Cedar Point and Other Amusements

            I was too skinny to stick to the wall on The Rotor at Cedar Point.  I wondered if there was another world of skinny seventh grade Methodist girls living leaderless in some passive  society under the ride where the floor dropped out when the round black-walled room started spinning and all those really old-looking young  black dudes would stick to the wall so easily in their playgirl centerfold poses, and I would just be stiff with my mousy brown straight hair fanned out on the wall and my elbows bleeding because I was clearly immune to centrifuge, scraping ever downward toward the newly opened crack that led to the secret society.  Those were the same guys that could dance backwards with their big beautiful hair at the roller skating rink over in Zanesville and I would be on the ground, wiped out, just trying to crawl toward the rail, and some white boy would roll over my pinkie and wipe, and the black guy would be dancing backward and he would just hop over us both, tangled in our stupid whiteness, and he in his coolness.  I always wished I could be a cool black guy with a big fro, sticking to the rotor wall and dancing on roller skates backwards to Al Green’s “Let’s Stay Together”.

            I got vomited on by my brother James on The Octopus at the Quaker City Folk Festival Days, (cherry snow-cone in its chemical signature).  I loved The Octopus until he hurled on my jeans and the smell and texture sent me into contagious nausea.  I was sometimes the third in the trio, without a partner, and had to take the next carriage as we raced onto The Scrambler, partnered with a three hundred pound middle-aged stranger just seconds before the ride started up.  I’m on the outside seat of the carriage when she comes sliding at me like a centrifugal wrecking ball, poured into her stretch pants with a chocolate ice cream stain and slamming me every time (and there was 36 of them) that that scrambler carriage hit the outside whip corner.  Very quickly the anticipatory dread caused me to forever remember the size and make up of that lady’s brown stain.  And subsequently my own.

            There was The Matterhorn incident, when that Byesville yocal Rufus kept cranking up the Grand Funk Railroad so loud that he couldn’t hear my strident cries as natural forces seem to work on this ride, slamming me down through the poorly fitting harness and pinning me to the floor of the car.  With each lap around I would struggle to sit back up in order to maximize the timing of the pleas of “Stop the Ride!”  Alas, all Rufus could see was the part on the top of my head and my right arm sticking out of the car.  Between the noise, the music, and those other kids crying, “Faster, faster!”,   he couldn’t hear my heart-wrenching commands, any of which merely sounded like “aahhhh” or “ehhhhhh” or “hoooooooo” as the top of my head and my arm whizzed past Rufus and that big greasy lever each time (and there were 36 of them).  That ride wore me out, what with the struggle.

            Then there was the Rock-O-Cages at the 1973 Guernsey County Fair. The ride had oval cages that you could spin head over heels while you were revolving like a ferris wheel.    It started calmly enough in its ferris-ness, until that bitch Donna just couldn’t let it be, and she started tilting the bar, sending us whirling in flips over ourselves.  I grabbed the bar so hard and tried to hold it steady, and gave a combination cry/scream, “Stop tilting the goddamned bar, Donna!” (the swearing was warranted).  My need for stability in a world gone mad lost to Donna’s passion for spinning wildly.  It seemed to last forever, both spinning and revolving, until I was painting a spirograph of french-fried vomit into the Guernsey County atmosphere. (Chemical signature = russet potatoes, vinegar and salt)  The ride eventually came to a halt on its own time, unencumbered by my cries and the water hose magically appeared as I crawled out, just a quick rinse-off for the next suckers.  Somewhere in there I lost my ten dollar bill, too.  We laughed about the vomit, but I lost my taffy money.  Damn.

            But my thoughts take me back to Cedar Point and that L and K Motor Lodge where James and I met the two boys from Canada who showed us a Blue Angel.  I had never known of farts as entertainment or for fuel potential but the demonstration clearly landed with me.  I guess it is cold and boring in Canada.  Here in America my people just fart and giggle and deny it.  My friend Cathy and I, while at Cedar Point representing the Methodist Youth Fellowship sometimes would need a rollercoaster ‘palate cleanse’ and would ride the sky cab over the crowd to Frontier Land to cool off on the log ride, certain of course that none of the mob below could see us sneaking a cigarette in the sky cab when in fact anyone looking up could clearly see us.  We would take turns ducking down in the tram and puffing and fanning the smoke.  What we didn’t need was the park maintenance to spot a burning sky cab.  That might land you in Cedar Point Prison.  On this day we would make a quick stop to see what all the excitement was at Jungle Larry’s African Safari.  Turns out one of the monkeys was sucking his own peter, something I certainly did not expect.  (I thought maybe throwing excrement….).You just don’t forget monkeys pleasuring themselves.  We lost all body control laughing, almost falling to the ground, ‘disgusted’ (enrapt) by the kind of sight that forces you to become a year older and wiser that very day, never to look back again.  Now we must focus on bigger, faster, scarier thrills.  Antique cars, you’re out.  Mine Ride, you’re pussy.  Jumbo Jet, you’re…..gone!  Where did that ride go? 

            I guess I think about all of this now because I need to keep trying things that make me vomit.  I first thought I wanted to write a memory piece about amusement rides and such, but as I explored my feelings more I came to realize that I’m blogless right now, in the thick of society’s midwinter dream of working and eating and sleeping and bathing.  I said I was going to explore ‘playing’ this year and I’ve done a little.  But what I need is more vomiting from being tossed about and more vomiting from fear.  Metaphorically speaking?  Maybe not. We all need to be having fun and being scared and making memories.  When I’m old and gray and nodding by the fire and I’ll take that book down and slowly read it.  I just need to get it written first.