\ somewhere over mid-america

I see her run her fingers along the fabric, and she disappears on the other side, a silhouette rising into the windbreak of Lombardy Poplars. I walk around, and she does the same, taking the opposite side whenever I approach.

I tell her about my senior trip. Our class had voted to take a trip to the amusement park. There was some new roller coaster in St. Louis, something everyone had been talking about. Every now and then, a kid would come to school on Monday saying he got to ride it. Every one seemed to have similar stories about kids throwing up or screaming or unable to hold on, until we dug deeper and got answers like, 'Well, I didn't see it. I just heard.'

The day of the trip, we roll up to the entrance and we all get day passes. Every one of us darts for the rollercoaster, and sure enough, there's a line a quarter mile long. We spend an hour just waiting to ride the goddamned roller coaster. Wasting all our time to get on a machine that nauseates and kills, or so it's heard. That's what they say, anyway.

I expected it would be powered by jet engines, so I'm disappointed to see the whole, rusty thing being pulled along by a chain. When it's my turn, the people getting off leave circles of sweat on the seats. None of them are throwing up or searching for lost loved ones. They simply walk away.

It's like any roller coaster. It has its exhilarating moments. And then it just gets tired, and all the thrill of having your stomach drop out beneath you is replaced by the tedium of having your stomach dropped out beneath you. The enthusiastic screams at the beginning are eventually replaced by utter quiet, as we're whipped around and around.

For some reason, we decide that because it's such a huge attraction, though, that we're going to stand in line and ride it again. But by the time we finish, we see that there's no line left at all. We can get right back on if we want, no waiting. We decide that the roller coaster is meant to be a short ride.