Treasures of the Emerald City
by VATERGrrl
The postcard arrived in the mail just after lunch, the postman knocking on the door of the Carlson home rather than simply placing all the day's mail in the box.
"Here you go, Miss." The grizzled old postman grinned, revealing a few missing teeth. "I don't usually read the backs of postcards, it's against regulations, you know, but this one just jumped out at me. Glad I saw it, too. Happy birthday!"
He placed a stack of mail into the outstretched hands of Lynn Carlson, and then tipped his hat to her, leaving her to stare speechlessly at him as he walked back down the porch steps and into his small postal jeep. The postcard had been placed writing side up, and Lynn scanned it as she distractedly closed the door behind her.
"Have you been trolling around for an adventure on your birthday? Then quit Stalin' and go Free yourself in the Emerald City's only neighborhood to declare itself an independent country. I'm Still Waiting for you."
Lynn flipped the postcard over and saw the image of the famous Seattle statue "Waiting for the Interurban," (http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/getaways/101096/intr30_top.html) a public art project in the hip and radical Freemont District that college kids from the nearby universities had adopted as one of their own, dressing up the morose gray figures for various festive occasions: beads and trinkets for Mardi Gras, bunny ears on Easter, and the obligatory robes for graduation day. In the dead of winter, people would wrap scarves around the figures' necks, and pull stocking caps down over their heads, as if they could feel the cold winds coming off of Lake Union.
"What on earth?" Lynn flipped the card over again to read it, but she didn't recognize the handwriting.
"Oh, did the mail come? Here, I'll take it and sort it." Joanne Carlson wandered into the foyer to check on the mail, having heard the door open and close.
"Uhm, Mom, look at this." Lynn held out the card to her mother, who squinted at it.
"Let me get my glasses, then I can read it." Joanne rummaged in the drawer of the foyer table for a pair of reading glasses, then scanned the card.
"Oh, the Interurban! I just love that statue." She smiled fondly, then handed the card back to her daughter.
"But, Mom, the postcard says I'm supposed to go there and meet - oh, jeez, I don't know who I'm supposed to meet."
"Well, why not go there and find out?"
Lynn could hardly believe her ears. After Scott had raped her, Joanne was the first person to be suspicious of everyone and everything, advising her daughter to not accept ride from strangers, to not walk around in the city after dark. And now, she was recommending that Lynn go off on some sort of wild goose chase? Impossible.
"You can take my cell phone, and if something happens, you can give me a call, okay? I'll be here all afternoon, making your favorite birthday cake."
Lynn perked up at the thought of the cake, vanilla cherry chip cake from a mix, and cherry frosting from a can. It was the same cake her mother had made every year since she could remember, two simple layers covered with pink frosting, with an increasing number of candles stuck in it as the years went on. Even though her mother had become a better cook over the years, and they could have easily afforded to buy a cake from the nicest bakery in town, Lynn insisted on the cake every year as a cherished tradition.
"Welll," Lynn hedged. Something in her did want to get out and explore the city again, and the promise of spending time with Cory was certainly appealing. Since he'd started his residency at Children's, they'd had little time to be together; even on the days he wasn't on call, he was exhausted, and slept for long stretches to rejuvenate himself.
"Go, have fun. Enjoy yourself."
"Okay." Lynn accepted the cell phone her mother offered, tucking it into her large back purse. Her Honda Civic had a full tank of gas, she was already wearing tennis shoes, and it was a nice, warm summer day, with the golden glow of the sun permeating everything. That in itself was a minor miracle in Seattle, so she was determined to enjoy the day, wherever it took her.
The drive from Lynn's home to the Freemont District was relatively easy, all of the office workers having returned to their work places after lunch, and she was able to find a metered spot right across from the Freemont Bridge, a big orange monstrosity that regularly stalled traffic when it lifted up and separated into two halves to allow tall-masted sailboats into Lake Union and Eliot Bay.
Lynn spotted her best friend, Heather Williams, squatting next to the statue's dog, an odd part of the sculpture as it had a human face. The other figures were decked out in garish Hawaiian shirts and plastic leis, one of the figures holding a small, rainbow-colored pinwheel that rotated slowly in the light breeze.
"Hey, girlfriend!" Heather stood up from her crouch to hug her friend, her dark mocha face beaming. "I'm so glad you made it!"
"Me, too." Seeing Heather's enthusiasm made all of Lynn's fears melt away, and she was glad she'd allowed herself to be persuaded to take the chance of this treasure hunt.
"So, what brings you here?" Lynn asked, leaning up against the figure with the pinwheel.
"Well," Heather whispered conspiratorially, "I've been practicing this song all week, and I wanted you to hear it." She cleared her throat, hummed to find a particular note, then rang out with a sea chantey popularized by the late entrepreneur and city benefactor Ivar Haglund, who once filmed himself in a kiddie pool wrestling with a rubber octopus in order to drum up business. "I've traveled all over this country,/ Prospecting and diggin' for gold./ I've tunneled, hydraulicked and cradled,/ And I have been frequently sold." Her voice grew louder, to the point of lusty on the chorus. "And I have been frequently so-oh-old,/ And I have been frequently sold,/ I've tunneled, hydraulicked and cradled,/ And I have been frequently sold."
