Amusement Park Jail

Newsletter 2024-05-28

My oldest daughter and I went to an amusement park and unexpectedly became the main attraction. Not for all the park guests, but definitely for our group of fifty or so band and choir kids and their accompanying chaperones. It all came down to one highly controversial wardrobe choice my fourteen-year-old, Betsy, made on both of our behalves. I’ll never look at t-shirts the same way again.

The trip had been in the planning stages for months. All the eighth graders in music classes were offered the chance to go to Kings Island for forty bucks. The discount was partially because it’s early in the season before the water park opens and partially because a bunch of other middle schools were going that day, which scared away the other guests. There goes the neighborhood. Betsy begged me to be a chaperone. My wife, Lola, thought it would be a good idea, too. She supports anything that gets me out of the house and away from her. She’s very much looking forward to those peaceful years that make up the gap between the male and female lifespans. I was on board. Taking a day off work in the middle of the week sounded wonderful, and so did spending a day with Betsy. I realize there’s a ticking clock for how many more years (or months) she’ll be willing to be seen in public with me. Just as importantly, I love roller coasters. I’m the only one in my family who does. Before I took my kids to Holiday World last summer, they excitedly planned out what roller coasters they would tackle in what order. After the first one, however, they were traumatized past the point of words. They didn’t ride another coaster for the entire day. I thought the Kings Island trip could be the start of Betsy’s redemption arc. If I could get her to like the rides as much as I do, I could have a roller coaster buddy for the rest of the summer. To make that scheme a reality, I had to get her on a second roller coaster and many, many more after that. That was my game plan for the day. Betsy had a different agenda.

Her primary concern was the dress code. She wanted us to wear matching shirts. The only two we had that were identical were the ones we bought at the last second on Star Wars Day. We wore them to see the re-re-release of The Phantom Menace and then back at our house until Betsy abandoned me to go to a sleepover. The Star Wars shirt wasn’t my first choice to wear around an amusement park all day. It was black. I don’t need any extra help overheating. Worse, it was thick cotton and didn’t breathe at all. I have a million dry fit shirts that would have been a better choice. That’s practically all I wear. My primary fashion consideration is whether or not I’ll die in a pool of my own sweat. Betsy didn’t care about any of that. She lacked garments that matched my moisture-wicking ones, so she insisted that we wear our Star Wars attire. I reluctantly agreed. I might as well have been a potato wrapped in tin foil. There wasn’t enough deodorant in the world.

I didn’t think much more of our style choice until we showed up at the school on the morning of the trip. We were the talk of the group. The other kids couldn’t believe that I was dressed like Betsy, while the adults were shocked that she “let” me match her. Everyone acted impressed and even jealous, but I’m not sure they meant it. It’s like when someone calls you “stunning and brave” for posting a picture of yourself. The subtext is “everyone thinks you look awful, but props to you for going for it anyway.” That’s how I interpreted the comments from the adults. As for the teenagers, they legitimately thought it was adorable. That wasn’t a compliment, either. It’s the same as when you dress up your dog to look like you and everyone goes, “Aw, he thinks he’s people.” I was Betsy’s fashion prop. I leaned into the role. Regardless of the reasons behind it, she was willing to publicly claim me as her dad, and I savored the moment. It would be our last good one for a while.

The most violent and uncomfortable ride of the day turned out not to be a roller coaster or a log flume, but the bus ride on the way there. It’s been a while since I’ve been on an old fashioned yellow school bus. For some reason, I imagined this trip would be on charter buses, which was clearly impossible when we each only paid forty bucks. For that price, I’m lucky they didn’t make us walk. I was the last one to get on the bus. I don’t care how uncool it is; I will NEVER waste an opportunity for a bathroom break. Betsy saved me a seat. She picked the row with the wheel well jutting up from the floor. She pointed me to the spot directly over the well. As if. I’m 6’2”. My knees would have been at my chin. I made her sit over the wheel well while I took the aisle side with my knees digging into the back of the seat in front of me. Betsy immediately questioned her decision to invite me on the trip. The bus vibrated violently as it drove down the perfectly smooth interstate. Days later, my whole body still feels like it’s shaking. As an added bonus, it rained the entire way to the park. It looked like I let my body be jostled to pieces for nothing. The day would be a wash.

