I have not proofread this, but I did write it. I write every day yadda yadda yadda. You can see improvement (maybe).
It
hadn’t been a year since my accident at Dr. Shoeman’s Shoe Emporium had got me
all of the money I needed to last for a year on my own. Mr. Shoeman was still angry with me
like I had stolen the money directly out of his pocket, and my lawyer Hank
Hannigan was still calling every day asking for his piece.
I
didn’t feel like the rest of the bums at the unemployment office. A lot of these people were
unemployable, as you could imagine.
Others looked like they had been forced to go by an angry spouse or
money-mongering relative.
“If
you haven’t yet filed for direct deposit,” The automated voice on the overhead speaker said. “You can not yet appreciate the
convenience.” I had no bank
account, no credit cards. I cashed
my checks at Walmart after they handed them over. The front of the line was blocked by two elderly african
american women with giant steel cage looking walkers, who were complaining
about something completely unintelligible.
Lucky
for me, my old friend Bernard popped up.
“I can help YOU down here, sir.”
He said. I skipped others
in line who scoffed, a man on a cellphone looked particularly annoyed (although
it could have concerning what his cellphone conversation was about.)
I
looked at the check, which was once again more than I felt like I should be
getting. 1,100 dollars was far
more than I had ever accrued through gainful employment at the shoe store.
Don’t
get me wrong, I love shoes. I love
Nikes, I love Siconi’s, I love Adidas, sports shoes in general. They have that appeal of a nice sports
car, except they are much more comfortable.
I
always got weird looks from cops.
I think maybe they could tell I was nervous around them.
“Good
evening, officer.” I said to this
particular mustachoed bespectacled gentleman as I stepped out onto the steps
adjacent to city hall.
“What
have you got there, buddy?” He
asked with a smile.
“Just
a little unemployment check.”
“Are
you disabled?”
“Nope,
not that I know of. Other than
maybe my will to live.”
“Sorry
to hear that, friend. Good luck.”
He
ended it there, it was nice of him.
I was sweating bullets.
I
decided to intern at the new Carnival Style Theme Park for a minute. It was still a week before the place
opened, and everyone looked generally nervous.
“Mr.
Simon is going to be here in a minute, cover all the sharp edges.” The owner, Mr. Belvedere,
proclaimed. You could see the
sweat poring out in a thick line from his balding mountainous scalp as he typed
haphazardly into a dirty wordpress.
I
put everything from on top of my desk into the first drawer, pulling them off
like I was attempting to pull a table cloth out from under some dinnerware.
“My
desk looks good, boss.” I said,
with feigned compliance. “Don’t
have to worry about my desk.”
He
didn’t even look over. His boss, ostensibly the man who had put together these
rides and architechtured the setup, was storming up with two stocky gentlemen
wearing hardhats and carrying machines that wouldn’t have been out of place on
an episode of Star Trek.
“The
tiltawhirl is running fine, fine enough.”
One of them said. “We need
a test run, would you like to volunteer?”
They
weren’t talking to me, they were referring to Mr. Simon. I knew this was a pretty good
opportunity to jump in and earn my place.
“Me? I don’t ride these things. This is for my sons and daughters, the
kids, the greater good.”
“If
you think these rides are safe, you should give them a shot. A day from now they’re going to go
through endless wear-and-tear, obese people and sticky disgusting kids will be
sitting in those seats. Not that I
care about those kids, but any sort of accident in the first week is bad
publicity all around. Hole In The
World Themepark would do greatly to avoid any conspiracy.”
So
there I was, a guinea pig. I
usually enjoyed themeparks while growing up, mostly because I didn’t have to
pay for anything. This was more of
the same.
They
watched as I spun guilelessly, the most basics of blues and reds spinning into
my eyes as the ride thrust me against the side of its inner chamber. I reached out with an arm to attempt to
regain balance and pull myself to the middle of the ride, but I was stuck much
like the Gravitron would do to me later on.
I
played some of the carnival games, which inevitably proved to be fixed. I played some baseball all the way
through college, and although the reader tracked my fastball at a measly 65
miles an hour I’m sure it was atleast mid 70s. It struck the pin which was in a state of frozen
inertia. Each ball fell sterilly
to the ground.
They
allowed Mr. Randy and Mr. Dove to take me on the rest of the ride-proofing,
while Mr. Simon and his Honchos walked off nervously. Mr. Simon looked very guilty, and his dark blue polo did
little to hide his excessive armpit sweat.
“Let
us know if there are any problems at the end of the night, Charlie.” Mr. Simon exuded the utmost confidence
in me. I did a stunted double
take, stunted in that I really only did a single take before I realized how he
was trying to make it sound.
“Yes
sir, only the best from me. Do you
expect anything else?” I oversold
it.
Mr.
Randy turned to Mr. Dove. He had
an oversized pineapple head, and his ponytail looked like a horses tail. He really could have used a hat.
Mr.
Dove looked completely normal, only his jaw hung open when he talked or was
being talked to, the lip disappearing under his lower row of teeth.
“Ya
know, Mr. Dove,” He started.
“What’s
that, Eugene?” Mr. Dove added
unfelicitously.
“I
think there’s something they ain’t telling us.”
“What
do you mean? We don’t get paid to
think.”
“Well,
they’re aiming to open this place tomorrow, but they’re doing the first test
rides today.”
“Naw,
I know what you’re getting at.
Have you seen the serial numbers on this rollercoaster?”
“I
have.”
“Well,
does anything surprise you?”
They
stood over the V-Shaped blue beam that anchored this beast.
“I
ain’t never seen one like it.”
“Yes,
that’s true. Well, you already
know this, but you probably don’t, Charlie. Get over here.”
I
threw the flavored toothpick I had been chewing on towards the blue aluminum
garbage can, and it dinked off the side somewhere.
“Well,
me and my partner here have been working in this business quite a long
time. Really long time. There are three major rollercoaster
builders. This one wasn’t built by
any of them. What do you make of
that?”
“A
private contractor built the coaster?
Or it’s from someone’s personal collection?”
“Could
be from a personal collection could be.
There ain’t no other coaster like this one. Most such coasters vary minimally in design, usually based
on whatever promotional gimmick gives the ride its name. Superman has upright cars so you feel
like you’re flying, Batman is supposed to make you feel like being in his
Batwing. Get a load of this middle
part here, by the loopty loop.”
I
looked up at it, there was something peculiar about it, or maybe I jumped to
that conclusion based on the fact that he was trying to get me to find it.
“What’s
wrong with it, Charlie?”
I
bit my lip and rubbed my eyes.
“Maybe
we can get a closer look?” I
asked. “I could probably tell from
closer.”
“He
could probably tell from closer.”
Mr. Dove laughed. Mr. Randy
shook his head.
“So
how’s this one run?” Mr. Belvedere
asked sheepishly, leaning against a load bearing pole.
“You
probably don’t want to lean on that pole.” Mr. Randy cautioned him. “It’s bad luck in this business, seeing as no one has
ridden the ride yet.”
