Extreme Vinyl Café

by Stuart McLean

  “And tonight, when you are falling asleep, I want you to think very hard, because tomorrow, when you wake up, I want you to tell me exactly what you would do if you had a million dollars. I want you to tell me your heart’s desire.”

  Dear Stuart,

  For as long as I can remember, I’ve been plagued by a vast assortment of irrational fears. You seem like a guy with more than a few irrational fears of your own, so I thought you might have a few suggestions about a recent dilemma in which I find myself. My new girlfriend is wild about rides and has said that as soon as the local amusement park opens in the spring, she wants me to take her on the new roller coaster. Now, I suffer from a fear of (1) amusement parks, (2) heights, (3) roller coasters and (4) commitment. Do you have any advice for me?

  In anxious anticipation of your response,

  Howard

  Dear Howard,

  Please see below.

  DAVE AND THE ROLLER COASTER

  The town of Big Narrows, in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, the town where Dave grew up, was, when Dave was a boy, about as far away as you could get from anywhere.

  Not that there weren’t plenty of places in town to keep a boy happy. There was the alley full of steam that ran alongside Art Gillespie’s Laundromat. Down by the river there was the chair factory, and you could always find scrap wood there. If you were lucky enough to have a little money, there was MacDonnell’s Post Office and General Store, which is where kids went for candy, pop and Mad Magazine; teens went for smokes; and parents picked up the big-city papers: The Glace Bay Coastal Courier, The Antigonish Casket.

  Big Narrows was off the main road, no doubt about it. Still is. When Dave was a boy, he knew the summer slowness of dirt roads, and spent hours at the trouting pond on Macaulay’s mountain. Or at the jumping cliff in the hills.

  It was Dave’s cousin Brenda who discovered the jumping cliff. Brenda who discovered you could leap off the cliff, and then, as you flew through the air, save yourself from smashing to the ground by grabbing onto the high branches of one of the maple saplings that grew at the cliff base. The saplings would bend gracefully and lower you to the ground. It was like pole-vaulting in reverse. On a Saturday afternoon in May, you could go up the hill, and there would be kids flying through the forest like monkeys.

  The kids were always up to something in the Narrows. The summer Dave was eleven, Billy Mitchell found an old grey and green Verchères rowboat at the dump. The next morning, he assembled nine boys. It took them all morning, and half the afternoon, but they lugged the boat, all leaky and rotten and done in, down the dam road. They got it to the pond in one piece, and they played pirates for the rest of that summer, dividing into teams—the English rowing the doomed boat along the shore, the French pirates swamping out from under the pine trees that hung low over the water, the boys’ yelps echoing over the hills for hours.

  At night they would meet, the boys and the girls, in big packs of sparking energy, and they played hide-and-seek, and kick the can; and when they got tired of that, if it wasn’t time for them to go home, they drifted off to the schoolyard, where they took turns on the swings, arching back and forth under the cover of darkness, under skies as clear and starry as any sky anywhere.

  It was, all in all, just about a perfect place to grow up, although you’d never convince any of the kids of that. When you do your growing up in a place like the Narrows, where you know everything about everyone, and everyone thinks they know everything about you, you spend a lot of time dreaming of the places you are going to go the day you can finally swing clear of the schoolyard and over the moon.

  Dave dreamt of landing in Brooklyn, New York, home of the most famous amusement park in the world, Coney Island. When he got there, he was going to ride the roller coaster. The world-famous Cyclone. He had read, in the Reader’s Digest, that it was the fastest roller coaster in the world—so fast it defied gravity. Billy Mitchell said the Mercury astronauts used to go to Coney Island and train at night.

  Billy and Dave had a plan to go the summer they were fifteen. They never made it, of course, and soon enough life took over. To everything there is a season. Dave missed the season of roller coasters.

  And he’d forgotten about them for twenty long years, until the leafy summer his son, Sam, was six. It all came back on a summer afternoon, sitting in a schoolyard, watching Sam, as he pumped back and forth on a swing.

