I'm not what one would call an adventurer. Ok, fine, I'm a punk. My idea of danger is standing on the yellow strip on the subway platform. In the late nineties, I joked that a black man in New York City didn't need to bungee jump to feel genuine fear when the NYPD was only ever a few blocks away. In truth, I avoid fear, doing as much as possible to sidestep opportunities to scream like a little girl. So, when I suggested a trip to Coney Island one bright Sunday afternoon, I had not planned on testing my bladder control before the day was over.
My only intentions were to sit out on the boardwalk and read the paper, periodically pausing to people-watch and to stuff my face with Nathan's hot dogs. My girlfriend, Tammi, had an entirely different idea of what an afternoon in Coney Island meant. As soon as we finished ogling newly renovated Stillwell Avenue station, she began talking about the rides we should go on. I was immediately confused. Rides were typically something I thought of in an abstract sense. I passed them as I headed to the beach or the aquarium, occasionally I'd even stop and watch as participants flew by screaming. Friends would tell me knowingly how much fun they were. I took their word for it, but never really considered verifying these claims.
I have only been to amusement parks a couple of times. As a kid, everything about them was novel. The whole spectacle: the lights, the people, the foods all excited me. I didn't require threats to my life to enjoy myself. As such, I never built up the resistance to self-preservation my peers have developed so extensively as to need a new, more perilous danger each year.
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