Chapter 4
Edie and Eddie continue the tour as we move on to Wild Adventures Hollow, with its earthy scents and lush foliage.
A blast of earthy air hits me as we step into the section of the park that clearly wanted to be jungle-themed but lost funding halfway through and settled for botanical chaos with rope bridges. The scent is a mix of damp mulch, questionable moss, and possibly the ghost of a long-expired churro.
A series of rope bridges stretch across artificial ravines painted to look like bottomless chasms. I’m guessing they were more convincing back when the paint wasn’t peeling off like a bad sunburn.
Nearby, faux temples lean against backdrops of hand-painted mountains that look suspiciously like they were created during a wine-fueled craft night.
An animatronic tiger lurches out from behind a plastic fern with all the menace of a malfunctioning Roomba. It emits a roar that’s less ferocious predator and more like someone stepped on a whoopee cushion.
“That’s Rajah,” Eddie says fondly, like he’s introducing a beloved family pet. “He’s been terrifying children since 1986.”
That’s not a cat. That’s an insult to cats. Chip sniffs indignantly from my tote, clearly offended by the mechanical impostor.
Fish turns her nose up at the rusty puppet, too. If that thing had nine lives, it wasted eight trying to roar.
“The hydraulics need some... encouragement,” I mutter, already calculating what it’s going to cost to fix the poor tiger’s spinal issues. Spoiler alert: it’s probably more than this park makes in a month.
“And the color is all wrong,” Georgie whispers my way while giving the plastic tiger the stink eye. “Real tigers don’t have that orange popsicle tone. More of a burnt sienna.”
“Oh, so you’re an expert on tiger coloration now?” Ree asks, one eyebrow raised.
“I dated a wildlife photographer in the ’70s,” Georgie shrugs. “You pick things up.”
“Yeah, then you ride them,” Ree mutters, side-eyeing her.
“Facts,” Georgie says, unapologetic.
Ree shakes her head my way. “I don’t want to know any more than I already do.”
I nod over at her, but secretly I’m making a mental note to shake Georgie down for all the dirty deets later. I can’t help it. Inquiring minds want to know.
Fish peers suspiciously once more at the robotic beast, ducking back into Georgie’s tote with a soft hiss that suggests she’s not fooled by the mechanical deception.
But the Merryweathers beam at us like proud parents on a preschool field trip. I guess our cat-fueled sarcasm reads as enthusiasm.
From there, we mosey into Bayou Bend, where fake moss drapes from fake trees and jazzy New Orleans brass floats from hidden speakers.
A pirate ship bobs gently in a shallow pool, looking like it was once majestic but now mostly just tired.
Animatronic sailors and wenches stand frozen mid-shanty, mouths agape like they’re locked in a scream that’s been buffering since 2003.
“Is this attraction operational?” I ask, noting the slightly rusty chains and wondering when the last safety inspection happened. Or if one ever did.
“Only on weekends now,” Edie sighs with the resignation of a park owner who’s had to cut one too many corners. “We’ve got a few financial constraints.”
“Ooh, pirates!” Georgie makes a beeline for the ship, Fish’s tote bag swinging precariously as Georgie navigates the gangplank with surprising agility for someone wearing a carousel hat. “I’ve always had a thing for men with eye patches and swords. It adds a little danger.”
“Because what you need in your life is less visibility and more sharp objects.” Ree follows her onto the gangplank and carefully tries to extricate her.
“My third husband was a sailor,” Georgie informs Eddie, who looks both alarmed and intrigued by the revelation. “Not officially a pirate, but he did once liberate a neighbor’s flamingo lawn ornament after too much rum.”
“Some heroes wear capes,” Ree groans. “Some liberate plastic birds.”
“That’s right,” Georgie shouts, nearly toppling into questionable algae-riddled waters. “They wear eyepatches!”
Way to bring it full circle, Fish mewls from the tote back while eyeing the frozen animatronic parrot like it owes her some cold hard cash.
This whole ride needs an exorcism, Chip mutters. And possibly a tetanus shot.
I have a feeling both the exorcism and the tetanus shot will be a recurring theme at the park.
“The animatronics could use some updating,” I note, examining a wench with a permanently stuck wink. “But the concept is solid. I mean, what kid doesn’t love a pirate?”
“Apparently, Georgie does,” Ree mutters as her bestie attempts to pose the rigid mechanical captain into more of a suggestive stance, and now it actually looks as if he’s about to pull something out of his pants.
Well, there’s that.
Gold Rush Hollow comes next, a dusty replica of an Old West town complete with saloons and gold-panning stations—which is really just children dunking their arms into cold water to fish out gold-painted pebbles like feral raccoons.
A rickety mine shaft looms nearby, roped off with yellow caution tape like it’s hiding either a mechanical problem—or a body. Judging by the trail of suspicious red stains on the ground, I’m betting it’s not just a cherry slushie gone rogue.
“Oh, it’s just a temporary closure,” Eddie explains, though his expression suggests it might be more permanent than temporary, possibly involving structural issues and insurance claims. My money is on the latter.