  Dave wasn’t thinking about roller coasters. Dave wasn’t thinking about anything, really. He was just sitting there the way you do, enjoying Sam on the swing, enjoying, especially, the moment at the high point of each forward arc, when his son was virtually upside down, his legs kicking at the sky, his head falling back—that motionless moment before gravity asserted itself, and the cables on the swing buckled, and the inevitable return to earth.

  Dave was lost in the peaceful pumping of his pendulum son, until Sam abruptly ended the moment by launching himself off the swing. He left it at the strategically perfect moment, using the centrifugal force to catapult himself into the air, alarmingly high and fast, his little arms and legs flapping as he tried to keep himself upright. A little cannonball.

  Dave gasped and lurched off the bench. He began to run across the park toward his son, in horror.

  Well, part of Dave was running toward Sam in horror. Another part of Dave was still sitting on the bench thinking, Wow, that looks like fun.

  Then Sam hit the ground, with a thump and roll, a twist of arms and legs. That didn’t look like fun. And then there was a moment of profound silence.

  And in that moment, the part of Dave that he had left behind on the bench sighed and got up and started loping across the field too, thinking as it did, I wonder if he was actually weightless.

  Sam sat up, holding his arm.

  “I’m okay,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

  Which is exactly what the emergency-room doctor said as he put on the cast.

  “You’ll be fine,” said the doctor. “We’ll see you in six weeks.”

  Dave took Sam to the amusement park before the cast came off, which would have been fine, or should have been, except Sam was only six, way too young. And Dave, who was old enough to know better, was way too keen.

  But the seed had been replanted, and when they got there, the first thing they did was to get in line for the roller coaster.

  As the line moved closer, close enough for Sam to see what they were waiting for, he began to whimper.

  Dave said, “Come on, it will be fun.”

  Sam shook his head.

  Dave picked Sam up, more or less lovingly, and held him close. He began whispering calming, reassuring things. Sam seemed to relax a little. Dave continued his supplication.

  “Look,” said Dave, pointing at the roller coaster.

  The people sitting in the roller coaster looked terrified. They were clinging to one another. A woman in the front was screaming. Sam couldn’t imagine what horrible thing was happening to them, but he knew from the way the lady was screaming it was bad. He didn’t want any part of it.

  “It’ll be fun,” Dave said. “It’s just like riding on a swing.”

  At the word swing Sam stiffened and began to squirm in Dave’s arms.

  “No, no, no, no, no,” said Sam. Then he collapsed into tears.

  Dave’s shoulders sagged. It was time to concede defeat. He turned and began to work his way back down the line, “Excuse me, I’m sorry. Excuse me please.” Sam was crying and thrashing, the cast flailing around like a club.

  They finally made it to the entrance, where Dave spotted a weary-looking father being dragged to the roller coaster by three loud and highly enthusiastic children. As this small group pushed past them, Sam’s swinging plaster-encased arm clipped the defeated father full on the nose. Dave heard a crunch. The man staggered under the blow. His hands flew up to his nose.

  “I’m bleeding,” cried the man.

  Dave didn’t even look over his shoulder. Dave kept going.

  Dave
and Sam spent the rest of the afternoon hiding out in Kiddieland—a quiet and grassy oasis, with a climber, a cage of coloured vinyl balls and a slide in the shape of an elephant. Sam played happily, while Dave sat morosely on a bench pulling little bits of cotton candy out of the hairs on his legs.

  They went back the summer Sam was eight. This time they were better prepared. They talked about roller coasters for weeks before they went. Sam was pumped. They lined up for forty sticky minutes. When they got to the front of the line, a man wearing a duck costume took one look at Sam, shook his head and said, “Not tall enough.”

  “What?” said Dave.

  “Fifty-four inches,” said the man. “He’s too short.”

  People began to push past them. They headed back to Kiddieland. Sam pointed at a ride. A circle of giant bumblebees that went around and around in a small slow circle. Dave and Sam watched it for ten minutes, standing right beside the fence so it appeared as if the bumblebees were flying right at them.

