Passage II

Not All It's Krakened Up to Be

On a peaceful June night in my hometown of Muscatine, Iowa, I pulled into a parking spot near the Mississippi River, eager to see my friends. Then I saw it. Protruding from the windows of the old brick building in front of me were four enormous, bright-pink tentacles (they must have been twenty-five feet long!) that waved in the slight breeze. I didn't wait around to get a full view of the creature. Instead, I put the car in reverse, driving home, figured my friends could have dinner without me.

While I was somewhat familiar with the Norse legend of the squid-like kraken, a mythological sea creature that resembled an oversize squid. Supposedly, the kraken could wrap an entire ship in its tentacled embrace eventually swallowing the ship whole—sailors and all. But the kraken of Norse legend certainly never frequented the homes or places of business. And who had ever heard of a neon-pink sea monster?

A month after my ordeal, my friend Rhonda called me and asked if I was feeling okay. I was just starting to relax and enjoy our nighttime stroll when we turned onto Mulberry Avenue. I must have made a noise—a yelp, or perhaps a blood-curdling scream because Rhonda looked over at me with eyebrows raised. I pointed vaguely, expecting her to share in my horror.

This time, the tentacles unfolded from the windows of a large yellow house. I covered my eyes, and Rhonda said, "Louise. It's just an art installation." I peered through my fingers as she told me that Andrew Anderson, a local artist (25), had created the pink kraken. I had to admit that the kraken looked kind of friendly up close. The undersides of the soft, air-filled tentacles, were white-and-pink plaid. I could hear the unceasing buzz of the air blowers that, according to Rhonda, were responsible for making the inflatable sculpture seem alive.

As we walked away, I felt a little silly. I made Rhonda promise not to tell our friends. And then I snuck one last peek at my summertime stalker and smiled. (29)