#24 - OMSI

Oregon Museum of Suffering and Illness

4/17/04 (#24)

Now and then you come across a phrase that you don't understand, but rather than raising your hand and asking, "I'm sorry, I wasn't listening, a lobotomy is what?", you silently accept the phrase and assume that the next few moments of events and conversations will illuminate the meaning of the words that seconds ago slid by you like marbles on a slight incline. Even if you really weren't listening, there are very few phrases that do not allow room for a firm interjection of, "Whoa, hold on now, I didn't realize that we were talking about this."

One of the phrases that does not allow for reconsideration?

"Let's sit in the center, the Omnimax effect is more intense there."

Little did I know that when the sentence is dissected and rearranged, what is revealed is a perfect anagram for, "This car is headed straight for hell, and you'll be sitting up front."

I heard that phrase in 1994. In my memory, it was uttered by Rachel Black as she spat pea soup at me, though I know from eye-witness feedback that it was in fact uttered by Stephanie, the woman who would become my wife. Stephanie grew up in Florida; she attended Disneyworld with the same frequency that my family visited the ice cream truck that prowled our neighborhood. While Stephanie was learning to defy gravity on Space Mountain, I was sitting motionless on a curb eating a popsicle. Our training was very different, and mine left me unprepared for the Omnimax.

I should explain for those who don't know: Omnimax, a tourist attraction at the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry (OMSI) and elsewhere, is essentially a movie, though one with stunning photographic quality, inconceivable camera shots, and every intent to deceive your senses. The screen is not flat, instead wrapping around the audience, and the footage is filmed with a special arrangement of cameras so that you really do have the illusion of being "in" the action. For instance, roller coasters---your stomach actually jumps as if you were actually careering as rapidly as gravity will allow. Along with the wraparound screen, there is a sound system that would make Metallica envious, so the viewer feels the rumble of the track as the roller coaster plummets. It's as close as you can come to being there.

Especially if you sit in the middle, the effect is more intense there.

At this time, Stephanie was unaware of my proclivity for motion sickness, and I was reluctant to advertise this fact. Motion sickness might be common, but it still seems "sissy" to me. I am so easily nauseated that I can't ride the teacups at the state fair. Heck, I can't go three revolutions on the merry-go-round at the park. (Merry my ass.) I have had to make mad dashes for the washroom from a wide array of movies, including (but not limited to) true stomach turners like The Blair Witch Project (understandable, considering it's predominantly hand-held cameras filming at running speed) as well as dull, static movies like Made (less understandable, since the most difficult thing to watch in that movie was Vince Vaughn's amazingly convincing portrayal of an annoying bastard.)(Maybe not much of a stretch for Vince.) I get sick from reading in the car---and not just books or magazine articles: I can get sick reading a fortune cookie. But Steph wasn't aware of my delicate nature, so she had no way of comprehending how "the most intense" seats in the house might not be the ideal perch for me. Rather than in the epicenter of the visual illusion, I should have been sitting in the gift shop.

Ring of Fire: The Volcanoes of the Pacific Rim was the name of the show, and while I was silently concerned about my ability to withstand a strong visual experience, I found solace in the fact that the title was not World's Most Treacherous Amusement Park Rides. Stephanie, her cousin Jill and I settled in to our seats, and the movie began with a booming narration over ordinary film cuts as they discussed the origins of the Pacific Rim---the volcanoes that skirt the edges of the Pacific Ocean from the Philippines up to Siberia, across to Alaska and down to Hawaii---I began to relax. After all, it's a volcano, what are they going to do? Play the lava flows in fast-motion?

No, they're going to fly low and fast over thousands of acres of hardened lava in a high-speed helicopter. The outline of trampled trees could be seen in the solidified surface, creating a sloppy, stone version of a herringbone stitch, and the journey was eternal in its endless supply of nauseating footage. The entire frame was filled with movement, no focal point in the distance to which one could direct their attention.

I closed my eyes, thinking that if I couldn't see it, it would simply be like sitting in a room with an enormous boom-box that shook my chair. That helped, so I kept my eyes shut for 4 or 5 minutes, in order to regain my composure. Which I did, only to lose it again the moment I opened my eyes to experience the helicopter ride along the ocean toward Kilauea. Water flashed by, glints of light like some poorly-conceived "drug trip" scene in a low-budget after-school television special, and I had officially passed the stage I refer to as "I've been better." The speakers were shaking the chair, the auditorium seemed much colder than it did when I first walked in, and I didn't dare to open my eyes. Only 75 more minutes to endure in self-imposed darkness and I could get some fresh air. I wasn't feeling awful yet, so I tried to relax and listen.

Which worked fine, until the narration became so fascinating that I had to see what they were talking about. Just a peek, I assured myself. Damn, but what they say is true---the effect is much stronger in that center section. I witnessed a scientist discussing geology, and I felt is if I was being lectured to by a gargantuan 60-foot tall head. Every movement seemed massive and exaggerated, every twitch of his gargantuan face eliciting a spasm of nausea in my belly. I recognized my condition had advanced yet again, and this was not a "just relax" situation---this was going to take concerted effort. I closed my eyes, swallowed repeatedly, and concentrated on my breathing. I wiped my brow, suddenly aware that I was sweating like Kareem Abdul-Jabbar in Airplane - my forehead, temple, back of my neck were literally soaked, while I just clenched my eyes and pretended everything was okay. Steph had become aware of my discomfort and asked how I was, and I optimistically lied that I would be fine in a few minutes.