  Sam said, “Can I try it?”

  He rode the bumblebees three times. After his third turn, he staggered off and said, “I don’t feel too good.” Then he threw up.

  Then, one night two summers later, Sam said, “I still haven’t been on a roller coaster.”

  They went back to the park again. Just the two of them.

  They went late on a Friday afternoon. Sam rode his bike to the record store. When he got there, Dave and Brian were playing a game of Ringo. A house favourite. They use a homemade launcher to shoot plastic forty-five record centres at a turntable, trying to land them on the spindle.

  “Hey,” said Sam, as he walked in.

  “Hey,” said Dave, firing a record centre at his son. “I’m pumped. You pumped?”

  They got falafel from a little family-run falafel place and ate in the car. They arrived at the park at 6:30. The sun was beginning to dip. It was the perfect time—to be coming as the day was going. They bought a roll of tickets.

  The park was full. Just as it should be, thought Dave. You wouldn’t want the place to yourself. Diving into the crowd was like shoving a canoe into a stretch of whitewater. The river of people picked you up and carried you along. Somewhere, mixed with the noise of the crowd and the ringing bells, floating above the red and yellow flashing lights, Dave could hear Cream singing “Sunshine of Your Love” through a tinny PA system.

  They walked passed Kiddieland.

  “Remember?” said Dave, pointing.

  Sam shook his head. “No, what?”

  “Nothing,” said Dave.

  It took them twenty minutes to get to the roller coaster.

  A lot has happened in the world of roller-coaster design over the last forty years.

  Dave had missed all of it.

  They were standing in front of The Hypergeist—a roller coaster that the sign said would exert a force of 4.2 Gs as it tossed and flipped its way through two loops and a corkscrew.

  Slouched against a control panel was a young guy with long hair tied in a ponytail and a ring through his eyebrow. He was wearing a Black Sabbath T-shirt and torn black jeans. He looked bored and inattentive as he waved people onto the ride. Hardly the kind of person you want with their hands on the controls of a two-ton steel machine meant to convey hundreds of innocent people around a raised track at breakneck speeds.

  “Has anyone ever had an accident on this ride?” said Dave as he looked for the tickets.

  “Not that I’ve ever noticed,” said the guy.

  An older fellow in overalls wandered over and said it was time for the young guy’s break.

  The older guy looked more on the ball.

  Dave said, “Exactly how fast does it go?”

  “Depends on the weather,” said the guy in the coveralls.

  “The weather?” said Dave, clearly unnerved.

  The man shrugged. “The wind slows it down.” He nodded at the sky. “Night like this, hot like this, it goes a lot faster. Or when the rails get wet. Hard to stop it when the rails are wet.”

  The idea of variables made Dave edgy. He had assumed there were no variables. He had assumed that his ride would be like all the other rides. The ones that had come back safely.

  Sam said, “Let’s get in line.”

  There was a big sign just before the platform. Dave grabbed Sam by the shoulder and restrained him. He said, “Just a minute.” Dave wanted to read the sign.

  Do not speak to operator.

  Do not walk on the track.

  Do not put arms outside the car.

  Do not ride if pregnant.

  Do not ride if you suffer from heart palpitations, vertigo, high blood pressure, atrial fibrillation, night sweats, anxiety disorder or peanut allergy.

  “Come on,” said Sam.

  Dave said, “Just a minute.” Dave kept reading.

  This ride may cause shortness of breath, excessive sweating and dry mouth.

  Dave mopped his brow on the sleeve of his shirt. He was having a hard time catching his breath; his tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth.

  Some people may experience nausea, confusion, disorientation, muscle twitches or an overwhelming desire to urinate.

  Dave crossed his legs and began bobbing up and down slowly. He squinted at the sign.

  Do not go on this ride if you have silver amalgam fillings, or worry about going mad, or have had precognitive experiences that involve hurtling to your death in an amusement park while trapped in a grisly little car that leaves the rails and you didn’t have to go if you didn’t want to and that will be your last thought.

