She continued her darning. He looked around for a moment, dropped the Funnies noisily to get attention, and then announced in his Now For The Big Surprise voice: "How 'bout let's all of us going to a movie? How 'bout it? Let's all take in a movie!"

Ten minutes later we're all in the Oldsmobile, on our way to see Johnny Weismuller.

The drizzle had become a full rain by the time I realized I was the only one left in the windswept garden of the Museum of Modern Art. The lights were on inside, warm and glowing, and I could see a pink arm reaching skyward. I went back in to have another last, loving look at IT HASN'T SCRATCHED YET IT HASN'T SCRATCHED YET.

XI

FLICK MAKES AN ARTISTIC JUDGMENT FLICK MAKES AN ARTISTIC JUDGMENT "How come they called it that?"

I laughed my notorious ironic cackle: "It's some kind of soap or something."

"You mean they named a statue after soap?" soap?"

Flick squeezed his bar rag juicily onto the duckboards behind the mahogany. I had a vague feeling that the beer was beginning to get to me.

"Well...it's a slogan."

Behind us, all around us, everywhere, the jukebox boomed heavily and then stopped abruptly.

"Fer Chrissake, I can't see why they named a statue after soap."

"Well, I told you, you gotta be With It."

"Nuts."

Once again I was reminded forcibly that I was back in the Midwest, very far from the effete East.

An uproar broke out in one of the booths back in the gloom near the wall. Two structural ironworkers were loudly Indian-wrestling.

"I'll be right back."

Flick's jaw squared as he darted from behind the bar. I watched in the mirror as he quelled the battle, fed the combatants two more boilermakers, and returned.

"I'm not as tough as I used to be," said Flick matter-of-factly. "I argue more these days."

I remembered the day well when Flick in his salad period had thrown three Tin Mill Reckoners out on the street in quick succession, which is the Hohman equivalent of taking on King Kong, Gargantua, and Gorgeous George simultaneously.

"I noticed they stopped," I said.

"Well, they're on my bowling team. They'd better."

We sat silently for a moment as old friends will when in the midst of a reminiscing orgy. Flick slid another beer toward me.

"That reminds me, Flick. Is it still where it used to be?"

"Yep."

A minute later I was back at the bar, ready for more action and more beer. A faint snow was falling from the lead-colored skies. The wind rattled the plate gla.s.s windows of Flick's Tavern. Across the street the plastic streamers snapped and fluttered over the rows of like-new, mint-condition, creampuff, fully loaded, ready-to-go-specials. The Used-Car lot is a kind of shrine in Northern Indiana.

"You mean girls ride motorcycles motorcycles in New York?" in New York?"

"That is not all all they do." they do."

"Boy. New York sure sounds like a crazy place. I wanted to take my wife to see the Fair, but I couldn't get away."

"You didn't miss much."

Flick snapped a pretzel in two, moodily.

"Just the same, I'd a liked to have gone. I sure remember that one they had in Chicago."

"Oh come on, Flick. We were just little tiny kids."

"Yeah. But I remember it."

I sipped my beer and thought about that for a few seconds.

"You know, Flick, I read somewhere that John Dillinger, the old bank robber, used to go to that fair and ride the Sky Ride, between heists."

"I'll be d.a.m.ned. He was from Indiana, wasn't he?" Flick's Hoosier pride welled to the surface.

"You're d.a.m.n right, Flick. You know, I remember only one thing about that fair."

XII

THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN Right there on the Lake, next to the Outer Drive, they began to build a model of Fort Sheridan. This was a fort that was operating during Indian times on the site of Chicago. It was the scene of several very b.l.o.o.d.y Indian battles. And here they were once again putting this fort together log by log in a perfect reproduction of the original. It sat there looking out over the cold blue water, and you could see it from the car. It was brown and low, and looked like it was made out of Lincoln Logs. To a kid, forts are very big things. I asked my father, driving the Olds: "What is that?"

"Fort Sheridan."

"Oh."

"Yup. They're building a World's Fair."

At that time the sh.o.r.e stretched empty and white, with little tufts of gra.s.s here and there, almost to the Fields Museum and down to the cold water, with only Fort Sheridan in the middle of the emptiness.

And, sure enough, a World's Fair began to grow. It spread outward like a mushroom patch from the tiny fort, and grew and grew and grew. Month by month, year by year, great blue and yellow and orange buildings right out of the land of Oz blotted out the Lake, until the tiny fort disappeared behind them all. Mile after mile was covered with this fantasy, this wonderland, this land of real, genuine, absolute Magic.

