by Rudolf Helder |
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Don’t underestimate little children. They keep track of everything. Today my five-year-old son Kaeo saved me some thirty-two dollars, making me aware that Golden Graham cereal carries a free ticket to Six Flags over Texas on their boxes. How did you know? I inquired.
Sharing a bench with a group of elderly who seem to have come only to quietly express their mortality I watch America’s cornerstones of society -- soda-guzzling moms and chain-smoking dads. Bored behind their shades, they make no effort to conceal their rampant physiques, having given up on themselves and on their already cracking-at-the-seams obnoxious offspring. Esthetically, Six Flags is largely worn-out and run-down, but Kaeo doesn’t notice. His experience immediate, he hobbles by in the Sylvester trainride, elatedly waving at every round. A day like this has to end on a high note, so, to immortalize our joy we’ll have our picture taken in a photo booth. Diligently Kaeo spins the seat to the right height. When minutes later he holds up the photos I not only notice how out of focus they are, but also how black his fingers. With disgust I discover that my pants are smeared with grease, and at once we go find a bathroom. After exiting I discreetly toil around in front of a souvenir shop, waiting for the sun to dry my water-soaked legs before re-entering the milling throngs. By six o’clock everyone, us included, is about to collapse. Clutching super drinks, fathers take naps on benches. Moms sleep hunched over parked strollers. I see yawns. I hear snores. It’s time to go, but the kids are still running around, brimming with delight, tugging their zombie parents ever forward. They have been doing this for hours and have reached delirium. Nothing matters anymore, except how many rides they can do before closing time. They have assumed control, holding maps, conferring where to next. Not only the adults are losing power fast, Kaeo has finally reached his quota. Exhausted I carry him on my shoulders to the gates. There, arms folded across his impressive chest, watchful of bean-counters and visitor statistics, a burly doorman barks that The kid’s gotta come down and exit on his own. I look at him. I paid $65 to get in, another twenty five to stay alive in this trap. I muster a weary smile. Dadaaa! it sounds sleepily from above. |
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