It’s 82 degrees Fahrenheit (because we are in America) and the sweet, intoxicating smell of garbage hangs over the air in an invisible fog. I’m standing dumbly in a throng of sweaty tank tops on a Sunday, elbows nudging me this way and that as they shuffle past, unaware of what I’m seeing, what I’ve been staring at and can’t look away from.
There’s a booth in front of the entrance to Bizarro, the insanely tall purple roller coaster I’m about to ride. The booth sells soda. Six nozzles drip with carcinogenic ooze in various neon colors. To the right, a high school age girl in a dull Six Flags New England uniform and baseball cap stares emptily into the distance, her chin propped up on her palm in front of the cash register. She is thinking: “Is this the summation of all meaning for my nineteen years of life on Earth? What will I wear tomorrow for gym class? Why is there no 4G in this part of the park? I wish one of those bees would sting these kids already so I can go home early.” And there are bees. Lots of bees, swarming all over the fountain of sugary Coke teats. And the children, no older than ten apiece, are gleefully sticking their four dollar 20-ounce cups into the swarm. So many children, and so many bees.