A few minutes later, I had bugs crawling all over me, crawling down my calves, crawling down my chest. (I would later realize that it was droplets of perspiration running over my skin, but at the time I thought I was hospital bound---assuming they didn't drop me at the asylum en route.) My eyes were glued shut, but the thundering lava bursts continued to shake the room, and I knew it was time to go. All that lay between me and freedom were logistics of the packed theatre---4 people in my row to navigate past, then some people sitting on the stairs. I closed my eyes and waited for the narrator's voice to pause long enough to indicate a change of scenery. The pause came, I mumbled my goodbye to Steph and headed for the door.

The people in my row seemed a concern at first. They couldn't see me while the movie was playing, so they had no idea of my (literal) inner-turmoil. When I asked them to allow me to pass, they looked up with that practiced look of labored inconvenience---but rather than seeing the expected post-start-time popcorn purchaser, they saw my Casper the Queasy Ghost visage bearing down on them. The peeved attitude immediately vanished, in its place an urgency that manifested itself in amazing physical contortions designed to both expedite my exit and protect themselves lest my calculations of lunch-containment were not exactly correct. (And believe me, mine was not the face of man capable of doing accurate math.)

The folks loitering on the stairs were the next obstacle, but they proved to be no issue. They had moved from their chairs to sit closer to the center (madmen!), and a couple of them had apparently witnessed Stage 1 of my exit strategy, including the enthusiasm exhibited by those who bid me passage. Despite the crowd of bodies on the stairs, they parted like toppled dominos, each person taking their cue from the abrupt actions of the person in front of them. The light of the screen shone on their eyes, and I could see them looking at my face and contorting their features with fear that they would soon be telling friends the story of the guy who hurled on them at OMSI. I just kept swallowing, glad that no one asked for explanation, glad that no one seemed miffed that I wasn't saying "thank you", and headed for the green-light sanctuary that read "exit" at the top of the theatre.

By this time I was sweating profusely, my face was the color of copier paper, and I had all of my hope focused on a quick exit to fresh air. I wasn't running, exactly, but exhibited that urgent walk/run gait common to people who suspect that they have 14 seconds to make a 15-second journey. The OMSI employee at the door could see me coming, but because my back was to the screen as I approached him, he couldn't see my alabaster complexion. He stepped out to block my way as if he were a crossing guard responding to the brring-brrring of a bicycle bell, unaware that in this case, the bicycle bell was strapped to a semi. As I got closer, he spoke:

"Sir, if you leave, you can't come back in."

As he spoke it, the footage on the screen became very bright, and the usher was able to glimpse the face that was slow-hurtling toward him. I do recall saying something to him, though I can't be sure. I like to think that I said, "Sir, I have no desire to refrequent your establishment." In fact, I probably moaned, "Move, now!" I do recall that he reacted in a manner that indicates the second phrasing is closer to the actual delivered lines.

I stumbled out of the darkness into the fading daylight of the lobby, made it outside and began a careful session of regulated breathing. I found a bench on the sidewalk, sat, then laid down in the fetal position praying for relief that would not arrive. I found that my immobility nominally comforting, so I lay perfectly still, listening to the world around me.

I have no idea how long I was on the bench. I could hear a couple of teens in the parking lot making mischief of some sort, but I was in no condition to observe, or even eavesdrop. (The rise and fall of their vocal intonations was not good for my nausea.) An unknown period of time later, I heard a police car pull up, the policemen looking for someone (no doubt the mischievous teens), a brief conversation amongst themselves regarding the likelihood of 1) my being the suspect (immediately dismissed) and 2) my having helpful information. A hesitant inquiry followed, confirming the quieter officer's suspicion that I would be of no help.

I have no recollection of whether I was prone or upright when Stephanie and Jill emerged from the theatre, laughing at my condition. I have no recollection of the bus ride across the river, except a disjointed memory of me shuffling down the aisle like a 90 year old man, finding my seat and holding on to it like a drowning man would cling to ocean jetsam. Frankly, a bus ride in that condition? I'm glad I can't remember it.

But I have a very clear recollection of getting off the bus downtown, staggering down the sidewalk with faux cheeriness, only to hear Jill say, "Wow, this building is tall." I took the bait, looked up, and as my eyes passed over each of the twenty-some-odd floors, horizontal stripes of white brick alternating with black windows, the sickness returned in force. I can laugh now, but at the time, only Stephanie and Jill were amused.

Yet despite that harrowing experience, there is a bright side---a new word was added to my vocabulary. For years to come, whenever the sensation of motion sickness came to me, I could turn to Steph and say, "I need to be careful. I'm feeling omsi."

©2004 wpreagan