Two and a half hours after we left the school, we arrived at Kings Island. We marched the quarter mile from the parking lot to the front gates in a steady drizzle. Luckily, the water works cut off after that, and the weather ended up being perfect for the rest of the day. I got “randomly” flagged for an extra inspection while the kids I was supposed to be chaperoning were waved through the gates. I will always be the most suspicious member of any group. The security staff knew I was up to no good as soon as they saw I was dressed like my teenager. Inside the park, kids weren’t required to stick with the adults. They just had to stay in groups of four. We had each other’s cell phone numbers and designated check-in times. I also had an app that tracked their locations, but I turned it off because it ran through my battery like it was mining Bitcoin. Half of our group immediately broke away. They intended to ride the marquee metal roller coasters that send you a thousand miles in the air at a million miles per hour. They were living their best lives. I was left with the less adventurous kids, including my daughter, who viewed roller coasters as Rube Goldberg death machines. At least she didn’t ditch me. I had a plan to build up her courage. It was my show now.

I led my reduced squad into the little kids zone. A few of the teens scoffed. I pushed on. Tucked behind a few brightly colored attractions for toddlers was a real roller coaster. It was on the smaller side, but because it was located in the zip code of shame, no one else was in front of us. My merry band of chickens hopped on without a wait. Our adventure had begun. The ride offered sixty seconds of mild thrills, but it counted as a real roller coaster. It both rolled and coasted. It’s important to use those early wins as confidence boosters. One kid curled up and closed her eyes the entire time, but the rest thought it was pretty cool. Everybody did it a second time, including the girl who wouldn’t open her eyes. We were making progress.

Next, we got on a second, slightly bigger roller coaster. It was still close enough to Coward’s Row to keep the serious riders away. The second coaster had us sit in harnesses that left our feet dangling, which was a big step up. I thought maybe that would spook my group for good. It didn’t. They asked for a breather, but they didn’t quit. We calmed down by riding some helicopters on rails that traveled at two miles per hour, which was about as exciting as a coma. With everyone’s pulses back to normal, we grabbed lunch, then set out in search of danger again. Betsy steered us towards a log ride. It was time for my worst moment of the day.

I’ve ridden many logs in many amusement parks, but I’ve never been splashed quite like this. The log accommodated sixteen people. More bodies meant more weight, which in turn meant a bigger wall of water at the bottom. Before I had time to regret it, we were strapped in and climbing the hill. We dropped. A pillar of water rose up. I had time to sigh heavily and count to three. The frothy liquid came crashing down. It was like somebody dumped a five gallon bucket on top of me. I’ve been dryer while swimming in pools. It was miserable. All of the kids were thrilled and wanted to do it again. I went with them. I’m many things, but I’m not a quitter. I got absolutely drenched for a second time. Like any good kid, Betsy was delighted by my discomfort. There’s nothing better than watching your dad get washed down a few pegs.

After that, we were on a roll. We attacked progressively bigger roller coasters. At some point, my all-girl squad picked up some boys from another group. I have a feeling that trend isn’t going away anytime soon. I made small talk with one of the guys while waiting in line. He was tall enough to look me in the eye. Then he casually dropped that he was born in 2010. You shouldn’t be allowed to be adult-sized when you’re still a literal infant. That’s why I like raising girls. They have the decency to always be shorter than me so I can remember who the parent is.

