Hi friends. I’ve been busy with life and weary of the world and its many horrors, so the creative blog juices have not been flowing of late. So, for the next little while, I’ll be publishing some of the little essays and stories I have in my archive that have been rejected from every literary magazine known to man, because why else have a blog if not to publish your unpublishable shit, really? Anyway, here’s “Wonderwall…”
Visiting the log flume gum wall at Funtown Splashtown U.S.A. was a summer break rite of passage for any and all teenagers of the greater Portland, Maine area. There came a time when childish pursuits like Capture the Flag and King of the Hill had to be pushed aside for the more mature hobby of sticking one’s chewing gum to a cinderblock wall while conveyor-belting by on a fake log with seats carved into it before barreling down a ramp and getting splashed.
It happened like this: Someone’s mother would agree to drive the usual neighborhood suspects to the southern highway town of Saco, where Funtown Splashtown U.S.A. stood tall as a beacon of good American fun and splashing. Texts would be exchanged with whatever suitors were circling that month, and a meetup would occur once entry tickets were procured and the mother warned her charges to be ready for pickup at the gate at 4:30 sharp. Suddenly you were utterly, blissfully devoid of adult supervision, and in an environment of rollercoasters and Dippin’ Dots, no less. Children of the TikTok generation can only dream of such freedom.
There would be valiant attempts at other theme park attractions but the teacups were too fast and the swings swung too high and the Dragon’s Descent threatened whiplash every time, so the log flume—which was, for the most part, a gentle boat ride followed by a short, wet drop—was always where the day culminated. The canoe-sized log could fit up to four people on the bench seats, so depending on who responded to whose texts that day and after some tense negotiations, the leftovers had to wait at the bridge while their friends took the winding journey through the constructed landscape, then watch them slide down and get splashed with the hopefully chlorinated water. Poses would be attempted at the bottom of the ramp—lots of bunny ears and middle fingers—where a photo available for purchase was taken, but no one’s mother ever gave them enough money for both a novelty photo and lunch.
But first, the gum wall. The suitors would chew giant wads of gum all day in anticipation, four or five sticks each, their pubescent mouths smacking and spitting with the effort. You and your friends would of course be repulsed by this but your reactions would only encourage the charade further, naturally. There would be the cursory arguments over who would take the front seat—the splash seat—and who would bring up the rear, and without fail the smallest female among you would end up the unlucky leader of the log, with the biggest, gum-chewingest male three seats behind. This seating arrangement encouraged the kind of innocent canoodling that is standard amongst preteens, including but not limited to a clammy hand resting on a jean-shorted hip. Such interactions would be the subject of gossip for the rest of the summer.
It wasn’t long after the log was launched that the gum wall made its presence known. Go around the first bend and nothing is visible but the water in front, behind and below, and that cinderblock wall surrounding you like a ventricle. It would have been peaceful if not for the chewing, but before you could say “You’re disgusting, Jake,” there it was: a grotesque collage of colors not found in nature, neon greens and fluorescent blues and pinks that reminded you of cough medicine. You’d feel a gagging sensation bubbling in your throat as the suitors whooped and cheered, sticking their nail-bitten fingers into their mouths and extracting their day’s work, mounds so huge they made you wonder at the strength of their young teeth. They’d wave their creations in your direction and you’d squeal to no avail, for every squeal only made them more confident, more powerful. Then it’d be there, within reach, and you couldn’t help but stare, agog, confused as to how it all stayed stuck there even through the harsh Maine winters, confused as to why the Log Flume staff or the Funtown Splashtown U.S.A. powers that be didn’t clean it up. Were they unaware? Had none of them ever taken that ride themselves? Were you floating down a man-made river that even the men who made it dare not traverse? Or was this strange mating ritual held sacred?
The suitors would throw themselves at the wall, the log tipping with their weight and threatening to throw you into the deep. You would duck as if protecting yourself from an airborne attack as they slapped each other’s hands out of the way and positioned their mounds at the wall's highest point, because even this is a competition, and then it would be gone, receding into the background distance as quickly as it arrived. More whoops and celebratory high-fives from the suitors, their mouths now free to make kissing noises at you and your friends in sarcastic attempts at affection.
You had no plans of kissing those mouths, and yet you would, eventually. Once you reunited with the leftovers, dripping and hungry, once you ate your soft pretzel and your Dippin Dots, before the mother returned to pick you all up, you’d kiss one of them behind the porta-potties. Swoony and blushing, you’d tell your friends about it when you were back home in the privacy of the cul-de-sac, because is that not why you came to Funtown Splashtown U.S.A.? Is that not why you braved the tea cups and the swings and the Dragon’s Descent and, of course, the log flume gum wall? To get kissed?