THE DANCING STAR, Part Two

According to Emma, the miniature golf course (originally called Putt-Putt Palace) had fallen on hard times in the early Eighties. It was almost boarded up, but a last minute bid by a chain of adult-themed motels saved it from demolition. Though a name change was allowed, county officials sold the property only under the condition it would remain a family attraction. Strictly speaking, the golf course did not reside within the city limits of Stonesthrow but was closer to the neighboring town of Eastfawn. There was an ongoing squabble over which municipality could claim it, and this only fueled by a longstanding football rivalry between Purcell College and Eastfawn’s State College.

Dusk was soon hard on the couple, although the aura on the eastern horizon made their destination easy to spot. A large billboard emerged in a cornfield to confirm their heading:

PEEK-A-BOO PUTT-PUTT THREE MILES

Blinding floodlights were eventually disentangled from a concealment of trees, whereupon an unassuming motel popped up next to the fenced-off park.

“Here we are!” Emma sang gleefully, yanking down the rearview mirror to freshen her lipstick. “Let me do the talking. I can get us in for free!” With camera bag in hand, the confident, dark-haired beauty marched off over asphalt; Michael directly joined her at the front booth, where she was doing a number on the young male ticket-taker.

She held up something laminated and purred through deep crimson lips. “I’m a graduate photographer at the college. I have a standing arrangement with the management to come here and take pictures without paying admission.”

The older man was purposefully lagging behind to avoid the dodgy ethics.

She turned back to shove her bag in his arms. “This man is my assistant!”

The two passed through the turnstile with surprising ease, and the first-time visitor took a moment to read the dedication plaque to the park’s designer, Daedalus Monet.

Emma yelled to be heard over the cacophonous music. “Monet had a morbid fear of electricity! Wouldn’t even come out on site when they were building this place!”

The carnival-like concoction before them was at once overwhelming. Bent neon tubes of every imaginable color blinked overhead, while repeater bulbs, as big as cabbages, raced up and down gaudily painted arches. Any astronauts circling the Earth likely knew Peek-a-boo Putt-Putt was open for business. Given Michael’s sensitivity to noises and bright lights, he was at least forewarned and forearmed on this occasion, so was determined to be good-humored about it.

The complex was bigger than it looked from outside the high fence, and contained several courses. Every hole was adorned with mind-boggling obstacles and tiered greens of jarring chartreuse. One hole boasted of submarines that transported twirling golf balls, like lottery balls, to some underwater substation, where the final shot was executed via remote television by robotic peashooters. Other holes played on optical tricks, or gravity defying features like inverted staircases and inclines where balls rolled uphill. One course even featured improbable “missing link” obstacles, including a two-headed snake and a sown-together monkey fish.

A scale model replica of the golf park, spread out on a large table, stood across from the entrance. An inch-thick magnifying glass on a pivot mount marked the center of the display. Michael leaned over to peer through it and was shocked to find thousands of fleas—blown up grotesquely in size—milling about over exacting reproductions of putt-putt obstacles. All, unbelievably, had tiny hats fastened to their heads by means of a single bead of glue. He backed away with a shudder on realizing no Plexiglas covered the exhibit.

He asked the attendant, “How do you keep the fleas from escaping?”

The man replied, “A magnet.”

Incredulous, Michael knelt down to glimpse a dark box bolted to the underside of the table.

The attendant explained, “We’ve got little metal hats glued to their backs. Keeps them from jumping off.”

“How would you know if one is missing?”

The fellow threw him a curious look, evidently finding the question nonsensical.

The leggy companion had seen enough bugs. Latching onto the painter’s arm, she already had her heart set on one pavilion: The House of Mirrors. She stopped at the tent’s entrance with a ringing endorsement. “This will be fun!”

