magical lights blazing lazily around on the Ferris wheel and bulbs
flashing crazily in single file, creating a racing form of neon
display up and down the hills of the 100 foot high SkyCoaster.
There were no lights that night, however. No lights, no moon, no
light clouds, zilchamundo. Brant had stopped on the way to pick
up a couple of his friends from the White Dragons. The Dragons
were a street gang that held a high position in thc field of respect
with all wise kids back then, and luckily they brought spare
flashlights, matches for their cigarettes, and 5-inch steel Randell
switchblades (in case some maniacal drunk or thug was claiming
the park space as a home base for his operations).
Both of the White Dragon members appeared to be gods in the
eyes of all of us that evening - their hair slicked back to their scalps
James Dean style, black leather jackets with pale, fire breathing
dragons on them, a general air of confidence and security beaming
off them as if they were more protective beacons for us than
general good company joining us in the daredevil fun.
Five more members of the Dragons were to meet us after a field
party they were having up on Grange's Point. Brant hadn't let us in
on that fact at first, but when I found out they were supposed to
meet us at the front gate at 12:30. more confidence rose in me, and
it began to feel more like we were heading toward a late game of
craps or penny ante poker instead of a 100 foot climb on slick
poles. What we didn't know was that they were practically carrying
the party with them, each with a bottle of Jack Daniel's Black
label, or Southern Comfort, or Everclear, and each was singing in
rackety unison the agonizing 75th stanza to "99 Bottles of Beer."
Excitement heaved up my chest to my throat as we approached the
outer gate, and I can still remember how mystic and strange the
park looked in the dark night air. The chain fence stretched onward
in both directions to what seemed infinity, sealing us out from its
unknown hidden powers, and I recall that it almost seemed that it
was shielding Skybar inside, preventing it from wielding its wrath
on the innocent people living outside its domain. Once you crossed
the barrier, however, there was no turning back. Here was where
the two worlds divided, and the choice was made - pussy or man.
Everybody was anxious to get inside the park's gates to prove
where he stood. With the gang you felt cold and nervous while
awaiting the wrath of whatever might be lurking inside-but outside,
the chances of surviving any lurking danger alone made you even
more nervous- jittery enough to crawl up into a ball and piss your
pants at every crack of a twig.
So, you see, it's not that we all wanted to go inside. But even if we
were scared to death of climbing the cold rails of the SkyCoaster,
staying alone while the rest of the bunch climbed over and
ventured inside was even worse than the original dare itself.
Surprisingly enough, Kirby was the first one up the fence to lay his
jacket across the barbed wire and hop to the soft asphalt of Skybar
on the other side. The rest of us followed, thud, sputt, thud
sounding through the night air as we each dropped to the ground
on the other side. We were in now. Eddie Frachers, the shorter of
the two White Dragons, lit up a smoke, flicked on the flashlight,
and led the way with Brant.
The station was empty when we got to the steel rails of the coaster,
and climbing the steps to the gate station was an unusual
experience in itself since there was no waiting in line for an hour
while an old man standing in front of you blew cigarette fumes in
your face in the riding hot sun as your stomach turned putred, your
facial skin pale. Now it was home free between the coaster and us,
free space all the way.
Hurry hurry step right up!
The metal floor thundered hundreds of beats under our feet as we
made our way across the vacant station to the terminal gates, and I
looked several times over my shoulder as we walked the deserted
leading board, my senses ready for anything that might decide to
go more than "bump" in the night. I was the first one to hear it, in
fact, and my body grew limp, my bowels limp with it when I heard
the direction it was coming from - the coaster cars.
They all sat in front of us, grey and orange from rust and age, their
silent features corrupting the night with an evil air, and I recall
standing there as the others began to hear it too, my hands shaking,
legs drooping, mouth hanging open stupidly as I attempted to say
something - I don't know what - and nothing would come out.
I don't know how long we all stood there, waiting for something,
anything to happen. The cars seemed mystic in their own way as
they stood their ground and refused to let us any nearer by chanting
some evil spell among themselves to keep us back. A spell is one
thing, but if you've ever thought you heard a car (or possibly some
dangerous lunatic hiding behind a car) singing something, you'd
understand how we all felt that night. Even Brant and the two
White Dragons appeared motionless in the soft glow from the
flashlight, but somehow Eddie brought the flashlight up to meet
whatever was occupying the first car.
"Hey! Turn it off damnit!"
A surge of relief at its at least being human swelled up in me, but I
still stood there, motionless and quivering, even as Eddie and the
rest of the bunch, even Kirby, started toward the coaster. I must
have still been in a daze, because I found myself wanting to stop
them, to pull them back to me, to end it all, turn around and get the
hell back over the fence. But I still stood there as fog rolled around
my eyes and my sight blurred, leaving only my ears to tell me the
horrible fate of our party.
"What the hell are you..." ". . are you sure that it's them . . ." "What
are they doing here like this..." A long, ear-piercing scream
followed, the kind women usually scream in those horror movies at
Starboard Cinema when the vampire wraps his cape around his
victim and starts sucking the living blood out of her. It rose to
almost unbelievable splitting levels then faded away with
suppressed laughter followed by "59 bottles of beer on the wall, 59
bottles of beer..."
A hand touched my shoulder and I reeled to find Kirby at my feet,
telling me that the other guys had gone ahead without me and I'd
better hurry up. I ran and caught up with them by the main track,
where they had already begun the climb. Brant was first, then the
White Dragons, and then Dewey and John, clinging tightly to the
steel tracks behind them. I ran the 20 feet to the final, highest 100
foot drop, and started up after them.
The cold steel rails clapped clamily into my skin as I started
shinnying up, looking to where Brant and the Dragons were
perched high above. I couldn't weigh the amount of energy I had
left to figure how I was gonna climb 100 fucking feet barehanded.
It's kind of like that joke about the little ant crawling up the
elephant's hind leg with rape on its mind. I probably wouldn't make
it, but I had high hopes.
Kirby never touched the rails. I couldn't blame him after the train
event, maybe something happened to him when he was younger, or
something. Kirby told me a lot of things best left confidential, but
he never told me anything about it either. He may not have wanted
to climb, but to me he was no pussy.
A lot of things go through your mind when you're 45 feet off the