“What happened?” Ree asks, instantly alert to potential safety concerns with the instincts of a woman who’s prevented more disasters than she’s caused. “Mechanical failure? Structural collapse? Rabid squirrel infestation?”
“It’s just routine maintenance,” Edie assures her a bit too quickly. And I get the feeling she’s had to give this explanation before.
“Mmm-hmm,” Georgie whispers my way, loud enough to wake the dead. “That’s what they said about that roller coaster in New Jersey right before they discovered it was haunted by the ghost of an angry accountant.”
Is there another kind of accountant?
Fish sticks her head out of the tote, staring intently at the sealed mine entrance with the focus of a tiny detective. I think something died in there. Recently.
Chip’s ears perk up, and by the looks of it, his nose is working overtime.
It’s dead, all right. I bet it’s a mouse.
Or a rat. Don’t worry, Josie. It’s nothing hooman-sized.
Or Clyde-sized for that matter. Although just say the word and that can be arranged.
And I know how to make it look like an accident.
One dead soon-to-be ex-husband might stir up more trouble for me than he’s worth. I shake my head at my surprisingly resourceful cat.
So no to the murder, but yes to the funnel cake, he says. Got it.
Next up, Pawprint Hollow, a petting zoo that’s somehow both adorable and depressing. The goats look like they’ve seen some stuff. One of them chews slowly with his eyes glazed over, like he’s contemplating switching careers.
Same, buddy, same.
“These poor things are the least enthusiastic goats I’ve ever seen,” Ree says, lifting her nose at them. “I once attended a goat yoga class in Portland where an entire gaggle of goats ran up and down my back.”
Georgie nods. “And it was the most exciting thing that happened to her in a decade.”
No offense to Ree, but something tells me Georgie isn’t wrong.
I think I can easily rule here. Chip’s gaze sweeps imperiously over the animal enclosures from my tote, clearly seeing management opportunities. These lesser creatures clearly need guidance. A throne. A tail to look up to.
Did he say throne?
Fish sniffs his way. I bet your idea of governance is napping sixteen hours a day. Although I agree—these goats have no manners. Look at that one. Chewing with his mouth open like he’s in a frat house.
I propose a new hierarchy in the animal kingdom, Chip continues, puffing up his chest with feline pride and a handful of orange fluff flies away in the breeze. Cats at the top, naturally. Then rabbits—they’re polite little fuzzballs. Then those spotted deer-things—
Fawns, Fish adds helpfully, looking far too interested in this new hierarchy situation.
Whatever. Bottom tier—goats and toddlers. Both equally sticky and loud.
For once, we’re in agreement. Fish narrows her eyes as a toddler runs wild among us. Especially about those children.
“This area is always popular with families,” Eddie notes with the pride as if he’s watched generations of children terrorize his livestock. “Though I will admit, attendance has been down lately.”
“Maybe because your star attractions look like they’re contemplating the meaninglessness of existence,” Ree mutters while watching a particularly morose sheep that seems to be having a panic attack.
A small child approaches Fish’s tote bag and extends a finger her way with the determination of a toddler who’s never met an animal they didn’t want to poke.
Oh, for goodness’ sake, Fish yowls while ducking inside her tote until the kid trots off. Is it legal to have them running wild like that? I thought they had leash laws for children under five.
If they don’t, they should, Chip mewls her way.
Yet another thing we agree on. Fish chortles. If we keep this up, people might actually think we can stand each other.
We finally reach Galaxy Hollow, where neon lights flicker like they’ve lost the will to glow.
Outdated robots recite space facts from a time when Pluto was still a planet, and the UFO-themed teacup ride sits motionless, awaiting passengers who apparently have better things to do than experience motion sickness in alien-themed vessels.
“Galaxy Hollow needs the most work,” Eddie admits as we enter a retro-futuristic area where neon tubes flicker inconsistently.
“I like it,” I find myself saying.
It’s so outdated, it’s circled back to hip. It’s kitschy in a way that would make a vintage-loving millennial proud.
Edie and Eddie beam once again like proud parents watching their kid win a macaroni art contest. And this entire park could be filed under macaroni art.
Storybook Hollow shimmers next, despite its faded glory. Swan boats drift by in the pastel canal while cotton candy vendors dressed like fairies help the guests flirt with diabetic shock. The castle is crooked, but charming. Sort of like the park itself.
And it might have the power to make a child’s eyes widen with the possibility that maybe, just maybe, magic is real. Probably not in this case, but still.
“This is one of our most popular areas,” Edie says proudly, like she’s personally responsible for preserving childhood wonder. “The swan boats haven’t changed in forty years.”
“Neither have the life jackets,” Eddie adds with a wink that suggests he’s either joking or they have some serious safety violations to address. And I think I know which is which.
We approach a massive indoor structure that looks like a Victorian mansion designed by someone with an excessive fondness for towers and gables.
“And now for the crown jewel of our park,” Eddie announces with far too much pride as we round a corner. “Magical Marvels Hollow!”
Cue the dramatic music, Chip whispers.
Cue the horror music, Fish corrects.
And honestly? I think I know which one it’ll be.