There’s a water slash amusement park close to where I live that’s closing down for good after this summer. The Google says it’s because of huge losses after the pandemic plus mounting operational costs. I suppose by the latter, Google means old equipment getting older, thus requiring more aggressive preventative maintenance, upgrades, fixes. It’s a fifty year old park. Shit starts to break at fifty. Other times, problems surface and come in to light, hopefully before something breaks in order to give a work party a chance to address it. A family.
I drive by it on the highway even in the middle of this summer. I can make out at least one ride before returning my attention back to the road. I know firsthand this water ride requires a decent climb up a wooden staircase, having frequented this park with youngblood when he was smaller. From the highway recently, I notice there’s a healthy-looking line of all ages in swim attire on these same stairs waiting to get to the top where they’ll get to decide what tube to chute down. I used to race him down these tubes. He says he’s going there one last time, but with his girlfriend who’ll visit him a little later this summer. He’s got until Labor Day.
If I were to look at Wild Waves in Federal Way, WA as a kind-of metaphor for my own life, I’d see the wooden stairs and the tubes and coaster tracks and the other equipment designed to carry weight the same way they do literally at the park. In times of joy, it wouldn’t feel like weight at all. My stairs smooth, stained and splinter-free. Tubes and tracks held together and upright with the finest, shiniest, best-rated hardware, braces and trusses. Time ticks forward, though, and, well, shit, we know what comes next. It gets heavy. For one reason or another. Age. The very up-and-down nature of life.
I’m nobody special when it comes to this.
But I turned 57 today, and that’s kind of special. In preparation for my special day, I came up with the bright idea of forcing youngblood to take a drug test. This was yesterday. I told him he had to for two reasons. One, that it was my birthday coming up and he had to grant me a birthday wish. Two, “Because I fucking said so. There’s consequences if you don’t, Sir.”
I guess it’s more like three reasons if you figure youngblood was giving his mom and I plausible reasons to think he might be on drugs. Lying on an epic scale. Reclusive. Checked out. Lack of motivation despite going to the gym everyday. Emotional Intelligence (EI) wasn’t a thing back in my day, but it is now and youngblood’s been scoring Fs on all his pop quizzes. Acting every bit the thoughtless and inconsiderate prick in other words.
“I don’t know what else to call it besides you’re pissing in a cup today, end of story.”
. . .
“And I don’t give a shit about pot. I already know you’re doing that. You told me you’re doing it. It’s the other shit that your father is worried about. Correction: scared shitless about.”
. . .
“You’re hurting your mother and your father, asshole.”
He did. He pissed in a cup. It was a rapid test. He handed me the results before they were emailed to me. His mien spoke for him: Eat shit, Dad.
Negative. All 18 of them.
It doesn’t resolve very much, but at least we get to rule something out.
And I get to eat some turd with my birthday cake.
-tmc
Things Men Carry 