The Viper

It was finally here, the day they’d all been waiting for: our eighth grade end-of-year field trip.  The sun was shining and the birds were singing, and the school bus was agog with excited chatter.  They were so excited.  I tried to be.

I was dimly eager about our trip to Darien Lakes amusement park, simply because I’d never been to one, an amusement park, that is, but I was more focused on the water slides and bouncy houses and the ferris wheel, and the ring tosses and balloon popping ---I could win Sharon an enormous Panda!--- and the Slushies and hot dogs and fried dough.  You know, the benign attractions, the friendlier versions of fun.  My classmates, though, and particularly Sharon, the love of my life, had been yammering on about the newest roller coaster for weeks now: The Viper, as seen only through television commercials ---miles long and high of black shimmering steel with ice covered peaks and dark gloomy valleys and ridiculous loops in between; the animated, sharp-toothed serpent striking out at you, daring you, at the commercial’s end--- was now to be finally conquered. 

Conquered, but by them.

I wanted nothing to do with it.

But Sharon wanted everything to do with it, and as we crested the hill and Darien Lakes came into view in the near horizon, and we gazed wide-eyed and in silent awe at the monstrosity which loomed over everything, she grabbed my bicep, and squeezed, and whispered in my ear, “You’ll protect me, right?”

She probably didn’t really say that, but it’s what I heard.  I flexed that bicep and puffed my chest out a bit; I pulled her close, rested her head on my shoulder, and tousled her soft, beautiful hair.  I was to be her savior, her 007, but as I stared at that monstrosity, which was now more monstrous because we were that much closer, I knew it was going to be a bad, bad scene.  Just the thought alone made me drop a huge load in my drawers.

Well, not really, but I might actually have preferred that as an alternative to what really happened.

 -----

My anxiety over that reptilian nightmare evidently caused me to black out for the arrival procedures ---the unpacking of lunches and the forming of groups and the entrance through the ever-spinning turnstiles--- for suddenly, and without explanation, there we were, waiting in the excruciatingly long line for The Viper, like lambs for the slaughter: innocent children, completely oblivious of the slow death which waited with jaws wide open.

It was a warmer morning but the sweat which poured from beneath my ball cap would indicate record temperatures.  My palms were clammy; I had to keep rubbing them on my pants so Sharon wouldn’t get the hint, for she insisted on holding hands the entire time.  Holding hands, and squeezing my arms, and hugging me as though I were about to depart for some foreign war.

All of this would have been fine, under any other circumstances, but not these.  I was expected to demonstrate a manhood far beyond my thirteen years.  Completely unfair.

But no one else --and I mean, no one!-- appeared the least bit daunted, so I had to pretend like I was really super excited, and I hi-fived the boys and yammered on about how totally awesome this was going to be.  Super awesome.  But, I really had to pee, and the eggs, grits, bacon and toast Mom felt it necessary I eat that morning for breakfast were beginning to need an escape.  There was, however, no outlet to be had.  We were next in line for boarding.  My rite of passage was approaching.

I climbed in the car, to the right of Sharon, and I mimicked her closing of the harness over my torso, latching it firmly into place --Sharon was old-school, this was nothing new for her-- and the boys whoop-whooped! and Sharon screeched a high-pitched dying sound, like a cat that just got stepped on, as the gears and cogs and whatever else propels a roller coaster began to awaken.  We lurched forward and slowly exited the barn; we maneuvered around a turn, and began our ascent towards the ice covered peak, miles and miles above sea level.

My body was quaking, and it was not from the obviously poorly constructed coffin in which I sat.  I was twitching like I had a neural disorder.  I was laughing and whoop-whooping but I was not excited. I was a thesaurus for fear: I was bother and worry and fret and fuss and stew; I was sweat and stress and trouble and despair, and as we rose into the clouds, so too did my breakfast begin to rise, the eggs and bacon and grits and toast.  The back of my throat began to sprinkle, and Sharon grabbed my thigh and squeezed and I clenched my butt cheeks because something was about to leave there too; and still we climbed, and still I sprinkled, and still I clenched, my butt cheeks, but my hands, too, for I was squeezing that padded steel  harness with such determination to will myself to contain all that lay beneath, to will myself to breathe, to will myself not to cry, but I knew those were tears which accompanied the sweat cascading down my cheeks and dripping off my jawline. 

And the crest of the mountain, it was approaching.  There it was, and as the first of the cars went over Sharon raised her arms and screeched and yowled and cawed like a damned raven ---she truly sounded possessed--- in preparation for the fall, and I raised my arms as our car reached the pinnacle, and I belched some kind of long foreign sound, like a slow-motion painful wail, and I saw the clouds give way to the horizon give way to the passersby beneath, enjoying their Slushies and funnel cakes and balloon popping and ring tossing and finding a new friend in their giant stuffed pandas.

We were directly vertical, facing down, ninety degrees it seemed. 

And all went dark.  My anxiety over that reptilian nightmare had caused me to pass out, and the next thing I knew, there were unfamiliar faces hovering over me, shadowy forms of amusement park attendants ---I could tell by their green Viper hats--- slapping my face and holding fingers in front of my eyes ---how many fingers do you see?--- and instinctively I looked to my left, for Sharon. 

For the love of my life.  For my savior, to have and to hold. 

I needed to be held.

By Sharon.

But she had vacated the car, to join the leering throng of my classmates, whispering and pointing and giggling at the kid who had passed out on The Viper.

My hands were still in a Kung-Fu grip around the harness.  Only surgical procedure could release them, it seemed.  The front of my pants was wet, most certainly not from sweat and tears, and my teeth and lips and cheeks wetly caked from the foul remains of Mom’s ill-planned breakfast.  There were chunks in the back of my throat. 

I looked up at my friends, and at Sharon, and I smiled.

Which caused them to only laugh harder.