The wooden level tapped Marley’s head. In an instant, she felt an elephant blissfully crushing her chest with heavenly g-forces as her car rocketed down the first drop and wind wiped past her at 200mph at least. Her tongue braced itself against the back of her teeth. This was it. After years of waiting, Jungle Carnage would soon be conquered. Puberty had delivered her at last.
“You’re too short,” Announced the acne-riddled attendant, “Clark”, who couldn’t be bothered to make eye contact. He was about efficiency and this machine was about commerce to him, not compassion.
Marley swung hard around. ‘That can’t be possible!’ She thought. That morning, she’d measured countless times and it had always matched. But there it was, half-an-inch below the Gorilla’s proclamation: “For your safety you must be this height to ride.”
“I’m practically there!” She demanded.
“Step aside,” Clark rebuked, giving her a mild shove towards the exit.
Perplexed, she meandered about, not knowing what to do as the next riders, obviously tall enough, quickly boarded. The second to last though was a girl near identical in height to Marley. Clark directed her to the Gorilla of Hatred. She stood under and sent Marley a delicious grin, knowing the outcome was a mere formality. Clark The Destroyer tapped her and affirmed, “Car 6”. She ran off and claimed Marley’s dream with three inch platform sneakers tied around her feet.
“What?!” Marley exclaimed, pointing at the obvious injustice.
Clark deadpanned, “I don’t make the rules.”
“So if I have $100 shoes the rule doesn’t apply?”
Clark glared at her and demanded, “Please leave the loading area.”
Seething, Marley slunk off while the last riders returned. Ecstatic children disembarked in exhilarated agony. But at the back, Marley noticed a queasy straggler happy to get off.
Behind him, a small group of kids were ushered ahead of everyone else under a sign: VIP Express Board. Marley huffed. There was no Gorilla Of Lies at that entrance, just a catatonic tween letting a toothy redhead, far shorter than Marley, board without question or objection.
After rattling off a memorized safety speech the riders were locked in. Marley readied another objection when she caught Clark’s expression; he hated this job and wanted any excuse to let out his rage. Exiting seemed prudent and she did so with a stomp.
Seeing her discontent, her father asked, “You didn’t like it?”
With animated gestures she explained the situation and he asked matter-of-factly, “What you gonna do?”
Puzzled by his lack of compassion, her 12-year-old brain rapidly calculated alternatives while he summarized her predicament: “Follow the rules and we wait a year. But maybe they move that stick up and you’re right here again.” Marley shrugged. He continued, “And we can’t afford to get you those shoes. So, what you gonna do?”
Clark’s wretched face flashed in her mind. It sparked rage and Marley let it fuel her creativity. She glanced about the concession area and catalogued everything from the snack stands to the bathrooms at the ride exit ramp. There she spied the queasy boy waddling his way towards a guaranteed vomit. Around his wrist—a VIP band. Her dad noticed, too. But looking to him for encouragement, he responded with neutrality. It needed to be her doing.
She acted. First, a run to the snack counter to grab something out-of-sight then off to the bathrooms. A prepubescent scream, quickly muffled, preceded Marley’s rapid exit. The VIP band was around her wrist. She waved to her father and rushed to the gate, discarding her tool for success in a nearby garbage can.
The zombified tween scanned her badge. “Welcome back,” She said in monotone before letting her through. For Marley, the day’s cherry was Clark’s inscrutable face when he locked her in while she jiggled the band in his face. The ride finally began. It ticked ominously upward and Marley beamed, seeing her proud father waving good luck while the queasy boy exited the bathroom behind him with his hand around his arm, a trickle of blood oozing down its side.