Column: Tales From Exit 22

Do you remember your first time?

I remember mine.

The older guys had told me that it would be wonderful.

But I was nervous.

I had reason to be nervous.

I was only 7 years old.

It was a day of destiny. It happened at the county fair back in the day when a trip to the fair was considered a vacation. It was the day I finally got up the courage to ride one of the scary amusement rides on the midway.

It was called the Satanic Stomach Pumper. I had to ride it in order to give meaning and purpose to the universe.

“When will we get to the fair?” I asked as we left home.

“It isn’t far,” answered my mother.

“How far?” I was insistent.

“When you get on that ride, you’ll wish the fair was a good deal farther away than it is,” my father chuckled.

Dad parked the car and we walked the fairgrounds to the midway — a noisy street of loud voices, carnival games and amusement park rides.

My mother asked if I was sure that I wanted to go on the ride. I didn’t know much, but I was proud to know a little. I wanted to go on that ride. Hiding my anxiety, I claimed to be ready, willing and able to tackle the Satanic Stomach Pumper, my personal Mount Everest. I watched the ride. It was a nasty blur. A parade of strobe lights.

I got in a line to get on the ride. There was no sign telling me how tall I needed to be in order to ride.

A carnival worker, burnt brown from distant fairs, seated me securely, locking me in place with a bar across my lap. No safety helmet. He was wearing gloves so that he would leave no fingerprints at the scene of the crime. He had found the secret to happiness was to charge those looking for happiness.

“Keep your mouth shut, kid,” advised the guy running the ride. “There are a lot of bugs out today.”

Saying that, he gave a lever a shove and I took off as if I were late for lunch. Suddenly I was spinning, bouncing and twirling as if I’d swallowed a jet-powered marshmallow. The operator’s life might have already been on a downward spiral. My descent had just begun.

I could see the man’s lone, yellow tooth in the middle of what I took for a smile. It could have been a sneer. He reminded me of that friend that everyone has who owns a vicious dog. The dog is snarling at the world when the friend says, “Do you want to see something funny? Pretend you’re going to hit me.”

I was spinning at supersonic speeds. I screamed but heard no sound. My stomach struggled to keep up. My goal had been to ride the Satanic Stomach Pumper. It had been replaced by a new goal. To keep from losing last year’s Thanksgiving meal. I was thankful that I had limited my grease intake at the fair.

It became apparent that my expectations and reality were not aligned. I wondered if anyone had lived through such an adventure. There might have been a light at the end of the tunnel had I been able to find the tunnel.

Every so often, I could see my parents smiling and waving as I zoomed past. They could smile. Their feet were planted firmly on terra firma. My cheeks (all of them) flapped from the effects of the G-force. It was a ride that Job went on. Toto flew by. Images of the Inferno from Dante’s Divine Comedy hobbled past. I became one of the ride’s harsher critics.

Somehow, I kept from crying. The ride came to a merciful end after I had yelled, “Make it stop” 97 times. I staggered from the ride and sniffed myself thoroughly. I didn’t want any dogs rolling on me. I didn’t get a single frequent flier mile. I unfriended the ride.

The fellow in charge of the ride asked me if I would like to take another cruise. If the Satanic Stomach Pumper had been a phone, I wouldn’t have pressed the “redial” button.

I learned that we all make horrible decisions. It’s good when we live through them. I wasn’t going to trip over the same rock twice. Think twice, do once.

“Nice going,” said the man operating the Satanic Stomach Pumper. “Way to cowboy up.”

I nodded modestly. He was still a burnt brown.

My tan had faded to green.

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.