Number 1
January 19th, 2008 by LoadRunner
I step off the N train at the last stop. It’s almost as if I’m on autopilot because of the number of times I’ve done this. This year, however, is different. This is my last year to bask in all the glory, mayhem and life that is Coney Island.
Don’t get me wrong, it will still be here next year. I mean, hell, it’s a town. There will always be something named Coney Island in Brooklyn. But after this year, the history is gone. It becomes a cookie-cutter, cheap-ass, Great Adventure knock-off where circus freaks who shove knives threw their tongues are replaced with literal clowns making balloon swords for upper-class brats on day trips.
I can remember nothing as clearly from my childhood than my first trip here. I was eight years old and was so deathly terrified of the madhouse around me I couldn’t let go of my father’s pocket for one second. My head spun wildly, almost Linda-Blair-style, trying to see everything and take it all in. Of course, as a fat kid, I was most intrigued by the food. My keen sense of smell led the way. My poor father had no other choice than to follow me through my taste-testing procession. Like Godzilla emerging on several un-expecting Japanese cities, I quickly hit the small, quaint village of cotton candy, devastated the seaside town of hotdog and demolished the metropolis once known as salt-water taffy. As I drooled a slimy strand of what must have been some type of high fructose corn syrup, I saw it. For once in my life, food was no longer my top priority. My number one concern was getting my fat ass on the Cyclone.
Annoyingly tapping my father, as children often do, I manage to mutter out, “Dad… Dad… DAD! I need to go on that. I really, really need to go on that… I’m not too young. I swear I can do it… No, I’m totally big enough!” In reality, I really was sizeable for my age. Thank god for my freakishly large grandmother. About time that old bitch proved herself useful. I mean, unless of course she considers referring to me as Petunia Pig useful.
We walk in slow motion over to the wooden monstrosity. The boardwalk slowly creaks under my feet as each step passes. I’ve never been on a rollercoaster before, but dear god, I must ride this one.
As the entrance comes into my line of sight, I see the dreaded sign. You Must be THIS Tall to Ride This Ride. Damn. Damn, Damn, Damn, Damn. If only there were width requirements instead.
A big burly man with blue hair that is thinning on top is acting as the bouncer. He meticulously checks the height of every kid walking through. This is it. The moment that can make or break me. I saunter up to the sign. I try and play it cool, confident even, as if I know I’m tall enough to ride this friggin’ ride. I own this baby. It’s mine.
I then embarrassingly realize I’m just slightly under the vexing hand of the cardboard cowboy sign. Shoot. I slowly, casually prop up on my toes just a little bit so that the top of my head is resting gently on the bottom of the sign. This gargantuan man looks down and sees exactly what I’m doing. He’s a pro. He knows what tricks to look for. As I ready myself for defeat, he shoots me a quick wink and ushers my father and I through. I give a quick arm pump in the air, scream “YESSSSSS” and skip through the gate. Maybe he related to me because he was once a young chubby kid who wanted to go on a roller coaster. Maybe he just didn’t give a shit about his minimum-wage job. Or perhaps he just really wanted to see some fat girl fall to her death. No matter what the reasoning, I didn’t care. I was going to ride the Cyclone!
I pick the car right up front. I want to see absolutely everything without some enormous head bobbling around in front of me. My father pulls the lap bar down over us and clicks it into place. I tug on it a little and it feels sturdy enough. Start this bad boy up. I’m ready.
The train of cars slowly begins to move. This is it. THIS IS IT! Almost too excited to even blink, I prepare myself for what I’m sure is going to be the best time I’ve ever had during my short life. We slowly crawl up a steep mountain of tracks and I can see the zenith. It looks like we’re just going to fall right off the end of the earth. As we approach the peak, I begin to think I’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake. I slowly begin to whisper, “I’m okay… I’m okay… I’m oooOOH MY GOD!!!” It’s all going too fast for me. We are flying at top speeds in all directions and I just can’t gain my bearings. My head is bouncing so hard, I’m sure I’ll have permanent damage. I feel my cheeks start getting wet. I’m crying. I’m so scared that I’m actually crying. Mind you, I still haven’t stopped screaming at the top of my lungs at this point either. At this point, I’m now convinced this ride will kill me, so I close my eyes and accept my fate.
After what seems to be an eternity, we begin to slow down and prepare to pull back into the station. As we begin our sluggish re-entry, I become aware that my cheeks aren’t the only things that have gotten wet. I look down and see a puddle at my feet. Yes. That’s right. I peed myself. In the center of my seafoam green culottes stood a moist circle of darkness with a long stain trickling down my leg. I was an eight-year-old who needed a diaper. I couldn’t face my father or the public at large like this. Grown girls did NOT pee themselves. I quickly ransacked my mind for ideas of what to do. I didn’t have much time. I could see the line of people waiting for us on the platform as we approached. Then, it hit me. I did the only logical thing a girl could do in that situation. I threw up all over myself. No, not in the fat-girl-becomes-bulimic type of way. In my mind, people typically got sick on rollercoasters, they never peed themselves. Puke was okay. Pee was not.
So, as my voyage came to a close, I brought my two hands clenched together up to my face, feigning to cover my mouth as if I was coughing. While in position, I quickly took the thumb of my right hand, while covering this action from my father with my left hand, and shoved it as far down my throat as I possibly could. Instantaneously, my previous feast of carnival food came up in a multi-colored explosion, all over the front of me and my clothes; hiding the other, less appropriate stains. Well, it wasn’t the perfect end to the situation, but hey, I was happy take it.
The funny part is I really don’t remember much else after that. I remember my father taking the blame when we got home. He knew I shouldn’t have gone on that thing after eating all that junk. Oh, if he only knew the truth. His daughter could control her food; she just couldn’t control her urine.
Most people would think that such a traumatizing experience as that would have kept me away from Coney Island. Actually, the exact opposite happened. The following summer, I had to prove to myself that I could handle the Cyclone. At least this time if I wet my pants, I knew what to do.
But I didn’t pee. I remained completely dry all over and loved every single second of it.
Michael Louis Corrente lives in queens, New York and pays his bills as a grant writer.
Tags: brooklyn, chubby, coney island, cyclone, fat, new york, pee, roller coaster
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