and I'll feast on the highway but I'll dream about the door
An oversized barrel-cherry red stripes zigzagging on daffodil yellow-rotates at the entrance to the funhouse, itself an arresting sight. The exterior’s been painted in a chaotic mishmash of styles (ornate, cartoonish, folksy, romantic, inept) and colors. On windy days the flags that bristle from the roof snap in the breeze.
Inside, dark passageways link rooms whose floors skew at perilous angles, rooms with floorboards that jerk to and fro, rooms whose floors collapse an inch or two at the tread of a foot. There are metal grates with air jets lurking beneath them, ready to send gusts up the skirts or pant legs of the unsuspecting. And, of course, the hall of mirrors-that maze of warped glass, reflection piling on reflection. Unlike some it can’t be “solved”; there’s no trick to it, unless wandering aimlessly is a trick.
The journey ends with a slide, a two-story tongue of polished wood steep enough to send a thrill through even the veteran slidegoer. Beside it sits a staircase-for use by the cautious and whoever maintains the place-and it’s this the man descends. Night’s fallen, if just barely, and neon dapples his navy suit. His dark hair is slicked back-in fact, everything about him seems slick, imperturbable, although closer inspection would reveal some stubble about his cheeks, some weariness about his eyes.
The instant he stands on solid earth Don Draper raises his glass and finishes off his drink.
Inside, dark passageways link rooms whose floors skew at perilous angles, rooms with floorboards that jerk to and fro, rooms whose floors collapse an inch or two at the tread of a foot. There are metal grates with air jets lurking beneath them, ready to send gusts up the skirts or pant legs of the unsuspecting. And, of course, the hall of mirrors-that maze of warped glass, reflection piling on reflection. Unlike some it can’t be “solved”; there’s no trick to it, unless wandering aimlessly is a trick.
The journey ends with a slide, a two-story tongue of polished wood steep enough to send a thrill through even the veteran slidegoer. Beside it sits a staircase-for use by the cautious and whoever maintains the place-and it’s this the man descends. Night’s fallen, if just barely, and neon dapples his navy suit. His dark hair is slicked back-in fact, everything about him seems slick, imperturbable, although closer inspection would reveal some stubble about his cheeks, some weariness about his eyes.
The instant he stands on solid earth Don Draper raises his glass and finishes off his drink.