"Oh -kay." This treasure hunt, if it was one, was getting odder by the minute. "Acres of Clams, right?"
"You've got it. You're supposed to go to the Ivar Haglund statue down at the waterfront, but don't ask me why. I have been sworn to 'keep clam'."
"Uhhhh. That's really bad." Haglund, a fisherman turned entrepreneur with a chain of seafood restaurants and chowder houses, had made his reputation on the motto "keep clam," and even though he was long dead, his spirit of silliness and really bad puns lived on in a series of commercials, including "Dances with Clams," patterned after a scene in Kevin Costner's "Dances with Wolves."
"I know. Oh, and I'm also supposed to give you this." She took a DVD out of her bag, title side down, and presented it to Lynn.
"What's - oh, no!" Lynn found herself staring at a costumed Ray Bolger, Bert Lahr and Jack Haley, all flanking a pigtailed Judy Garland.
"Welcome to the Emerald City, Lynn. Follow the Yellow Brick Road, and I guarantee you'll find yourself Somewhere Over the Rainbow."
"Boo, hiss," Lynn complained, but she accepted her best friend's hug all the same.
"Happy birthday!" Heather shooed Lynn back in the direction of her car, yelling, "Get thee to some clam chowder!"
The trip to the Seattle waterfront was a longer drive, and she had to fight for a parking space under the viaduct, but when she finally got to Acres of Clams, at Pier 54 (http://www.ivars.net/), Tom Wyman, Cory Marshall's best friend from childhood, was standing near the white-splattered black metal statue of Ivar Haglund, feeding French fries to the seagulls, who swarmed overhead and beckoned for attention with sharp cries.
"Hey, Lynn! You made it!" He tossed the rest of the fries out of the carton all at once, creating a frenzy among his flock of gulls.
"Yeah, just barely. You aren't going to sing, are you?"
"Afraid so. But this is something anyone can sing, really. Ahem."
"If I had a hammer, I'd hammer in the morning. I'd hammer in the evening, all over this land. I'd hammer out ah-ah-art, I'd hammer out cu-ul-ture/ I'd hammer out love between my best friend and his sweetie/ Ah-all over this lah-ah-ah-and. Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh." (http://www.seattleartmuseum.org/) Even though the tune was simple, the sort kids sang endlessly at day camp, Tom had absolutely no ear for intonation or pitch, and was mangling it almost beyond recognition.
"Wait, stop, please, no chorus!" Lynn stuck her fingers in her ears, but took them out when she noticed Tom had acquiesced to her request and was just standing there, sniffing the salty, creosote-laden breeze coming off from Puget Sound.
"I'm supposed to go to see SAM?" Lynn asked, referring to the Seattle Art Museum, where a huge metal statue of a worker, complete with hard hat, hammered an iron bar ceaselessly. "Hammering Man" had been the site of many union and labor protests, and the Seattle Labor Chorus had even staged a concert there once, standing under Hammering Man's shadow, near his leg shackle and stenciled number.
"That's what I was told. You want I should sing the Union Label song for you?"
"No!" Lynn shrieked before Tom could take in another breath.
"Well, all right, but you're missing something. Oh," he added, digging in the pocket of his heavy navy pea coat. "I'm supposed to give you this, too." He withdrew a flat, rectangular box which had been wrapped neatly in green and white-striped paper. "Happy birthday."
Lynn ripped open the paper and pried off the lid of the white box underneath, to find a small pair of emerald earrings nestled on a bed of cotton. Their color was significantly brighter than the murky blue-gray of the Sound beyond them, a clear green reminiscent of pine trees and cedar fronds.
"Oh, my . . . "
"Now, I didn't have a thing to do with it, honest. But, maybe I can give you this?" He leaned in quickly and, before Lynn could protest, planted chaste pecks on both her cheeks. "Be happy, Lynnie. You deserve it, God knows."
"Thank you, Tom."
The trip from the waterfront to the art museum was easy, though finding parking was rather difficult. Spying an open space near a parking meter, Lynn zipped her Civic into a cramped space, earning a loud honk from an SUV driver behind her who seemed to want to insist the space was hers, even though the massive tank of a car would have never fit. SUV woman made an offensive gesture out her driver's side window, but Lynn was too busy feeding a quarter into the parking meter to take much notice.
A brief walk downhill took her to Hammering Man's ball and chain, and to the bearded, dark haired man who stood leaning up against the right leg of the figure. He had a tissue pinched to his nose, and his head bobbed twice as he sneezed. "Heh-chhh! Heh-gggsh."
"Doctor Stevens?" Lynn recognized Cory's allergist, who was also Tom's father, when he turned around, hearing footsteps behind him.
"Hey, Lynn." He crumpled up the used tissue he held and stuffed it into the pocket of his corduroys, sniffling rather indecorously. His nose was chapped and bright red, the color emphasized by the red lightweight fleece jacket he wore. "Damn summer cold."
"Hey, Doc. I guess I shouldn't say, 'what's up?'"