And I lived in a land that was eminently, very very unmagical. The least magic of all neighbhorhoods, a pure Oatmeal neighborhood-lumpy Oatmeal. And so the idea and the vision of the World's Fair began to be a true Fairyland. The Emerald City had come to the South Side.

It took hold of my imagination until there was room for nothing else, and I was not alone. All the newspapers ran stories, tremendous reams of copy, wondrous descriptions of what it was going to be like, this Shangri-La right there on the sh.o.r.es of Lake Michigan. And then the story began to spread about a special Kid thing that was going to be at the Fair. This Something grabbed me by the ankles and dragged me right into the vortex, and I will never forget it. It was a tremendous thing in my life. Treasure Island!

Treasure Island was a tiny World's Fair within the World's Fair. There was the Hall of Science, the Hall of Communications, the Hall of Man; all these great, wonderful halls that were dedicated to the proposition that Man was the most magnificent thing in the world, and that he was just beginning. A Century Of Progress! Over the horizon was even more magnificence and greatness, and in the middle of it all-Treasure Island!

The Tribune Tribune printed pictures of Treasure Island and told how it was going to be. I clipped them out and saved them, tons of them. One day I would be there myself. printed pictures of Treasure Island and told how it was going to be. I clipped them out and saved them, tons of them. One day I would be there myself.

This was a time in history before television, and kids didn't go to the movies very much because movies cost money and over the land lay the Depression. It was not not just another show in a succession of shows. It just another show in a succession of shows. It was was Treasure Island! Treasure Island!

Spring came, and the day approached when the Fair was to open. Already the flags were flying. The Avenue of Flags. We would drive past in the Oldsmobile and try to see through the modernistic fence, and we could catch glimpses of Martian landscapes and golden paG.o.das. It was a magnificent sight outlined against the blue water of the Lake.

During the Depression it rained a lot, and things were gray and there were a lot of fistfights, but then, suddenly, this! this!

One bright Sunday the Fair actually opened. There were speeches and parades, and I sat next to the radio and listened to everything that happened. The word was out that we would go "when the weather got warmer." At least that was the explanation my brother and I got. No one talked to us much about money.

The Fair was all that anyone talked about for weeks, and a couple of my cousins had actually been been there. It was impossible even to talk to them about it. They were speechless. They were like veterans of some indescribable war. They could understand each other, but we who hadn't been there were on the outside. there. It was impossible even to talk to them about it. They were speechless. They were like veterans of some indescribable war. They could understand each other, but we who hadn't been there were on the outside.

I would ask: "How about Treasure Island? The Magic Mountain? How about it? What was it like?"

They would just look at each other. What can you say?

Our time finally came. I am in the Fair! I am looking at the flags, and I see the great Halls of Science. I am a tiny, tiny squirt, but it made a colossal impression on me, the first truly immense impression of my life.

Green, yellow, gold, orange buildings! The Skyride! The unreal Fantasy World's Fair architecture. World's Fair buildings have no relationship to real buildings. It was truly beyond all my expectations, whatever they were. It was was the Emerald City. Nothing was real, nothing, not even the people. Everything was just swirling around me-lights and colors and sounds and funny, sweet food, and more excitement than I could stand. And then, Treasure Island! the Emerald City. Nothing was real, nothing, not even the people. Everything was just swirling around me-lights and colors and sounds and funny, sweet food, and more excitement than I could stand. And then, Treasure Island!

And right in the middle of Treasure Island, the vortex, the center, and as far as I was concerned the reason reason for the entire World's Fair-The Magic Mountain! I had never heard of Thomas Mann at that point. This mountain had certain parallels with Thomas Mann's for the entire World's Fair-The Magic Mountain! I had never heard of Thomas Mann at that point. This mountain had certain parallels with Thomas Mann's Magic Mountain Magic Mountain that did not become apparent until later. that did not become apparent until later.

Treasure Island was a true island. There was water all around it, with little boats and swans, and Indian canoes and rocky grottoes, and even a pirate ship riding at anchor. Everything great, all in one place. Everything that kids want to see was there.

I am just absolutely out of my skull. I am wild. The sun is shining down, the birds are singing, Kid music is playing; it is all there.