The course approximated a carnival attraction. The interior walls were covered with funhouse mirrors, but there were no greens as such. Each hole resembled a lava lamp, where struck balls rippled down long glass chambers filled of mercury-looking stuff that required a Herculean feat of optical compensation to correct for the distortion. Additional, unintended obstacles littered the thoroughfare, as well: cigarette butts, candy wrappers, and abandoned balls in mirage-like gullies. The graduate student seemed an old hat at it, dropping one hole after another with admirable single-mindedness, although the churning topology of flesh in the mirrors was more of interest to the painter than watching himself get skunked. His feeling was one of being surrounded on all sides by Picasso’s abstract brothel, Les Demoiselles d’Avignon. Emma loomed over him in the black and white dress with awning bosom and panoramic hips, which only added another level to her intimidation.

Having handily beaten her competition, the photographer was soon tugging him back down the boardwalk. Amusement park rides were interspersed among the courses, and the sight of them—even the kiddy ones—made him tremble. The Ferris wheel was the tallest attraction, and the spirited girl, scrounging in her purse for money, was clearly gravitating toward it. Michael wanted to stop her—not out of gallantry to pay but to spare himself further humiliation. It was too late. The ride attendant was quickly strapping them into a cage. The painter was resolved not to make a show of his fright, but on lifting off the ground the park was instantly a bubbling cauldron beneath him.

Emma only noticed his white-knuckled state when the creaking cage reached its highest point. “Michael? Are you alright?”

He stuttered. “I… I have a thing about heights.”

She clutched his cold, rigid hand. “Why didn’t you say something?”

He was too far-gone to reply.

The young woman could do little beyond sympathetically endure his torture. Once safely back on earth, he felt more than foolish—he felt emasculated. This was not merely a result of the ride, but from the park itself. The noisy environment deprived him of all the subtle talents he had employed successfully back at the Irish pub. His wit and charm were useless here. This was the realm of the body—and Michael’s relationship to his body was anything but felicitous. Any physical context he was likely to be thrust into in the name of recreation would either induce phobic attack, profound embarrassment, or injury. He could no more ski than he could horseback ride or canoe or dance.

A distraught Emma insisted they rest on a bench, although the tarnished knight did not want to be mollycoddled. As their repose stretched on into minutes, their respective gazes drifted out over the park’s hazy glare in different directions. Many couples were walking arm-in-arm along the boardwalk while others were amorously occupied between pavilions. The young woman was blank under her smokescreen-of-a-smile as she watched them all, and the painter could scarcely understand how such a vivacious creature would be content with his sedentary company. The photographer sensed his stare and, desiring a change of mood, leapt up to snap several pictures of him. Michael did not want his photo taken, but his effort to dissuade her only egged her on.

Prodded back to his feet, the couple was swimming upstream once more. They passed one course under a poppy red big top. Sawdust was scattered between the greens while the smell of piped-in cotton candy and simulated elephant dung lent authenticity to the circus experience. Inflatable clowns were among the obstacles, and roared with the glow of blowtorches as they snapped against the canvas tent. Despite their heavenly trajectory, they remained anchored to the ground where they were obliged to terrorize shrieking children on the way to the carousel horses.

Emma had a more sedate course in her crosshairs. This one was unfortunately themed on a Las Vegas-style wedding chapel. No matter how many distractions surrounded them, Michael did not relish being judged against the backdrop of valentines with a woman ten years his junior. Regardless, the pair was soon working their way down a set of holes based on oddly shaped wedding cakes. There were mercifully only eight holes by which to measure his humiliation this time, though both players were slow in picking up on the next to the last obstacle. It was Jacques Creiter dressed as a stone Cupid, complete with bow and arrow and adult diapers. He had already spotted the two, and his frozen look was one of being cornered. A child just then struck a ball that rolled to within inches of one of his feet. He broke his stance to snatch the ball as it passed. The little boy, not anticipating this, screamed before laughing at his scare, whereupon Jacques resumed his pose. Emma said nothing, but stepped around the little man’s plot of turf to the final hole. Squaring herself with the tee, she made a hole-in-one with characteristic steeliness; a robotic priest (resembling a one-armed bandit) piped up with a canned rendition of Wagner’s wedding march. Emma wandered back to the boardwalk before the refrain finished, and Michael hurried to catch up.

When they were a little further along, she dimmed with a confession. “Jacques has a crush on me for a while. He even posed in my yard.”

More pieces fell into place.