gaining as much speed as possible and then slamming the lever into neutral to disengage the dynamic braking. By the time the warning klaxons began hooting, the whole train would be hauling ass at a very real rate, causing passengers to grip onto the sides of the train and utter nervous screams of distress. Since the last stretch of track was straight, one could simply allow the train to obtain maximum speed about forty feet from the quick turn to the right and then practically sit on the skid brakes to bring the train to a screeching reduction of speed. The unloading dock was wide-open and in plain view of not only the loading dock, but also the mountain and the midway. So if you were cruisin’ illegally and came busting out of the tunnel, everyone would be able to see you and know that you were way out of line. Of course, the reason that they discouraged hot-rodding through the so-called “explosion tunnel” was the fact that the trains were not held to the tracks like rollercoasters. That curve taken too fast could easily result in a serious derailment.

“Does someone get killed in this story?”

“No. But lots of people almost get killed. I almost get killed. That’s basically what this is all leading up to. I think that this, what I’m about to tell you now, is the event that inspired that dream about the singing and the mountain.”

“Aaaah. Thanks for the heading. That’s very good.”

Derailing and rolling is bad for open-air train cars, especially when the roll will take them down a mountain and into the middle of a fairway. Ride lore tells the tale of a young ride operator, fresh to the Calico Mine Ride, who jammed it a little too hard in the explosion tunnel, barely held it on the tracks going around the hairpin turn and the engine had gone up on the left side wheels. The engine roof struck the fake rock-work and tore through it, but deflected the train and sent it crashing back down upon the tracks and out of the mountain. The collision tore a football sized chunk out of the gunnite wall and was only filled in sometime after I had been on the ride. For years, it stood as a vivid reminder of why the corner should be taken slowly.

One day, it’s pissing down rain and we’re not moving a lot of passengers, so only two trains are on the circuit. One of them is being pulled by a hoary old bitch named Number 6 which was the first engine built and is the heaviest piece of tin on the line. The loading dock is sheltered, the tiny office with its block light indicators and cameras; the warmest place to stand. There are three of us up there, a supervisor, a greeter and the engineer of Number 3. I was told to go relieve someone who had just pulled up to the unload dock in Number 6. I moaned, not wanting to drive that tank. It was anything but enjoyable and had a habit of squealing and groaning horribly in the rain. The “red badge” pulled rank and I slunked off to take the controls of the hated beast.

The engineer was a newbie, getting a lunch break, which meant that I would be taking this hunk of shit around and through the mountain at least seven or eight times, depending on how long of a lunch he took. “Have fun,” he cooed, running down the stairs. I leered after him for a moment and then stepped into the engine noticing that the bastard had overshot by two feet. He should be working Wheeler Dealer Bumper Cars. Sitting down and releasing the emergency brake, I slipped the gear level up a notch and the train honked forward, wet iron scraping and scronking against wet iron, wheels thudding along the rails and iron-clad doors swinging open and floating over the approaching loading dock. I’m careful to use the squeeze brake, since the third rails are wet from the rain. Train stops, chain drops, cars fill, doors locked, spiel started, bell rung, metal plate at front of train floats over a limit switch in the track and triggers the mournful and familiar wail that signals the start of each trip and we’re cruising into the mountain. For the most part, I regularly gave an S.O.P. tour, keeping it at eight minutes in length and refraining from any inspired variations from the script (like the popular “why some of these caverns are so deep, one day I fell in and never came out.”) However, I was tired of seeing young kids and their parents stepping off of the ride saying “that was boring”, so I joined the elite league of Explosion Tunnel Demons.

The real demons aren’t in your head. They are REAL.

I was pretty good at it too, the building up of the speed, the mad ringing of the bell and the maniacal screaming into the microphone to add even more tension. I dragged out the speed to the very end and then leapt upon the skid brake like a WWF villain, easing up just enough for our exit to appear completely legal as the train hit the right turn and spilled out of the mountain, cozying up to the unloading dock platform. More than a few times, I had wondered what it would be like to crack up, to not use the skid brake and just ride that puppy out. And sometimes, I pushed it just a little. You know, to see how far I could take it. I would actually get a mental image of those 60 people in my head and then, eyes focused intently on the approaching mountain wall, I’d squeeze down on that brake and hold it as the wheels locked up and the engine rocketed around the curve with a gusto. Passengers would whoop and holler, clap their hands, scream, laugh and whistle. They often came right back around and asked for my tours specifically. I flashed back to the present. As I rang the bell and used the squeeze brake on the outside trestle, I noticed that it was so dead in the park, Number 3 hadn’t even left the station yet. I was clear for my run.

Shoving the lever all the way up to “third gear”, the wheels spun a bit as we pulled off of the trestle and headed back into the mountain. “Well, looks like I made it, I sure hope you do. But if you don’t, well – I’ll be thinkin’ about ya!” Much of the script was like this, with enough corn to feed a circus. But I liked the next part of the spiel, because it set up the next sequence pretty well. If you sold it like a pro, you could get children to scream and cry.

“We’re heading down into one of the newer sections of the mine, been doing a lot of dangerous blasting down there, so just in case they start to blast – just lay yourselves right down on yer bellies on the floor of those cars.”

