SEE HITLER'S SS UNIFORM!
SEE JOHN LENNON'S GUITAR!
SEE ELVIS'S TOUPEE!
They were spaced twenty-five miles apart, the only man-made objects on this godforsaken stretch of desert highway, and as advertising, I had to admit, they were pretty damn effective. There was nothing else to focus on, nothing else to remark upon, and without any visual competition, the signs captured drivers' undivided attention. The space between them gave them time to be discussed, the next one anticipated, and that only increased the attention they received from motorists.
As a communications major with an emphasis in advertising/public relations, I admired the billboards and their ability to intrigue and involve, in a crudely simplistic way, their captive audience. At the same time, I knew that the audience was small — most people preferred to fly to their destinations these days rather than drive — and that, as effective as they were, the signs were little more than quaint relics from an earlier marketing age.
I stared through the front windshield. Another sign was coming up, the bright red rectangle growing as we sped toward it.
SEE MARILYN MONROE'S PANTIES.'
Ray looked over at me. 'What kind of place is this?'
I shook my head. 'How would I know?' I took a sip of warm melted ice from the McDonald's cup between my legs.
Another billboard was already visible a mile or so ahead. Whatever it was, we were getting close. I realized that we still did not know the name of the museum, store, or tourist trap whose wonders had been spelled out for us. Clever hook.
FIVE MILES TO THE PLACE!!
''The Place'?' I said. 'Is that what it's called?' Ray grinned at me. 'How would I know?' Ahead, we could see a series of signs, spaced approximately a mile apart. The signs counted down the distance to The Place. Four miles. Three miles. Two. One. 'Let's check it out,' Ray said as we passed the last sign. I nodded. 'Sure.'
I could already see a small run-down building by the side of the highway. A final billboard stood directly in front of the short drive, this one with an arrow pointing toward the building and the words THIS IS THE PLACE!! printed in huge letters. Ray slowed the car, pulled in.
I don't know what I was expecting, but it sure wasn't this. We parked in the dirt lot next to the only other vehicle there, a dusty red pickup. At the very least, I'd assumed that The Place would be bigger. I'd known that the trail of billboards was meant to lure in suckers, but in my mind, the building had been larger, gaudier, in keeping with the signs. The ramshackle wooden structure before us was definitely not what I had been led to expect from all the hype and buildup.
I guess I was one of the suckers.
I got out and stretched my legs. Ray did the same. We looked at each other over the roof of the car. 'Still want to go in?' I asked.
'Might as well. We're here. Besides, I gotta take a whiz.'
The front door was mirrored glass, reflecting the highway and the desert beyond. We pushed the door open and walked inside.
The interior of The Place was dark, lit only by a single bar of fluorescent light and the filtered sunshine that was strong enough to penetrate the dust on the skylight. The air was humid and only marginally cooler than the air outside, circulated by an ancient swamp cooler I'd spotted on the roof. It looked like a gift shop, the type of slightly seedy tourist trap usually attached to gas stations in towns that had been on the main highway before the newer freeways had passed them by, and on the shelves and counter I saw cut geodes, fake Indian jewelry, assorted candy bars, and the type of novelty items that were mass-produced in Asia but had local names added on in an attempt to make them seem like legitimate souvenirs. An old man who was probably in his sixties but whose sun- leathered face made him look more like he was in his eighties stood behind the cash register, smiling at us.
'How do today,' he said. 'Welcome to The Place.'
'You got a bathroom here?' Ray asked.
'Public facilities are outside and around to your left.'
Ray looked questioningly at me.
'I'll meet you back in here,' I said.
He went back out the front door, and I turned toward the old man. 'I thought this was, like, a museum.'
'Oh, it is,' the old man said. 'This is just the gift shop. Museum's through that door there.' He gestured over his shoulder at a doorway behind him. 'Admission's a dollar.'
'A dollar, huh?'
'Can't beat that price,' the old man said. 'Not out here.' He laughed wheezingly.
Why not? I thought. I dug through the wad of bills in my pocket and pulled out a one, handing it to the old man. 'Here.'
He took the bill, stepped aside, and flipped a light switch next to the doorway. A series of low lights flickered on in the museum behind him. He motioned toward the entrance. 'Step right in. We don't have a guided tour, but all of our exhibits are pretty well marked. If you have any questions, give me a holler.'
I nodded and stepped past him into the museum.
It was bigger than I thought it would be. The gift shop was small, and I guess I'd assumed that the museum would be equally tiny, but though it was narrow, it stretched pretty far back. In contrast to the rough exterior of the building and the cheap paneling of the gift shop, the museum's walls were finished white, more suited to a metropolitan art gallery than this collection of kitsch in the middle of the desert.
I walked up to the first exhibit, a large glass case housing an electric Gibson guitar. A low spotlight in the ceiling directly above the case was trained directly on the instrument, dramatically highlighting it. A simple sign on the side of the case read: 'John Lennon's Guitar.' There was no other description, no explanation, only those three words.
I didn't know if the guitar really had been Lennon's, but I wasn't quite as skeptical as I had been earlier. Something about the museum and its layout bespoke authenticity.
I glanced around the room, not certain where to start, and decided to tour the room clockwise. I walked over to the next case on my right and read the sign.
'Marilyn Monroe's Panties.'
I looked through the glass. On the floor of the case was a grayish greenish clump of what looked like mold on wadded cloth. I blinked, stared, moved around to the side of the exhibit. The disturbingly fuzzy material in the case could have conceivably been moldy panties, but the sight was so unexpected and so bizarre, so at odds with my perception of Marilyn Monroe, that it startled me. I had been expecting exotic lingerie, satin or some sort of frilly lace, not this disgusting wad of filth, and I couldn't take my eyes off the object. If these really were Marilyn Monroe's panties, how had they gotten to the state they were now in? Had they been tossed in some dump or garbage can? Had they sat for years next to rotting food? They had to have been moist to become moldy.
Moist from her?
The thought aroused me. No matter that the mildewed wad of material in the middle of the case looked like it was putrifying, the idea that the mold was growing from Marilyn Monroe's lubricating juices stimulated me. I stared into the case.
And the clump moved.
It did not move a lot, did not crawl around or jump against the glass. But there was a definite shift in the material, almost a shrug.
And there was something exciting about it.
I felt a stirring in my groin.
Another shift. I breathed deeply, continued to stare. Were the panties. beckoning to me?
