Love and Other Consolation Prizes(101)

Both fairs heralded a new economic age: the Gold Rush in 1909 and the Jet Age in 1962. Both showcased the latest technology of their times, from dirigibles and aeroplanes, to satellites and cosmonauts. Both events attracted politicians (Taft, Nixon), celebrities (Buffalo Bill, John Wayne), foreign delegations and visitors from around the world. Both were sources of national pride, and each served as a coming-out party for a humble city tucked away in the great northwest.

But the AYP was starkly different in that there was an undeniable aspect of exploitation that boggles the mind by today’s standards. The AYP sensationalized humans—Igorrote villagers—whose attire drew the ire of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union. The WCTU asked Reverend Mark Matthews, a Presbyterian minister known for his moral crusades, to look into the matter. The concern was not that there were fifty villagers being exploited for their strange ethnicity, but that their loincloths might be inauthentic, designed for titillation.

There were exhibits of Siberians, Flathead Indians, Arabian women—not showcased to celebrate their cultures as much as to gawk at their otherness. Plus there were Eskimo children on display and, of course, the raffling off of a boy named Ernest.

By comparison, the Century 21 Expo gave away poodles, and even that was met with harsh criticism.

Though the Century 21 Expo was not without its own strange wrinkle—an institutionalized sexism that would make Don Draper twitch.

At Seattle’s second showcase to the world, the demonstrators at the National Science Pavilion were all women, were required to have a certain look, and included five Seafair princesses and a former Miss Alaska. They were given a quick course in biology to provide them with enough information to answer questions from guests. The Library of the Future exhibit sent out a call for the sexiest librarians. (Hey, Batgirl was a librarian.) And the elevator operators at the Space Needle were all female, required to be at least five feet six inches, Junoesque in proportion, and possess “the kind of personality that typified Seattle girls.”

While AYP organizers worried about the city’s red-light district and banned alcohol, the Century 21 Expo allowed libations to flow freely, and a bottle of Jim Beam in the shape of the Space Needle was quite popular.

But the most surprising difference was Show Street, the topless corner of Seattle’s second world’s fair, where fairgoers could rent Polaroid cameras to snap photos of showgirls in various stages of undress.

In this adults-only section of the fair, a charismatic promoter, Gracie Hansen, created attractions that would make Madam Lou proud. I guess the more things change, the more things stay the same, and the more young women are expected to wear green body paint and pose in bikinis.

I doubt Madam Flora would have approved.

Speaking of the Century 21 Expo, I often wonder if the real Ernest ever visited, and what he must have thought. Did he reconcile this glimpse of the future with his own humble past? Did he even know he was once a prize? And did anyone claim him?

These questions remain unanswered.

The real Ernest, as of the publication of this book, would be a centenarian, so it’s doubtful that he’s reading this. But perhaps someone knew him. And if they do, I hope they’ll contact me.

I’m on Twitter: @jamieford.

In the meantime, I’ll be here in my office, staring at a blank screen, contemplating my next book, turning over more rocks and waiting for my muse. As much as I’d like to be visited by Erato, the muse of romantic poetry, it’ll more likely just be Clio, the muse of history. And we’ll do this dance all over again.

Though a part of me still holds out hope for Olivia. Roller skates and all.





For Haley, Karissa, Madison, and Kass.

When you graduated I wanted to skip “Pomp and Circumstance” and play “Ride of the Valkyries.”





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


First and foremost, thank you to my readers and fans (yikes, I have fans). Especially that one lovely woman who has been to seven of my book events and the guy who asked me to sign his abs—you know who you are.

Without readers, authors would be trees that fall in the forest, unheard. So thank you for sharing this journey with me once again, and for passing this novel to a friend, pitching it to your book club, posting about it on Goodreads, or just setting it on your coffee table as a reminder that the written word still has a place in the wonderful world of Netflix.

Then there are all the amazing indie bookstores out there that have been so good to me. As Neil Gaiman once said, “I do not believe there is a wrong way to buy books. I think that the best way to buy books is from a local indie bookshop, if you have one.”

In my travels, I’ve visited stores in nearly every state in the Union (coming for you soon, Mississippi and West Virginia). But the one that is near and dear to my heart these days is Cassiopeia Books here in my adopted hometown of Great Falls, run by Andrew Guschausky—part bookseller, part therapist, Andrew regularly opens my mind to books and music, simply by using the algorithm of his imagination.

In that same vein, thank you to all of my librarian friends, using your superpowers for good. You are a sacred order, the Knights Templar, the men and women of the Night’s Watch, guarding us from a 1,000-year Kardashian winter. I was privileged to give a keynote talk last year to the Kentucky Library Association, which only underscored my immense respect and admiration for both your profession, and your bourbon.