lethal weapon
by Kyle Tam
I’m eleven years old, bordering twelve, standing in the blistering Queensland sun and feeling the sweat rolling down my back. It’s midday and I should be having fun with my family, eating cotton candy, and riding the wet rides. I’m not. My sister’s cranky because it’s hot as sin, my parents are annoyed because they’re not fond of theme parks, and the rest of the extended family meanders in and out of the circle of safe distance we’ve established so none of us wanders off. The lines for the wet rides are fiendishly long and the adults have nearly exhausted their patience. We are so close to leaving that I can almost taste sweet freedom.
It’s my uncle who points to a sign in the distance and says, “Look! Doesn’t that look cool?” The sign says Lethal Weapon: The Ride. I’ve never seen Lethal Weapon, never heard of it, have never cared to hear about it. I’m eleven years old—I just want to watch Pokemon. But he motions to my father, his brother, and they both look on in awe and reminisce about actors I’ve never heard of and scenes I don’t comprehend. They come to a consensus: they want to ride.
Nonchalantly, the duo asks if anyone else wants to ride. Everyone mumbles a refusal or pretends they haven’t heard the question. It can’t be helped. Towering over Lethal Weapon: The Sign is Lethal Weapon: The Ride, a behemoth of twisted rails and speeding passengers whose screams trail through the air.
“Where’s the thing they sit in?” I ask.
“Well,” says my dad after careful analysis, “I think they just get strapped in. See?” If I squint carefully, I can see that everyone is strapped in by a harness. Their feet dangle in the air. Shoeless. Breathless. I consider the probability of me slipping out of the harness and dying. The chances are not low. I am very small, and the rollercoaster is very large. I’ve seen exactly a quarter of a Final Destination movie once. I know how it works.
“I dunno if I want to ride anymore.”
“Come on, it’ll be fun!” chimes my uncle. He holds my hand and I take it. It’s warm and reassuring, with the promise of aid if I should ever need it. “I’ll be there with you. It’s gonna be great.”
We line up together, just us three. I am sandwiched between them, a barrier formed by two protectors. It should be fine, being shuffled inch by agonizing inch towards the coaster. They measure us closer to the start of the ride. The attendant sucks her teeth in and thinks carefully, considerately, but eventually nods her assent and lets me go through. I’m tall enough by a hair’s breadth. “Just hold on real tight, okay?” I wonder if she can tell how nervous I am, if she can see the fear in my eyes and in the way I shake as I head towards the weapon itself. Maybe she’s seen a thousand other eleven year olds like me, throwing themselves into the fray.
Finally, we’ve made it to the front. The coaster is three to a row of black leather, held in place by a massive hunk of metal painted bright blue. I sigh in relief—we can all ride together, me in the middle, safe and sound. My dad is the first to embark and buckle in, sitting securely and without fear. It’s at this point my uncle remembers he has his camera bag with him and tells us he needs to drop it back off with my mom. “I’ll just be a second—let the next group go through first.” My dad unbuckles and we wait off to the side expectantly. There are other riders before us, but none quite so young or so small as me. It’s not a good idea and was never a good idea, but I tell myself I have to be brave. My uncle’s coming back. Another coaster departs, and another, and each time the attendant asks if we want to head on. Finally, we realize that he’s not coming back. Was he hurt? Was he waylaid? A thousand scenarios flash through my mind, but before I have time to overthink my dad tells me it’s now or never.
As I strap in, I realise the harness feels loose. I’m too small, too thin—there is a very real possibility I slip out of these restraints. These were made for adults, grown men and women searching for real thrills and excitement. They weren’t made for children strung along with the promise of fun. I grip on tightly as if my life depends on it. Maybe it does. The worst thing is that deep pit in my stomach building as we begin to crest upwards towards the first drop. My life flashes. I see my mother, reading me Dr. Seuss as my eyes settle in for sleep. I see my sister, laughing and babbling, speaking the same time as I learned to. I see the life I could have had, the people I could have met, the girl I could have been. I see my uncle.
We dip and move at impossible speeds, and I feel myself being stripped away. I cry out with fear, with pain, hoping for sweet relief from the misery of being slammed into the sky and feeling it strike me with equal and opposite force. As soon as it starts it’s over. My legs shake when I am finally released from the effects of being harangued at the speed of sound, and I am trying my best not to cry. I desperately hope my uncle is okay. We move to the exit, my father and I, and are met by the family. My mother, my sister, my aunts, and my uncle who stands guiltily at the edge of the group. I ask him where he was. He abandoned me. Betrayed my trust. Left me and my father to brave the Lethal Weapon alone. But the man is silent, and says that maybe we should all head back to the hotel.
It is later in the evening when I receive an answer from my mother, because the coward cannot speak for himself. “Well,” she tells me nonchalantly, “He came down and told us he was going to drop off his camera bag. Then he looked back up at the ride and refused to go back. Just said, ‘no, not doing it,’ and stayed with us.” Her voice carries a tone weighed with both sympathy and judgment, worry and disdain in equal measure. She looks at me, as if saying with her eyes that I should be proud. I’m not proud. Not happy. Not even remotely pleased. Just small, tired, and searching for my uncle's warm hand.
Kyle Tam is an author, dreamer, and full-time complainer. Her nonfiction has been published in Rejection Lit, Planet Scumm, and 100 Words of Solitude, and is upcoming in Re-Side. She tends to ride roller coasters alone now.