Any and all characters portrayed in sexual situations are 18 or older. Perhaps considerably older. Not talking dog years, either.
There I was, headed toward the gates of the crème de la crème of theme parks, Excitementville. Of course, that was merely my name for the joint I was visiting this fine day and sarcastic as hell. It was all about me and my need to experience some low-grade, rather tame entertainment. Eager for the opportunity to queue up with some fellow humans for some thrills wandering about, sliding down and zipping around, maybe serenely floating about, and who knows? Maybe I would have the chance to meet some lovely woman, yes, even one somewhat nice one would do. After all, I was alone. In other words, all by my lonesome, stag, solo, unaccompanied, absent a plus-one, just I and me (I and I?), you get the picture.
Ordinarily I would not be here by choice. The attraction of the place had long since dimmed since my childhood. In fact, a girlfriend once accused me of being a communist precisely because I had developed negative feelings for the place. But I had won a ticket to the park and was following the rule, "Thou shalt not turn down free stuff." Oddly though, I couldn't quite recall the details of how that had transpired. Like a radio contest or some website promo? Dang, my usually reliable memory was absently giving me the finger! Figuratively, that is. "Well, fuck you too, self," I thought, joining in the revelry. So far it was just I and I, after all.
Riding the tram from the parking lot to the entrance, I was struck by how few women were aboard. This did not bode well for my hopes. "Well," I figured, "we'll just have to make the best of it won't we?" I idly wondered if I had confirmed my reservation and why I was thinking to myself in first person plural. Speaking of reservations, I had a couple: For one, there was quite a mass of people headed in, which always freaks me out on some level. For another, everyone seemed to walk at an exceedingly slow cadence, the zombified muthafuckas, but perhaps that might be expected considering the sheer density of humanity entering the theme park. By the way, the phrase 'zombified muthafuckas' originally arose from a bleary discussion I had one time with a friend when I was vainly trying to remember the name of the band The Cramps. Catchy, right?
Arriving at the ticket kiosk, I flashed the QR code or whatever the fuck it was that I had been sent electronically, but there seemed to be some trouble with my ticket voucher. It wasn't generating a pass. The ticket seller said they must have sold out that day or something else they didn't know or cared to talk about, so I inquired about a waiting list, but no luck. I use the pronoun 'they' because they were in the shade of the ticket booth and I was ensconced in bright sunlight. I couldn't see them at all so the correct pronoun was unknown to me. They did have a funny voice (as do I, in all fairness), so I had no idea of their gender either. As far as correct pronoun to use, 'they' seemed to be the correct choice.
I cocked my head and craned forward, bird dog that I am, saying, "Surely you jest!" Unfortunately it was apparent they did not jest.
"Oh, wait, here it is! Ooh, it just popped up!" they suddenly chirped. I assumed they were referring to the entry pass. Ding-ding, I was in business! Not like their business. I glanced at the prices and was floored by the cost. I was momentarily glad I might be a commie, getting my ticket subsidized as it was. And also for a change, I was thankful for the miracle of computers, a thousand times thankful. As opposed to, like, the quarter million or so times that computers have simply pissed me off no end. Zombified muthafuckas.
I wandered up the entrance thoroughfare, funneled along with the throng, and looked for the animatronic Mr. Lincoln exhibit that used to be near the entrance, but he was nowhere to be found. Maybe I simply missed him, although I couldn't imagine how, given the slowness of our entry. Maybe it was just as well, not actually in the mood to listen to grave exhortations desperately trying to save our country from part of itself.
Across the way, I heard a piano playing and made my way over; now that was something I could appreciate! The place was done up like a honky-tonk dance hall or something and felt quite festive. A young woman was seated at the piano, furiously hammering out some ragtime-y number, but it was a queer arrangement, and she was alternately tinkling and then pounding the keys. All to marvelous effect; she played very capably. She paused for a moment, and then began playing what sounded like one of the parts in the song, "Lady From Another Grinning Soul," with the swirling crescendos and hard, punctuated chords. I was riveted. She broke back into a swinging musical selection more suited to the venue.
I fished out a tip and she allowed a brief, but bright smile before diving into another spirited number. She was lovely and cut a lovely figure. She had lustrous brown hair, which she tossed about as she played. Her green eyes flashed playfully. I couldn't decide whether her face was classically beautiful, achingly pretty, or merely off the high end of the cute scale. She had a pointy little nose, not like a bird's beak or anything, and maybe helped drive the cuteness factor. No skinny lips, no siree! Delightfully full! Her body was, well, really something to write home about. Honestly, I almost had to go and buy a postcard right then so I might do just that. She wasn't zaftig, but certainly had the types of curves one might not find unrecognizable on a grand prix race course. Some were broadly sweeping, some tight, some reversed back and forth but all of them promised excitement and no small degree of potential danger. I was not really a boobs and ass man per se, but I think I became one in that moment taking in her attributes. Although I couldn't really see all those dangerous curves, I knew, I just
knew
! Yes, I was keenly aware of her shape and sexiness even though she was wearing a loose sort of gingham dress, green with white touches. At least I was able to look at her shapely legs, the hem of her dress was kind of short. Its color favored her eyes and she wore it well. I had the sense she might be my kind of woman. Oh, and she was also wearing some sort of sailing shoe slip-on sneakers, light green as well. Tennies? No, really, what do the kids call that style these days?
The song ended (is it really a song if there are no vocals?), and she took five. Seizing the opportunity, I said, "Hi." Thought I was doing well with that then promptly ran out of words. She had been so intent while playing I didn't want to break the spell. That's my excuse anyway.
"Hello," she replied, sizing me up. "Enjoying the show, I hope?" I nodded quickly, smiling. Bobbed my head like a dove, really. "Have you gone mute?" she continued. "One-sided conversations can be a bit boring, don't you think?" I nodded again, but in a more manly way I hoped.
"Uh, hi, I'm Connor, O-R, not E-R, like, I'm not out to con anybody or anything like that, but sometimes people seem to take it the wrong way and..." I cut myself off, after veering from an inability to speak into something altogether different. "Might you have any time today that we could meet for a proper conversation?" I suggested at last.
"You'll be the first to find out," she said, adding, "if you're lucky. And thanks for the tip!" She left me with a mischievous if not devilish grin and sidled back down to resume her magic at the piano keys.
"Okay, hope to shout, have yourself a lovely day!" I was overspeaking again, clammed back up, and headed off in search of more adventures. I was definitely going to make my way back and chat her up, once I settled on a more promising line of repartee. I hopped on a street car trolley, which was strangely not even full, and rode up the street, a hint of a smile plastered on my face.
I hopped off the trolley at a junction. Which way, hmm? I thought of something a surfer friend once told me, "Sometimes, it's good to just go left. Can be a faster ride, too, around here, you know? I mean, depends on swell direction and beach face, we're assuming a beach break, here right? Could still be mushy..." Goodness that woman could talk a lot when she found the time but who doesn't? She definitely knew a lot about waves. Sure, why not? I could go left and circle clockwise around the park and devour what attractions I might find.
First thing I found was a shooting gallery and tried my luck. Shoot a duck! Or a carefully crafted silhouette replica of one. Ducks and other creatures. I was having a good run, nailing targets right and left, then paused for a break.
"Not bad, Annie Oakley!" came a voice behind me. I turned, it was the piano virtuosa. "Do you want to go again?" she asked. "Lets play for score, but you better be prepared to lose! We can play for free, too, one of my, ah, perks!" she boasted.