"Ah, why not. My patients say that to me all the time."
"So, what's your task?"
"Ah, I'm supposed to sing." When he saw the stricken look on Lynn's face he laughed. "Oh, don't worry, I can sing. Tom just wasn't born with the music gene." He cleared his throat, then charged into an old Tom Paxton song. "Daddy's takin' us to the zoo tomorrow, zoo tomorrow, zoo tomorrow. Daddy's takin' us to the zoo tomorrow. We can stay all day." The tune rasped out of him, and Lynn could tell that he'd made a herculean effort to overcome his cold to man a station of the treasure hunt. When he was done singing, he coughed, pulling out a fresh tissue and raising it to his nose for a honking blow that was echoed by the toot of an approaching ferry boat's horn from down at the Coleman Docks.
"But," he continued, coughing again into his fist, "I wouldn't if I were you. I hear the gorillas there get kind of surly, start throwing, well, not bananas, if you know what I mean."
"Yeah, I think I do." Lynn laughed, enjoying both the hunt and Jed's odd sense of humor.
"Anyway, off with you. But I was asked to give you this." Jed pulled a long, thin, flat box from an inner pocket of his jacket. This one was wrapped in gold paper, small shiny gold stars seeming to pop out against a matte gold background.
Lynn opened it as eagerly as she had Tom's gift, and gasped when she saw what was inside. An impressive rectangular emerald dangled from a delicate golden chain, held in place by a filigreed bail. It was obviously part of a set, to match the earrings, and Lynn placed the lid carefully back on the box.
"Happy birthday, Lynn. Give my best to Cory, will you?"
"I - I will." Lynn stammered, putting the necklace into her purse beside the smaller earring box. Just the treasure hunt itself would have made a wonderful gift, but Cory seemed to have gone to great lengths to celebrate her 25th birthday in a truly memorable way. She was a bit dazed as she trudged back up the hill to her car, not noticing that Tom had walked up from the waterfront, and father and son were exchanging a high five in the shadow of Hammering Man.
The Woodland Park Zoo (http://www.zoo.org) was a quicker drive, even though groups of workers were starting to come out of their buildings and clog the roads. As much fun as this touristy adventure was, though, Lynn thought, setting her car's parking brake, it would have to be over soon, as Cory had offered to take her out to dinner that evening to celebrate her birthday.
As she approached the gate, a large gorilla limped up to her, pausing to adjust his red bow tie and tuxedo vest.
"Aaaah!" She leaped back from the hulking menace, who placed a hand over his heart, or the general region where his heart should be.
"Oh, god, Lynn, you scared me. That is you, Lynn, right?"
The voice coming from the gorilla suit was vaguely familiar, but difficult for her to place immediately.
"Ah, yes. Yes, it is."
"Oh, good. It's just a little hard to see in this thing." The eyes peeking out from the dark holes in the mask were green, and whoever was inside the suit paused to take a set of half-glasses from the pocket of his vest. Awkwardly placing them on the mask itself, he pulled a note card from another vest pocket.
"Here we are." The man's voice was muffled, and he had to work to project loud enough to be heard correctly. "Lynn Carlson, you're the gorilla my heart, and the banana in my ear. My heart goes pitter pat whenever you're near. I'd offer you kisses, but yours are sweeter than wine. Please meet me at the Coffee Bean at a quarter to nine."
By the time the gorilla had delivered his last line, a crowd hand gathered, and they all applauded for him. One teenage girl, left eyebrow obscured by silver rings and her stop-sign red hair twisted into dreadlocks, asked, "Isn't this the part where you get down on one knee?"
"Uh, no. Sorry. I'm just the invitation gorilla." He took off the glasses and tucked them back away, then fumbled behind him for a large gift bag. "This is for you, Evelynn."
It was the use of her given name that tipped the scales, and Lynn, clutching the bag to her chest, leaned in to kiss the gorilla on his rubbery cheek. "Thanks, Mr. Marshall."
He winked, and she could tell that under the mask, he was smiling. "You're welcome, my dear. Have a good time this evening. And happy birthday."
The crowd applauded again, slowly dispersing. Once they were gone, Robert Marshall peeled off the mask and rubbed his hairy gorilla arm across a sweaty forehead. "Now, I assure you, I'm the last person to find on this little scavenger hunt. You'd best go home and get changed before your date." He nodded toward the gift bag which Lynn still held close to her body.
"Oh. Okay, well, thanks again, Mr. Marshall."
"You're welcome, Lynn. Hope to see you this weekend - Arlene wanted to show you a sweater she was knitting or something, I think. Maybe a quilt she was knitting? A knit she was quilting?"
"I'll be there." She waved again to Cory's father, who looked eager to get out of the gorilla suit and back into his accustomed business attire, then walked back to her car, setting the bag on the passenger seat and buckling up for the long ride back home.
There are websites associated with each of the Seattle landmarks Lynn visits - just click on each link to learn more about the city and its wacky attractions. Many thanks to my beta, eowen, for her suggestions and advice. Any nonsense still left in here is entirely my fault! Sequel to "Off To See The Wizard".
Written as part of tg's bday challenge