See Alice
Previously published in Heart of Flesh Literary Journal.
“For a rickety old-timer,” my wife says before getting into the cart, “it can still create a rush of blood to all the right places. Add some bump and grind, and BOOM! I just might need a cigarette after!” She giggles and gives my butt a playful tap as I wriggle in beside her. Her feistiness pokes at my amygdala, putting me on high alert.
What excuses do I have left? Maybe I can pretend to be too drunk again?
I draw the safety bar down and notice the slack after engaging the lock. There’s more play in the aging coaster’s mechanisms than I’m comfortable with, causing the restraint to feel more like a stretch of rope across my lap than a tube of metal.
With my arms poised like a praying mantis, I signal Alice with an elbow poke.
“Good idea!” She reaches into the interior of her jean jacket and pulls out the flask. Her eyes dart in every direction before not so discreetly taking a nibble of bourbon. She pushes it to my lips, encouraging more than a mouthful.
As the coaster drags our asses up to the peak, Alice nuzzles her face into my side and asks, “Oh god, are we about to torpedo into the dregs of hell?!” She pretends like we don’t have every motion of the ride etched into our hearts.
Had it really been three decades since the first time we boarded this beast? We were in our late teens, when the pinnacle of cool was measured by the number of empty liquor bottles that lined your living room walls. We had both ventured to the park with an odd number of friends and happened to get paired into the same cart.
“Looks like we’re the lucky leftovers,” she sighed, giving her crimped 80s hairdo a toss. Then she looked at me with a smirk, forging a laugh. From our first exchange, she bit into me differently than any girl I’d ever met.
“It’s Alice,” she said at the end of the ride. “I hope you get arrested.”
Unsure of how to take her comments, I held up my hands and shrugged, “That’s the strangest hope anyone has ever had for me.”
“Just so you’ll have a good story to tell the next time we cross paths!” she laughed.
It took me a couple of dates to appreciate her sense of humour.
Cresting the top of the rails, I’m smiling more at the memories than the anticipation of what’s about to happen. For better or worse, this machine changed the entire trajectory of my life. But it’s ancient architecture now and doesn’t have a lot going for itself other than being The World’s Oldest Wooden Coaster!
We drop, and within seconds hit terminal velocity. A quick glance to my left and I note that the bright smear of mustard is still intact above Alice’s lip. Wanting her to seem slightly flawed for a moment, I purposely hadn’t mentioned it, hoping a stranger might point out the imperfection on that impeccable little face. Perhaps when she finally realizes she’s been walking around with the smudge for over an hour, it will put a dent in her ego.
When the coaster throws us into the first corner, the G-forces pull at the slack of my aging face. I wait for her to grab my thigh. Instead, she clamps her fist tighter around the lap bar and twists up the corner of her mouth. Is she trying to send a message by suddenly keeping her hands to herself?
My therapist suggested taking up a new hobby together, one that neither of us had any experience with, because that would create a tighter bond. Knowing Alice’s attraction to gaudy earthenware, I suggested a pottery class. Firing our creations in a kiln that resembled the lunar module, complete with spindly legs and stainless-steel plates, seemed exciting at first. But in the end, all we got were some leaky mugs and asymmetrical bowls. Turns out I hate pottery. So I stopped going.
Since finding out about her affair a couple of months ago, my mind has turned on me by sending me spiraling at the thought of intimacy. I feel completely inadequate, like I’ve got an overcooked cannelloni pinned to my pelvic bone. On the downside of middle age, things just don’t physically work like they used to. Throw in a side of mental issues and I’ve suddenly got the makings of a divorce.
I wasn’t ready to accept that I had to rely on a little blue pill to enhance my performance, but I was coming around on the idea until the pottery class incident. The thought of having to get hard and stay there until she’s satisfied is mentally draining. Most days I feel more breakable than an unfired clay mug.
She passes me the flask as we head into the tunnel. I let the bourbon bumble around in my cheeks before swishing it down.
She claims to want to try again, for the kids, for us. But there’s no gusto in her body language. These are just things people say after coming out as the antagonist. Then she declined therapy. I know with every ounce of my being that one person can’t fix the problems of two.
The coaster creaks and cracks like a spent bedframe. Through the next hairpin, my stomach lurches over the edge and hangs for a moment, like it might be picked up by the next cart. We loop up, and horseshoe down before rolling into an area of reprieve when the carts slow and begin clicking up to the second drop. It’s just enough time to trade another round of bourbon swigs.
As we get resituated, I notice the tip of her tongue slip through her teeth in a sultry manner. She uses that technique between the sheets when she wants to feel a bit of pain, hoping the motions nudge her jaw into her tongue. My mind crumbles thinking about what she might try later in bed, with her assumed expectations sending me into a tailspin. I steal another pinch from the flask.
We roar into a free fall. With gravity suspended for a moment, I feel like an astronaut floating in space before the carts transition to kinetic energy. As we plummet into the last corner, the one known for pushing the blood from your brain to your groin, there’s another zigzag of centrifugal force, causing her chestnut hair to pile into her laughing face. I’m suddenly tinged with jealousy, knowing that this old machine is still capable of providing her with a rush of ecstasy.
The park board’s decision to demolish the coaster is a controversial one in this small town, with some engineers saying it could limp along for another decade. It just needs a bit of love and some reinforcements to the structure. But the new mayor has declined to put up half the funding, saying it’s not worth the time and money to revive a dying beast. It will be retired at the end of the season and replaced with something new and vigorous, something that can attract a throng.
When the machine finally pulls into the straight and stops, Alice gives the side of the cart a pat. She gets out and sidesteps, like her equilibrium has been rocked. If you are ever looking for a quick high, sip on hard liquor while riding a coaster. The G-forces fool with blood flow in the same manner the moon fiddles with the ocean. I’m not a scientist, but my guess is that the booze gathers in concentrated pockets and then gets pushed to the brain through accentuated pulses. By the time you disembark, the mixture will have you swaying like the ride never ended.
“So that’s it, the last time we’ll ever ride through our adolescence.”
“Thank god,” I joke, sort of.
“Your fly’s undone.” She points to my crotch.
“Oh?” I look downward before giving it a zip. Even my favourite jeans were losing their battle with age, the tiny metal teeth having lost their retention.
As we put distance between us and the park, I can’t help but wonder if this is what divorce feels like, a pat on the back for effort as two people walk in different directions. One of them knows there’s more to explore, but the other one isn’t emotionally available. Sometimes it’s easier to just tear everything down and start over somewhere else.
“Just one sec,” I say, pulling her to the side. I take her in my arms, dip her backwards and plant a passionate kiss. I purposely aim a little high, so her top lip slides between mine, and lick off the mustard stain before she ever knows it existed. I feel a twitch between my legs, like I’ve added a drop of kerosene to a diminishing pilot light.
“Well, hello!” she says, placing a hand on my sternum.
“Maybe we should tour the world and hit every coaster that’s about to be taken out of its misery? Make a habit of riding things out to the bitter end, just to watch them crumble? Who knows, maybe we’ll fall in love with one of them, start a protest and actually save it?”
Her eyes widen. “You mean it?” She puckers her lips like one of those duckbill selfies I’ve learned to hate.
I nod.
“What about this one, can’t we save it?” she asks.
“It’s too late, but there’s still time for us to give it a proper burial. After the lights dim, let’s come back with our ski masks, accelerant and a matchbook.”
She gives me another kiss and I feel my insides catch. If I’m going to go down fighting, it might as well be in a ball of flames.