Saturday... In the Park
For a person with no felony convictions, I have had more run-ins with the law than I care to admit. (The most memorable until this week being what I’d describe as a “drive by pooping” in the middle of the desert between San Diego and Phoenix—too much dinner, too little advanced planning.) But seeing as how I haven’t come clean about the ten other incidents I think I’ll stop sharing… except about a little scare I had this past Saturday.
Saturday… In the Park… I think it was the day before Veteran’s Day… (How’s that for a bad flashback to the suck fest band known as Chicago?)
It was a Saturday, the park was that Mecca of adrenaline-charged rides known as Six Flags Magic Mountain… and I know it was near a holiday because my daughter was out of school and looking to hit some it-feels-like-I-just-ate-bad-sushi roller coasters at her favorite amusement park.
I must admit, there are few places in the world that bring me more joy than Six Flags. Sure, there is that decrepit nightclub in Tijuana where bowling for one-legged midgets is a nightly staple, but for legal entertainment you can’t beat Magic Mountain.
The day was a non-stop blur of exhilarating rides, lemon slushees and mad dashes between lines. Not one known for my mental stability, the activities of the day pushed me to a level of euphoria I hadn’t known since I stopped stealing nitrous-oxide propelled cans of whipped cream from behind the local Baskin Robbins.
Life was good. The rides were fast, my daughter was happy and dad was entertaining her companions with his plastic-picnic-spoon sharp wit and mastery of bathroom humor. I was in my element. Only slightly less mature than the 21-year-olds and 12-year-old-tag-along-brother-of-my-daughter’s-friend who accompanied me, I was the star of the day.
Propelled for my insatiable need for attention, I decided to entertain my daughter and new found friends with some of my “A” material. Walking down the hill littered with shadows from lamps that replaced the long since set sun, I picked up the pace--leaving my party yards behind—and approached two unsuspecting teenage girls.
With my audience behind me wondering why the old, fat man had kicked it into gear and pulled ahead, I lunged at the two teenage girls, yelling gibberish as I waved my hands wildly. They jumped… they shrieked… they looked terror-struck… mission accomplished.
Those that accompanied me shook with laughter. The two girls scurried away. The reaction was more than I could hope for, I momentarily blacked out as the convulsive laughter robbed me of oxygen.
Regrouping, we headed down the hill as my daughter sang my praises… (Ok, so she went in to a 10 minute explanation to her friends how acts such as this had scarred her since an early age… but I sensed the hidden admiration.)
Down the hill we continued, off to find a new ride, a new thrill and perhaps some funnel cake. As we neared the bottom of the hill I couldn’t help but notice the three uniformed Ventura Country Sheriffs quickly making their way up the hill, speaking into the shoulder-mounted microphones connected to their walkee talkees.
Thinking nothing of it, I continued cavorting with my somewhat stunned cohorts. Then it hit… not quite a thought… just a flicker of an idea… “Why were the sheriffs headed up the hill with such determined, and concerned looks on their faces?”
Slowly thoughts came together. A surprise, nighttime accosting… terror-struck teenagers… old, fat guy with no one around him… terror-struck teenagers. It took time for my feeble mind to process all this, but standing in line for our next ride I had plenty of time for reflection.
Suddenly, what was once one of the highlights of my career as an entertainer was now starting to concern me. Confiding in my daughter, she did little to assuage my fears. Instead, she pointed out that perhaps the loud, orange shirt I was wearing was more than a little distinctive. Sure, there were some other old guys at the park, but I had yet to observe one that had made the same easily-described in an APB wardrobe decision as I had that morning as I came out of the closet.
Fortunately, we only had 75 minutes until the park closed. Unfortunately, those proved to be the longest 75 minutes in my life. Not once did I remove my arm from around my daughter’s shoulder. I wasn’t about to be “lone white male assailant.” Instead I was loving father of a 21-year-old girl who had not a care in the world.
The minutes ticked by. 8 pm couldn’t come soon enough. We headed for the exit.
In my mind, there would be dozens of uniformed officers scanning to crowd as they funneled through the exits. But it wasn’t so. Oddly, for a park that maintains a large presence of off-duty sheriffs to dissuade would be gangbangers from acting up, no one was in site. Perhaps my fears were unfounded. Perhaps all the officers were trudging up the hill, looking behind trees and under bathroom stall doors.
I’ll never know. But I vowed that day to stop acting my emotional age… until next trip.
