Gary Doty and the Bird
A Day at the Aquarium

 By John Ramos  

"I love this place! They've got everything!"
                           —The Sturgeon General  

It was opening day, and the Great Lakes Aquarium was throwing a party. Colorful wind socks shaped like bottom-feeding fish streamed gaily over the parking lot. Enthusiastic last-minute hammering emanated from inside the building. A helicopter flew by, propellers flashing in the sun.

The doors wouldn't open for another three hours, but members of the public were already milling around the entrance when I arrived, attended by various cavorting mascots. I stepped around a dancing dog and located the Media/VIP tent. A woman at a table found my name on a list. Her assistant handed me a cloth bag full of bribes and propaganda. The loot included a Duluth News-Tribune pen, a Minnesota Power note pad, a cushion, a sticker, a magnet, and a green foam frog from the Holiday Inn.

The promotional literature featured special aquarium editions of the Duluth News-Tribune (sample Sam Cook prediction: "This place is going to blow us away") and the Budgeteer News ("Bound to impress," "Aquarium will pay off," "Aquarium fits well in Duluth," "Why the Great Lakes Aquarium will be a success"). No copies of the Northland Reader were included in the bag.

World traveler Thomas Handy Loon had arrived at the festivities ahead of me, gaining entrance by pretending to be the editor of the Reader. I met him near the doors and asked how he had slept. He was living in his truck during his stay in Duluth. He said fine, and asked how I had slept. I was living in my car in the Thompson Hill rest area. I said fine as well. With this common ground established, we entered the Great Lakes Aquarium.

The ratio of journalists to aquarium personnel was about even. Staff members in plum-colored T-shirts stood about with bright smiles of optimism on their faces. No sooner did I pause in front of the Otter Cove exhibit than a smiling woman appeared at my elbow. "Well, what do you think?" she asked.

I said that I was taking it in.

"Yes, there's a lot to take in." Smiling determinedly, she moved on.

She was right—I found plenty to look at. The centerpiece of the aquarium, three gigantic columnar tanks showcasing Lake Superior fish, was impressive. Large gray sturgeon glided through the depths, studying me with dead eyes. Peripheral exhibits featured turtles, birds, lampreys, crayfish with yellow rubber bands around their claws, and more fish. The re-creation of habitats such as beaches and rushing streams were ably done, and I didn't have to spend much time feeling sorry for the captive animals, as most of them were fish.

There was some boring educational stuff upstairs, shelves of rocks and so on, and at least one exhibit, the Lava Flow, which looked, from a distance, like a slapped-together seventh-grade science project. At the center of the aquarium, a peculiar collection of deer decoys, plastic-wrapped smoked fish, and chewed beaver sticks hung suspended over a topless beaver lodge, apparently frozen in the act of being beamed up to heaven. This mobile alone may be worth the price of admission. Other exhibits are meaningless exercises in filling up space. In one corner sat two galvanized tubs with pictures of people splashing in them. Tape-recorded splashing sounds played in the background.

When I returned downstairs, staff members were mopping floors and shoving construction materials out of sight. People who looked like they were important milled about congratulating each other. I recognized Mayor Gary Doty, standing with an attractive young woman whom I assumed to be his daughter. I gazed at her long, tanned legs for somewhat than was necessary.

Somewhere a tap was turned on. Water began pouring down the Water Wall, an enormous gray wall covered with arcane symbols representing diverse cultures. A person in a sturgeon costume came running into the room pushing a shopping cart. "I'm hungry!" he yelled. He ran into the Wave Machine room, where a man dressed in a chef's apron met him.

"I'm hungry!" repeated the Sturgeon General.

"Do you want some algae?" asked the chef.

"Yes! I want algae!"

The chef produced two pink phallic-looking tubes of foam and placed them in the sturgeon's shopping cart. "Do you want anything else?"

"Yes! I want fresh, clean water! That's why I came here—to the world's only freshwater aquarium!"

A few people laughed and applauded. The Sturgeon General ran out. Suitably educated, I made my way to the gift shop, where a gigantic catfish glowered down at me from the ceiling. Staff members hurried about with baskets full of plastic lizards. I found Thomas Handy Loon examining a stuffed turtle in the corner. The Doty family strolled in—Gary, his wife Marcia (whom I recognized from the cover of Area Woman magazine), their lovely tanned daughters, and some old guy. "This is great," murmured Marcia Doty, stepping over a pile of electrical cord. "They've done a really good job."

The bribery continued. As representatives of the media, Thomas Handy Loon and I were encouraged to take pictures of the aquarium from the air. The helicopter pilot looked askance at the one small camera that Thomas Handy Loon carried, but said nothing. We rose up over Canal Park. Wind whipped through the doors. Sitting in the sunlit air high above the world in which I lived, I was struck momentarily with joy. We flew in a wide, lazy circle around the aquarium. Thomas Handy Loon leaned out and appeared to take a few pictures. I wasn't entirely sure he had film in the camera.

Lest our air time prove unsatisfactory, when we landed we were given the opportunity to behold the aquarium from yet another vantage point: the harbor. Journalists and photographers were invited to attend a Media Lunch Cruise aboard the Vista Star. As Thomas Handy Loon and I walked down the pier toward the boat, we encountered a seagull with a mangled wing sitting on the cement. It was doomed. Thomas Handy Loon decided to put it out of its misery.

"What would be the best way?" he wondered. "Wringing its neck, I guess."

"Yes," I said. "Wring its neck."

He knelt next to the bird and touched it. They stayed like that for a few moments, quiet, and then Thomas Handy Loon grabbed the seagull's head and killed it. I watched, fascinated. The bird dies without protest. Thomas Handy Loon stood up shaking fluids from his hands. In the middle distance, I spied the approach of none other than area woman Marcia Doty and her clutch of delectable offspring, en route to the lunch cruise. They passed in silence. We stood guiltily with our dead bird. The Dotys had almost reached the boat when the youngest girl turned back, greatly distressed. "Did you kill it?" she cried out. Her older sister instantly shushed her and propelled her toward the boat. I kicked the seagull into the water.

Lunch, featuring cold cuts and wild rice soup, was good. The captain took us on a short spin of the harbor, pointing out features and ticking off Duluth's main selling points. The Lakewalk, he informed us, ended at the Edgewater hotel. I knew that the Lakewalk actually ended some distance further on, near a construction yard where a woman had been found murdered a year before, but I did not feel obliged to set the captain straight. He had his perspective, I had mine. What possible good could come of conflict? As we entered the shipping canal, I spotted the broken seagull floating out to sea.

The ribbon-cutting ceremony took place at noon. Gary Doty and a semicircle of beaming cronies stood in front of the news cameras. The mayor introduced Ann Glumac, Chairman of the Aquarium, whom I recognized from the cover of Area Woman magazine. Ms. Glumac, according to the mayor, was excited. "I've spent a lot of time with Ann this morning," he said, "and I think she needs some kind of drugs to bring her down." The media horde chuckled approvingly.

This was, continued the mayor, a great day for the Twin Ports. "I was inside earlier with my family and I saw the excitement in their eyes," he informed the cameras. I could relate to this. Today I, too, had seen emotion in the eyes of Gary Doty's family.

A fat red ribbon was held taut by a woman and the Sturgeon General. The mayor asked the crowd to count down from five. At zero, he and Ann Glumac cut the ribbon with an oversized pair of scissors. The place went nuts. I went back to my car to sleep.

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Published in the Northland Reader, 8/3/2000.