“Because they can.”
“It must be so weird for you.”
I told her it was like living in a world with dragons.
She frowned for a moment, then gave me a wan smile andgazed out at the street. “I hate Beverly Hills, anyway. People are so stuck up.”
“Mmm.” I didn’t care where I was, really. I was mostly just glad to be off my feet, to be back in air-conditioning again and buzzing merrily along on caffeine and sugar.
“Let’s go home and change.”
“You just did.”
“Into something casual, I mean.”
“I thought this was our elegant day.”
“Well…” She looked down at her pale-peach blouse and white linen skirt. “I guess we could wear this there.”
“Where?”
Her eyes were avoiding me.
“Where, Renee?”
“Icon?”
“Why would we go there?”
“You know…”
It took me a while to get it, maybe because I’d blocked it out: the brand-new Mr. Woods ride was being launched to great fanfare and heavy press at Icon Studios this week. Renee and I had seen a big story about it on Entertainment Tonight —with Charlton Heston and Nancy Reagan climbing out of the fucking thing. The mythology that required yours truly to remain invisible at all costs has found a lucrative new life in the Valley as a high-class midway attraction. Try to imagine my excitement.
“I know you think it’s dumb,” said Renee.
“It’ll be hideously crowded.”
“Maybe not.”
“What does the ride do, anyway?”
“I dunno,” she said. “I think they fly you over the woods.”
“I hate theme parks, Renee. I really do. I loathe and despise them. Couldn’t you go with Lorrie or somebody?” (That’s her friend from work.)
“Please, Cady. It wouldn’t be any fun without you.”
I knew I was doomed to lose, so I told her I would go, with two provisions: that we go straight to the ride and leave as soon as the ride was over and that she not reveal my identity to a living soul while we were there. The last thing I needed was for her to trot out my tired elfin credentials for some flat-butted Lutheran family on vacation.
Icon Studios, I should tell you, is within spitting distance of my house in Studio City. It’s built on the side of the mountain, on two levels, with a connecting escalator that looks like a giant Lucite rodent run. The lower level is really two operations, a working studio and a theme park, with almost no connection to each other. The hordes of tourists who troop through the park each year to cluck over the family photos in “Fleet Parker’s Dressing Room” have no more chance of meeting the star himself than they do of meeting the real Mickey Mouse at Disneyland. The place is plastic on plastic, an illusion about an illusion.
I hadn’t been to the park in almost seven years. Mom and I took Aunt Edie there, at her request, on her first visit to L.A.—it’s that sort of place. It was much as I’d remembered it, just as soul-deadening, certainly. The plodding, Necco-colored people on the rodent run were what I tend to think of when I hear the term New World Order. Renee ran interference when the crowd got too thick, but it was slow going most of the time. The air was stale and muggy under the blurred white sky, and there were way too many children off leashes for my taste. We headed straight for a soda stand as soon as we reached the lower level. I’d already had quite enough.
Renee stooped to hand me my Diet Coke float. “Are you doin’ OK?”
“I preferred the dog,” I said.
“Cady.”
“I’m kidding.” I licked the foam on the edge of the float.
“I want you to like this,” she said.
“I love this.”
“I mean the Mr. Woods Adventure.”
I grinned into the foam. “How long is the line?”
“Not long.”
“I bet there’s a lot more you can’t see.”
I was right, but I didn’t rub it in. For almost half an hour all I saw was poles and legs, poles and legs, as several hundred of the faithful were led through an elaborate cattle chute for
“It must be so weird for you.”
I told her it was like living in a world with dragons.
She frowned for a moment, then gave me a wan smile andgazed out at the street. “I hate Beverly Hills, anyway. People are so stuck up.”
“Mmm.” I didn’t care where I was, really. I was mostly just glad to be off my feet, to be back in air-conditioning again and buzzing merrily along on caffeine and sugar.
“Let’s go home and change.”
“You just did.”
“Into something casual, I mean.”
“I thought this was our elegant day.”
“Well…” She looked down at her pale-peach blouse and white linen skirt. “I guess we could wear this there.”
“Where?”
Her eyes were avoiding me.
“Where, Renee?”
“Icon?”
“Why would we go there?”
“You know…”
It took me a while to get it, maybe because I’d blocked it out: the brand-new Mr. Woods ride was being launched to great fanfare and heavy press at Icon Studios this week. Renee and I had seen a big story about it on Entertainment Tonight —with Charlton Heston and Nancy Reagan climbing out of the fucking thing. The mythology that required yours truly to remain invisible at all costs has found a lucrative new life in the Valley as a high-class midway attraction. Try to imagine my excitement.
“I know you think it’s dumb,” said Renee.
“It’ll be hideously crowded.”
“Maybe not.”
“What does the ride do, anyway?”
“I dunno,” she said. “I think they fly you over the woods.”
“I hate theme parks, Renee. I really do. I loathe and despise them. Couldn’t you go with Lorrie or somebody?” (That’s her friend from work.)
“Please, Cady. It wouldn’t be any fun without you.”
I knew I was doomed to lose, so I told her I would go, with two provisions: that we go straight to the ride and leave as soon as the ride was over and that she not reveal my identity to a living soul while we were there. The last thing I needed was for her to trot out my tired elfin credentials for some flat-butted Lutheran family on vacation.
Icon Studios, I should tell you, is within spitting distance of my house in Studio City. It’s built on the side of the mountain, on two levels, with a connecting escalator that looks like a giant Lucite rodent run. The lower level is really two operations, a working studio and a theme park, with almost no connection to each other. The hordes of tourists who troop through the park each year to cluck over the family photos in “Fleet Parker’s Dressing Room” have no more chance of meeting the star himself than they do of meeting the real Mickey Mouse at Disneyland. The place is plastic on plastic, an illusion about an illusion.
I hadn’t been to the park in almost seven years. Mom and I took Aunt Edie there, at her request, on her first visit to L.A.—it’s that sort of place. It was much as I’d remembered it, just as soul-deadening, certainly. The plodding, Necco-colored people on the rodent run were what I tend to think of when I hear the term New World Order. Renee ran interference when the crowd got too thick, but it was slow going most of the time. The air was stale and muggy under the blurred white sky, and there were way too many children off leashes for my taste. We headed straight for a soda stand as soon as we reached the lower level. I’d already had quite enough.
Renee stooped to hand me my Diet Coke float. “Are you doin’ OK?”
“I preferred the dog,” I said.
“Cady.”
“I’m kidding.” I licked the foam on the edge of the float.
“I want you to like this,” she said.
“I love this.”
“I mean the Mr. Woods Adventure.”
I grinned into the foam. “How long is the line?”
“Not long.”
“I bet there’s a lot more you can’t see.”
I was right, but I didn’t rub it in. For almost half an hour all I saw was poles and legs, poles and legs, as several hundred of the faithful were led through an elaborate cattle chute for
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