I was told the weather in July is ideal in Seattle. Upon arriving I found out the “ideal” in western Washington State was cool, overcast and misty rain. I mentally inventoried the contents of my suitcase I realized my first task would be shopping. My visit was starting on a high note.
After a morning of looking, trying on and purchasing, I found myself exploring the waterfront in a new outfit and a pair of pumps to die for with a matching purse and belt. Shopping is hungry work, so next I enjoyed sampling the wares at Fisherman’s Warf. The fried calamari was wonderful and the clam chowder was nirvana.
Filled to the brim, it was time to visit the location of the 1962 World’s Fair, the Seattle Center. Girls, negotiating the slick city streets in a new pair of pumps is more than a challenge. I have not encountered this steep of streets since San Francisco and every step I was in fear of landing on my ass. After two blocks of the bent knee shuffle, I flagged down a cab!
The world famous site has changed in fifty years, but is still a joy to visit. As I wandered to the Space Needle I started to notice that something I ate was not quite agreeing with me. Creamy chowder, heavily buttered sour dough bread and greasy calamari might not have been the perfect choice of menu for touring the sights.
At the Needle you have a choice of the restaurant, free, or the observation deck, not free. Feeling food was not the best choice, I decided on the observation platform and when the car arrived a group of us filed inside. In front of me is a large angry biker gently holding the hand of a young woman who babbled on about the history of the fair.
Just as the door started to close I felt my stomach give a rumble and that all too familiar pressure start to build in my abdomen.
The sweat beadied on my forehead as the car started to rise. The next ten seconds felt like minutes as the vapor demanded exit. Ladies, I used the raised left hip method successfully and the relief was complete as the gas escaped without a sound.
For as quiet as it was, it was deadly. I swear you could see a purple haze as the worst stench that had ever left my body filled the car. I feared for my life as the already pissed off biker started to turn. To my great relief he stopped half way around and glared down at a tiny, trembling, blue haired lady. Why she was shaking I had no idea, I mean it was my crime after all. As he stared down, her trembling continued to increase until the concert began.
At first it started low but as she tried to retain control the pitch rose. While the poor thing puckered, her backside reached notes a trumpet player would be proud of. Her inconsistent squeezes provided lively melody and I glanced around at the red faces.
I know I was not the only one trying to hold back laughter and my breath at the same time. There was a blast at the crescendo and the last of the gas exited with the sound of an emptying balloon.
Following the longest forty-three seconds of my life, the doors finally opened. The occupants of the car fell out into the Sky City Restaurant gasping for air. Remaining in the elevator, the little old lady stared at her shoes, no longer trembling.
As I watched the doors close, I wondered if she was the only one of us actually going to the restaurant.
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