And right in the middle of it, the Magic Mountain, rising high up into the sky, six or seven, maybe even ten stories high. It's made out of that stuff that they build fantasies of. It's made of whatever they make things out of that they're going to knock down in a year. It had snow painted 'way up there near the summit. It was a real mountain. A mountain, in the Midwest, is really a mountain mountain mountain. They don't have mountains in the Midwest, except in stories and cowboy movies, and here is a real mountain. My kid brother and I just couldn't believe it. mountain. They don't have mountains in the Midwest, except in stories and cowboy movies, and here is a real mountain. My kid brother and I just couldn't believe it.

Only kids were allowed on the Magic Mountain. No grownups, even mothers, just kids. Kids under ten. We went in through the turnstiles and got in line, a long line of kids, jostling cheek by jowl, snaking into the Magic Mountain.

The line led onto a ramp that wound its way in a spiral round and round the sides of the mountain, and up and up. Slowly we climbed, higher and higher. I'm wondering what's happening to the kids at the top. I can hardly wait.

About every thirty or forty feet there's an attendant on the ramp, wearing a red cap and a blue jacket.

"Come on, you kids. Move along there. Straighten up. Come on, straighten up that line. Dress it up. Come on, you kids, quit shovin'. You, there. Hey, cut it out. Move along."

And so we inched along slowly, higher and higher. I am looking down over the railing from a tremendous height, maybe ten stories high above the Fair. I can see all the people down below, like ants. My mother is way down there. Flags flying. What a great thing!

I am hanging onto the railing and moving upward, my kid brother right behind, until finally, the last turn and I am at the summit-a flat wooden platform. There was only one kid ahead of me. And the Chief Attendant He was taking each kid as they arrived on top of the platform, pushing him, shoving him into a dark doorway. A dark doorway, like a cave into the side of the mountain, right up at the very peak, where the snow was painted on. He grabs this skinny kid ahead of me by the shoulders and gives him a shove into the darkness.

"AAAAIIIIIIIIII!" And the kid is gone!

I am facing this black door. Alone! This is the moment I have been waiting for for maybe two or three years. I am at the core of my entire life. I have been building my existence on this, and now I am terrified. It's a black hole! Just a black hole! Nothing!

The guy with the cap grabs my shoulders."

Come on, kid. Move."

"NO! NO!" Remember, I'm five or six.

"NO! NO!"

"Come on, kid, get in there. You're holding up the line."

He shoves me. I am in a hollow tube, a black, inky hollow tube, flat on my back. I start moving. Faster and faster in the darkness! A thousand miles a minute, round and round and round!

"AAAIIIiiii!" I'm spinning round and round in total blackness. I can't catch my breath. I'm getting green, purple, red. Faster and Faster!

zzzwwooooomp! I shoot out feet first in the sunlight, onto a pad.

"Aaaaiiiiiii!" Immediately another guy with a cap on grabs me and shoves a red plastic fire hat on my head, with a sign on it: "ED WYNN, The Texaco Fire Chief!"

"Get moving, kid, here comes another one."

I could hear coming out of the black hole behind me: "Aaiiiiiiiiiii!"

My brother flew out. Purple and green.

"Klonk." The fire hat on his head.

"Aiiiiiiiiii!" Another kid shoots out into the sunlight.

"Klonk." Another fire hat.

We went out through the turnstile together. And there was my mother, eating a taffy apple.

"How was it?"

How was it! I have never been able to tell her. I have never been able to tell her about the Magic Mountain. It was then that I began to learn about dreams, that center hard core of dreams.

"Get in there, kid, you're holding up the line."

XIII

FLICK DREDGES UP A NOTORIOUS SON OF A b.i.t.c.h FLICK DREDGES UP A NOTORIOUS SON OF A b.i.t.c.h "Do you remember that robot they had at the Fair?" Flick asked.

"What robot?"

"Well, they had this robot. That smoked cigars. My Old Man took me to see it. That's the only thing I remember."

"That's the way it is with fairs. You never know what you'll remember." Beer brings out the philosopher in me.

The two ironworkers were now having a loud artistic argument in front of the jukebox. The boilermakers had done their work well. Flick's blue jaw tightened and once again he left the bar to go into combat. I watched from the corner of my eye as he loomed over the truculent music lovers. A few seconds later, all was peace as the two were eased out of the side door and into the cold air. Flick returned to his station and slapped his bar rag angrily into the bra.s.s trough.