There is, at my feet, a great river of wax, emanating heat and a mixed perfume. It flows with the regal patience of molten rock, slow, careful, and heavy. I stand away from the thing, aware that the soft wax coast, thickened and scabby, might break through into the loose liquid underneath. Streaked and deep red, the undulations of the wax river evoke the same induced hypnosis as a smoldering fire. In that flow, I am lost, for a time.
‘At some point the world seemed to agree on a certain definition of a ‘wax museum.’ We agreed that it is not enough to describe the history of wax or the processes involved in its creation. It is necessary, at least to display wax statues. It is encouraged to include celebrities among the statues displayed. If these likenesses are not convincing, then they must be unconvincing enough to mock. If they are simply mediocre then the business will fail.
Because of our high standards there is no place quite like ‘The Tri-County Wax Museum.’ It disregards the historical narrative regarding wax museums and presents something altogether different and perhaps truer to what they, in the author’s opinion should be. Keep your mind open and your breath shallow and ‘The Tri-County Wax Museum’ will be an experience less-shitty than most.’
There is no railing, no careful attendant to guide my tour. As such I could, and do, spend the better part of an hour simply watching the great wax flow. Light purples emerge after half an hour, deepening, eventually, into blue and layering the coast. The complex housing this marvel is massive and stuffy, the air is slick, oily.
After nearly an hour I struggle to draw breath. I cough through a narrowed windpipe, cough squirming, molded strings of wax and phlegm. A flexi-layer of my esophagus dislodges, smelling like cranberries and nutmeg. My breathing improves but I understand it’s time to move on.
Further into the complex, upriver, as it were, there is a great wax waterfall and a molten rainbow lake. The sign there insists that the bubbling center is fed by a natural spring, a wax spring. A map highlights various American wax fields, details the machines necessary to tap them. There is nobody nearby to question about this. I scoff and look around the empty room, sure that none of the information makes any sense but unable to convey my disbelief.
Fuck if I know where wax comes from.
I start to cough again. My skin and clothes shine with a layer of the stuff.
Through a revolving door the air clears and I’m treated to a corridor of glass cases. Inside are the extinguished smatterings of old candles:
‘Hung at the Old North Church to Warn Paul Revere of the British (1775)’
‘Pooled at the Base of the Original Menorah (??)
‘Recovered from a Jack o’ Lantern, Salem, Massachusetts (1963)’
‘Burned on Michael Jackson’s 30th Birthday Cake (1988)’
There is no clear order to the cases and no overarching theme. These are pop-culture candles at best, mostly pilfered from celebrity situations or vivid, commonly taught historical moments. Each lends itself to an impressed widening of the eyes, a knowing nod of the head, but not much else. Not much else at all.
It would be impossible for an amateur to verify any of what ‘The Tri-County Wax Museum’ presents as truth.
I wonder if the stranger has been here and, generally, where he is now. I wonder if, after suffering these wracking coughs, he would choose to burn the place.
It’s a place that would lend itself to burning.
-traveler
