Long time local speaks through a story: On a rainy Saturday, the rent-a-car glides slowly, unevenly down the mountain road. There is a certain energy about the vehicle's movement. It's obvious the occupants are not looking for mailbox numbers. They are looking for a sign post, like lost puppies in search of a scent. They are the 'Mystery Spot' hunters. God only knows how a place where nothing out of the ordinary is going on, where no mystery really exists, can hold such allure. It must have been that Life Magazine article published some 50 years ago or perhaps it is those big yellow billboards which state so ineloquently: "Mystery Spot'. No, certainly, it is word of mouth which keeps the ceaseless hoards coming, attempting to locate a little Podunk Palace of sorts in the rural Santa Cruz hills. It is like an old Star Trek rerun gone sour. You know the one. Kirk is down on some long forgotten planet and the native people are being systematically slaughtered by a former academy mate of Kirk.
"Jim, we killed thousands of them but they still came. They drained four of our phasers and they still came..."
Nothing stops these tourists. Every weekend, rain or shine, sleet or snow, year in and year out, the flocks of seekers mysteriously arrive. To me that is the greatest mystery of all. How in God's earth did all these people get sucked into this bizarre fraud? These folks, mostly Indian, Japanese or European tourists, some how get lured into the tsunami of all pranks. They come from every walk of life, from spiritual teachers to physicists but mostly they are simply the generic mom and pop tourist.
One house owner near the primary access junction, supposedly leading the throngs to their moment of revelation, even puts a cardboard box at the end of his driveway, propped up on a horse-shaped workbench, with the words: "Mystery spot"-a little arrow is drawn underneath referencing the fact that 'this ain't it'. Apparently he was tired of all these people coming to his door for directions. He was obviously not on the payroll. That's where I come in. I have run into so many of these lost souls looking for this queer, divination point, Santa Cruz's own little Taj Mahal, that I have become a de facto tourist guide, albeit one who is surely under appreciated.
I have been known to block the road at one particularly dangerous Mystery Spot access juncture, jump out of my car with the engine running and exclaim.
"This is a one way road, a freeway off ramp!" I startle them before giving the terrified occupants instructions to back up. At this moment I slip in my trademark, jugular-esque phrase: "Mystery Spot, huh?! Awestruck for a few seconds by my psychic abilities, eyebrows raise, only to lower into a bemused half-smile. It has become a little game within the game for me; color me bored but I like to think myself more a savior of sorts. Every week a modified version takes place.
"Hi folks, looking for the Mystery Spot, huh?! They sheepishly nod, they always do, as I hide an inner grin. "Here's what you do." I launch into another one of my patented, improvisational diatribes.
"How you know? They say.
"Gang, I am the 'Mystery Spot' look out man. I knew you were coming. I could feel it." By this time I have their full and rapt attention. So I proceed with reckless abandon. "But I have to tell you..." I pause for dramatic effect. "I can get you close but haven't actually found it yet."
The husband looks at the wife, the children cower in the backseat. Then I go in for the kill. "Good luck." And with that I visualize myself driving off, glancing back just long enough to see shoulders hunched, neck poked forward, eyes like beads frozen in place in the middle of a some unfamiliar, country road. They peer in the rear view mirror unsure if they should turn and take my advice or continue the search on their own. Then compassion sets in and I simply say:
"Ok, here's the deal. The place is about 3 miles from here, about 5 kilometers. You understand. There are several parking lot attendants at the turn off but no parking." That's all I say before driving off. Deep down I want to inject some reality into the porridge-filled mush I am feeding them and say something like this:
"I'll save you some cash, though. The place is a rip off. The Mystery Spot opened in 1939, they claim that the law of physics and gravity don't apply because extraterrestrials buried unearthly metals there. The small, tilted building is simply an optical illusion. It's a hoax all right, don't go." But the words don't come. read more