At this point, the train is nosing down to the right, past the Glory Hole, past ladders and trenches and rock crushing machines and more robots, then the big warning signs and lights flashing and I’ve got this old bitch rockin’ – the rear cars are swinging into the angular curves of the descent, causing the heads in back to bob back and forth. The low ceilings and tight walls of the tunnel rush by in an ever-quickening blur, tinged with blood red shades from the lights. The soundtrack effects kick in and I start pulling hell out of the bell cord CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!, screaming “OHMYGODWE’REGONNADIE!!” and I look back to see the fake rocks swinging out on cables and the plastic wood breaking in the mine collapse, heads of passengers ducking down under their seats, children howling, parents guiltily yucking it up, thinking that it was never this good back in the day and I turn around to nail the brakes, leaning on them with my customary force. Nothing happens. It’s like they’re not even there.

HolyshitI’vedoneit, motherfucker before me used the skid brakes when he pulled up at the unloading dock, remember – the train was overshot – these skid brakes are all slicked up. you’re dead and you’re taking these people with you

I didn’t want to die, I didn’t want those people to die, not because of some stupid newbie! But here we were – over two tons of hurtling metal, wood and flesh, doing about fifteen feet per second, heading for a hairpin curve with the main brake system fucked. Newbies would not have thought up my solution. I threw the lever into reverse, sending the drive wheels spinning backwards. I grabbed the squeeze brake and jammed it to its tightest setting – this activated the disc which gripped the rail, then I let up my grip on the skid brake and brought it back down again with a grunt. The train was still at maximum speed, the fastest I had ever done the run. Suddenly, mountain wall was filling most of my view of the approaching landscape, we were still smoking and not at all prepared for a sharp right turn. Thirty feet, record speed. Twenty feet, half the length of the train, whatistherebutteronthetracks? Jesus, I feel like I’m bending the heavy silver bar of the skid brake and I’m trying to continue the show for guests, lest they realize that they were all about to perish on an amusement park ride.

“Whoooooeeee!” I scream as we slam around the curve and I look at the approaching mountainside, turn my head towards the loading dock and see one of my cooler supervisors walking with another ride operator. They took one look at the runaway train and comically, eyes popping, leaped into the air and began hot-footing it for the end of the dock. With questioning eyes, my supervisor grabs onto a brass railing decorating the front of the engine and, digging his boots into the wooden platform planks, attempts to drag the train to a halt. The operator likewise grabs a hold of the wooden engineer’s shelter and the two flannel-clad men struggled with the hurtling cars as I continued to spiel. Up ahead, we were running out of space and the train parked at load was still loading guests, seemingly unaware of the out-of-control torpedo behind them.. Connecting the two platforms was a set of stairs, which meant that the Flintstones pair were running out of dock to drag their feet along. “Let’s see, there’s one, two, three, four, five…..” I shouted into the microphone, wildly grabbing the emergency brake handle and squeezing it with a jerking motion. “Did we lose the last car? Oh my god!” A quick glance showed me that the train was having a swell time, further amused by the seemingly comic antics of my supervisor and the ride operator, who funnily enough, was scheduled to take my place. I’ll bet he was re-thinking this plan of action now. We had been gradually losing momentum and I noticed as we rolled past the end of the dock, that as the hands slipped off of the train, by my own hand – the train finally stopped not two feet from the rear of Number 3. Popping the train into reverse, I concluded my spiel while the two men opened my doors and let the groups of gasping, laughing people out. When the last one had spilled down the stairways, the supervisor walked up and looked at me carefully before asking calmly, “what happened?” I told him that I suspected a newbie of using the skid brakes in the rain before I got the train. He countered with “they should’ve been dry by the time you hit the chain lift.” Good point, the brakes are used continuously for the first half of the trip. What if he had used the skid brakes on the bridge, which was outside in the rain, instead of the emergency brake? Then, by using the brakes in the explosion tunnel, he could’ve left a little water slick for…

“Were you jammin’ it?” he asks. I’m busted.

“Yes.”

“I used to do it too, key phrase being ‘used to.’ Don’t let me catch you doing it again.”

Done deal. I never flew as an Explosion Tunnel Demon again – that looking in the face of Death was enough to break me of the habit.

“I think that was the first time that I really thought about death. The implications of it, the inability to have this ‘now’ anymore. Though I didn’t know why the ‘now’ was so important.

“And how does that relate to your dream?”

“I think I’m dying on that mountaintop. I think that’s what it’s going to feel like. The voice is like the aural tunnel through which I’m traveling, that’s why I can’t see the child singing. The sound is everywhere, it’s all up in me, it’s freaking my body out, it connects to some moist spot on my back. How do I get there? There’s no prologue, no history, no explanation.”

“How often do you dream?”

All the time.

“Once, twice, do you dream at all?”

Those aren’t dreams, those are memories. I was a king, 16th century. I got what I wanted. Probably got what I deserved. My lesson has not been learned and I’m afraid of the justice, the karma, whatever.

“Do you want to stop, you look tired.”

“Why would I want to stop?”

“You’re tired, you’re sort of zoning out on me.”

“Oh. Sorry. What was the question?”

“How often do you dream per night?”

“I don’t know, maybe about five or six, vividly.”

“You keep a dream journal?”

“Yes.”

“Would you be comfortable sharing some of that with me, or would you rather not? Not now, but next time that you’re here.”

“Next time, I’ll bring it.”

We said our goodbyes and I paid the receptionist, stepped out of my fantasy world and looked over at Jae, who was enjoying a beer.

“What are you doing?”

“Thinking.”

She squinted her eyes at me in the bright Key West sun and smiled.

“Thinking, hmm?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “Thinking.”

(to be continued)