  “Huh?” said Dave.

  “Come on,” said Sam.

  “I’m not sure I can do this,” said Dave.

  “Oh brother,” said Sam.

  For the second time in their lives, they slunk out of line. As they passed a group of teenagers, Sam muttered, “They won’t let him on the ride. He’s pregnant.”

  “What is the problem?” said Sam.

  “I can’t do this,” said Dave.

  They were sitting on a park bench. They were eating cotton candy. They were passing a pop back and forth.

  Sam said, “It’s normal to be afraid. You are supposed to be afraid. You aren’t going to die. You can’t die.”

  Dave thought, Sometimes people die.

  Sam said, “Not here. Not tonight. That would be ridiculous. What are you afraid of?”

  They finished their candy. They finished their pop.

  Dave said, “I don’t know what I’m afraid of. I’m just afraid.”

  Sam stood up and held out his hand.

  Dave said, “Go without me. I’ll watch.”

  Sam said, “I have a better idea.”

  “Okay,” said Dave.

  Sam said, “Do you trust me?”

  What could he say to that? He nodded his head.

  Sam said, “Good. Okay. Stand up and close your eyes. Promise me you won’t open them until I tell you.”

  Dave closed his eyes. Sam took his father’s hand.

  Dave said, “If I die I am going to keeel you.”

  Sam said, “Just don’t open your eyes.”

  Sam led him through the park; through the bumps and the bells, and the screams, and Dave didn’t open his eyes. Not once. It was very, very hard. But Dave kept his eyes closed.

  And then they stopped. Sam let go of his father’s hand and walked up to a park carney. He said: “My father needs help. He’s blind.”

  Dave really wanted to open his eyes now, but now he couldn’t. Now he had to keep them closed because the man had him by the elbow and was helping him into a seat.

  As he sat down, Dave put out his hand and felt the seat. And ohmigod he wanted to peek so badly, but the man was right there. Dave could feel his breath, could sense him, reaching across. He was fastening Dave’s seat belt. He could sense Sam sitting beside him. He could sense the car starting to move.

  Sam said, “Are you scared?”

  Dave said, “Yes. I’m scared. But it’
s okay.”

  Sam said, “Don’t be afraid.”

  They were moving slowly.

  “This isn’t so bad,” said Dave.

  “It’s going to be okay,” said Sam.

  Dave said, “Can I open my eyes?”

  Sam said, “Not yet.”

  They were picking up speed.

  “I can feel it,” said Dave.

  And then Sam said, “Okay. Now!”

  And Dave, who had been clutching the bar in front of him, didn’t open his eyes right away. Instead he lifted his hands off the bar, and he held his arms in the air over his head just like they did in the pictures you see of people on roller coasters and he yelled like those people. He yelled as loud as he could. “AAAAYYYIEEEEEE.”

  Then he opened his eyes. And saw he was on the giant bumblebee ride. Sam was sitting beside him with his head in his hands. And a group of adults, whom he had never seen before in his life, were waving as he circled slowly past them.

  Dave said, “What are we doing?”

  Sam said, “De-conditioning you.”

  They went into the Giggle Palace, and stood in front of the funhouse mirrors. Sam’s mirror stretched him tall and impossibly thin. Dave’s made him look like an overweight child.

  Perfect, thought Dave. He couldn’t say when it had happened but he wasn’t going to deny it. He couldn’t keep up with his children anymore. His son knew more about computers and iPods than he ever would. His daughter had just sent him an email about a music group he had never heard of. He felt as if he had to run just to keep up these days, and even though he was running as fast as he could, he knew he was slipping behind. His children were passing him on the highway of life. This was just another milestone along the way. Soon there would be plenty more. And that wasn’t the worst part. One day, before he knew it, he would have to pull over and wave goodbye. Sam would leave him behind.

  “Okay,” said Dave. “Let’s do it.”

  “Are you sure?” said Sam