>>7620781Despite, or perhaps in spite of, my mother's fervent demands to the contrary, I found myself rushing toward the belly of the beast. And perhaps it was the wilting floral arrangements in the queue, or the dwindling crowd surrounding the ominous monument, but dread seemed to be the mood permeating the air. The high spirits that earlier made our faces ache with laughter were waning with the sun.
Lights in the mansion flickered for a while and were still. We were guided in by a solitary park attendant, who, like my group, was silent. The only voice that could be heard was the Price-esque cackle that was issued over the gargoyle-shaped loudspeakers.
But here were my friends who had slain this monster hundreds of times between them. From this, I should think, I could glean some modicum of comfort. So why all the foreboding? Why weren't we laughing at the painting of the woman dangling over the crocodile's mouth? Or joking at the tacky, plasticine nature of the tourist trap? In short, why so serious?
If you asked me then why I did it, I couldn't tell you. Up to then, I had seen every George A. Romero movie to date. I had braved abuse, and survived things few others my age would dare to think about. I'd like to think I'm still a pretty brave person. And thank god for the friends I had then. Perhaps they sensed I couldn't help it, or felt sympathy for the pain that it caused me. My face screwed up in pain, and my panties soaked through. Were it not for the safety bar on the coaster, I'd have doubled over on the floor in agony and embarrassment. Forever I'd be known as the girl who pissed herself halfway through a kiddie ride. The laughing head in the crystal ball was a reflection of my future of ridicule. It was safe to say the day was ruined.
And after all the fuss, and all the deprivation, it was "just a ride." Which is what I told my mom through tears when I got home.