Having the boys around proved to be handy a short while later. On the next ride, the kids were passing their stuff to the side so it would be safe while we were on the coaster when someone dropped a girl’s pair of glasses on the tracks. Everything ground to a halt. The ride operators, all college-aged, looked at each other nervously. They weren’t allowed to reach down and get the glasses. Neither were the customers. It was strictly forbidden by regulations. My group and I were already locked in our seats with the safety bars down. The leader of the college students, evidently elevated to his rank due to his propensity for following the rules, called someone on the other side of the park. This not-so-risky rescue operation would have to be completed by a professional. Meanwhile, none of us could move. We were physically trapped in our seats. The queue, which had previously been empty, built up behind us. Two dozen people looked on at our predicament. I told the college kids I would get the glasses if they released me from the cart and looked the other way. My group of kids picked up the cause, advocating for the chance to save the day. One of the college-aged kids glanced at his supervisor, then unlocked Mr. 2010. (All the kids in the group, including Betsy, were born in 2010, but the boy was the only one who had the gall to remind me of that fact while also having the dimensions of a full-blown grown-up.) I couldn’t actually see where the glasses were because I was locked in the very back car. I thought Mr. 2010 could simply reach down and grab them. Instead, he jumped down onto the tracks and disappeared from view. It suddenly occurred to me that I was responsible for getting all of these teenagers out of here alive. I feared I would need to start a very awkward text chain with all the other chaperones. Then Mr. 2010 reappeared with the glasses raised triumphantly over his head. He was a hero. The people waiting in line cheered. The college-aged supervisor looked like he was going to have a heart attack. He had already called in to report the glasses were on the tracks. Now he’d have to explain why they weren’t. We assured him there had never been any glasses on any tracks. He started the ride. A minute later, we got off and ran before they could put us in amusement park jail. We didn’t do that ride again.

We got our money’s worth out of plenty of other roller coasters. We did our final one, which was our biggest of the day, three times in a row. Even the girl who closed her eyes on the first coaster was having fun. Life is less scary when you’re not in the dark. By the time we had to go, Betsy had made eleven trips on roller coasters. I was proud of her. We never made it to the giant metal rides, but we conquered the most hardcore of the medium-sized wooden ones. With a little more pushing, I think she could be my roller coaster buddy in the coming months. I need to book those trips before she becomes old enough to be appropriately ashamed of me. We might even do them in matching shirts.

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There are just twenty-one days left until June 18th! That’s the release date for The Gods of Spenser Island, the sequel to The Chosen Twelve. It occurred to me today that I haven’t told you much about it, other than it’s a book and I wrote it. (Although, seriously, what else do you need to know?) For those of you who don’t trust me implicitly, here’s the description from Amazon. There are some spoilers for the ending of the first book. Skip the paragraphs in italics if you haven’t read it yet and care about that sort of thing:

Isolated and alone, the last twelve humans, all of them children, scramble to create a new civilization on the alien island that is now their home—and prison—for the rest of time.

Waylaid on all sides by hostile aquatic lifeforms that emerge from the deadly waters every night, the dozen survivors fight under the guidance of their de facto leader, Delta, who led the insurrection against the children’s robot overlords just days before. But even as the twelve struggle against the planet—and each other—to build their new society, the yoke of their digital oppressors has not been lifted. SCASL, leader of all robot kind, downloaded himself onto the lander and now controls all critical systems, like the cloner, needed to terraform the island with animals and plants, and the immortality chamber, necessary to keep the children alive long enough to gain a toehold on the planet for all of humankind.

With their immortality injections delayed by the landing and the battle against SCASL, the “children” age for the first time after decades stuck at the biological age of twelve. It’s hard to know what’s the biggest threat: the sea monsters, the devious artificial intelligence, or puberty. The stage is set for an epic struggle that will determine the future of all sentient life.

Time is running out to pre-order signed copies. Pick Mainstreet Books/Second Flight Books if you want me to deface yours with my signature, or select any other vendor for the regular version: Obtain the book.

Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for now. Catch you next time.

James