Playland

Once, there was a kingdom made of plastic and wonder.

It rose defiantly at the edge of a sprawling parking lot, wedged between a grocery store, a dry cleaner, and a four-lane road that never stopped humming. From the outside, it looked almost otherworldly — part spaceship, part candy factory — with its bold colors and bulbous windows that glinted in the sun like the eyes of some cheerful robot god.

We called it many things — The Maze, The Tower, The Fort—but never by its true name. That was too dull, too adult. To us, it was just the place. The one where time froze, where parents disappeared, and where you could become something bigger, stranger, louder than your body had ever allowed.

It stood tall in red and yellow and offered its arms to all who dared enter. The moment those double doors swung open, you crossed a threshold not just into play, but into myth. The air changed. A thick, syrupy scent wrapped around you — grease and plastic and old milkshakes, sure, but also joy. Pure, sticky joy.

We left our shoes behind, scattered in piles like offerings at the temple. Socks only — blackened, sometimes holey — and then the climb began. I remember my mom keeping extra socks in her purse for years, just in case.

There were spiral staircases made of padded vinyl, and climbing nets that tested your courage with their wobble. The tunnels twisted above us like the intestines of some mechanical beast — red to blue to yellow, each one offering mystery and magic. You could crawl through them forever and never come out the same.

And at the heart of it all: the ball pit. A shimmering sea of color and chaos. We dove in like Olympians, like deep-sea divers, like fools. It didn’t matter that it smelled faintly of old socks and forgotten apple slices. It didn’t matter that someone had definitely peed in it at some point. It was ours. We sank, popped up laughing, lobbed balls at each other’s heads, declared war and made peace all before our parents could unwrap their cheeseburgers.

Sometimes, we climbed all the way to the top, to the glass dome that looked out over the world. You could sit there like a monarch in a capsule of heat and breath-fogged plexiglass, legs crossed, surveying your kingdom. Outside, cars whizzed past and grown-ups hustled toward lives we didn’t understand. Inside, we were gods.

The rules were few, and we learned them quickly: never push too hard, help the little ones if they cry, and don’t rat anyone out unless they’re bleeding. And always, always take turns on the slide. That twisty red slide, smooth as butter, was the great equalizer. Everyone got their moment of flight.

There was one boy — there was always one — who’d stake his claim at the top of the slide and declare himself King. He’d block the way, daring you to pass. “Who goes there?” he’d bark in his best knight voice, and you’d say something ridiculous like “I’m Princess Fartypants of Cheese Land” just to make him laugh. Then he’d let you through, and you’d tumble down screaming, your hair static-wild, the world spinning faster than you could catch it.

Birthdays were sacred rituals. If you were lucky enough to be invited, you got to sit in the glass-walled party room with a crown and a cake that tasted like yellow and blue. Sometimes Ronald himself showed up, grinning like a god on stilts, arms outstretched. Some of us loved him. Some of us screamed. He was part clown, part myth, part fever dream.

The parents stayed in their designated zones, sipping soda from paper cups, laughing too loudly or not at all. They didn’t come into the kingdom unless summoned. And we never summoned them unless it was serious — blood, puke, injustice. That space was ours. For a few hours, we were wild things.

And then, one day, it was gone.

No announcement. No ceremony. Just cones around the play area one week, and a mulch bed the next. The tunnels vanished. The ball pit was dismantled. The dome was carted away in pieces like a dead animal. The kingdom fell, not with a bang, but with the quiet disassembly of something no longer needed.

I didn’t think much of it then. I was growing up. Other things took its place — roller rinks, movie theaters, the mall. But sometimes, on car rides, I’d glance out the window as we passed that same spot, and feel the ghost of it tug at me. The mulch was always too flat. The bench too plain. There was no laughter there, no echo, no red slide peeking out like a serpent’s tongue.

Now, years later, I sit in the same booth. Different building, maybe. Same logo. Same fry smell. Across from me, my daughter stares into a screen. Her face is lit blue by some endless cartoon about baking or sharks or sparkly-haired dolls. Her food sits untouched. She’s laughing, sure. But not here. Not in this space. She’s somewhere else, lost in pixels.

There’s a sign where the old playplace used to be. It says “quiet zone” in cheery font, as if that were something to celebrate. A couple of benches. A sad metal sculpture shaped like an apple. Kids mill around it, bored. Their parents hover close, watching like hawks, afraid of scraped knees or unscheduled chaos.

No one climbs anymore. No one runs. No one builds empires from tunnels and ball pits and sweat.

We’ve traded wildness for safety. Imagination for programming. Freedom for supervision. I’m not sure we knew what we lost.

I look at my daughter. She’s beautiful. She’s bright. I love her more than breath. But I wish, for just one day, she could feel what it was like to be barefoot in that tower. To rule a plastic kingdom with jelly on her chin and ketchup on her shirt. To slide down into joy.

That place no longer exists.

Except in me.

And maybe that’s something.

Maybe it’s enough to remember.