Log Flume Gum Wall
Back in my day, the #1 summertime rite of passage for tweens in Southern Maine was the log flume gum wall at Funtown Splashtown USA. Schoolyard games like capture the flag and king of the hill were childish pursuits compared to the tradition of sticking one’s chewing gum to a cinderblock wall while conveyor-belting past inside a fake log before barreling down a ramp and getting splashed.
It happened like this. Someone’s mother drove the usual neighborhood suspects to Saco, where Funtown Splashtown USA stands tall as a beacon of good American fun and… splashing. Texts were exchanged with whatever suitors were circling that month, and a meetup occurred once entry tickets were procured and the mother warned her charges to be ready for pickup at 4:30 sharp. Suddenly you were utterly, blissfully devoid of adult supervision, and in an environment of rollercoasters and Dippin’ Dots, no less. Children of the TikTok generation can only dream of such freedom.
There were valiant attempts at other theme park attractions, but the teacups spun too fast and the swings swung too high and Dragon’s Descent threatened whiplash every time, so the log flume was always the last ride of the day. The suitors chewed giant wads of gum all afternoon in anticipation, four or five sticks each, their pubescent mouths smacking and spitting with the effort. You and your friends were, of course, repulsed by this, but your reactions only encouraged them.
The canoe-sized log could only fit four people on the bench seats, so after some tense negotiations over who would ride and who would wait at the bridge, there were arguments over who would take the front seat — the splash seat — and who would bring up the rear. Without fail, the smallest female among you ended up the unlucky leader of the log, with the biggest, gum-chewingest male weighing down the back, and alternating genders between. This seating arrangement encouraged the kind of innocent canoodling common amongst youths of every era, including but not limited to a clammy hand resting on a jean-shorted hip.
It wasn’t long after the log was launched that the gum wall made its presence known. Go around the first bend and nothing is visible but water in front, behind and below, with a cinderblock wall surrounding you like a ventricle. It might have been peaceful if not for the chewing, but before you could say, “You’re disgusting, Jake,” there it was: a grotesque collage of colors not found in nature — neon greens and fluorescent blues and pinks reminding you of cough medicine. You felt a gagging sensation bubbling in your throat as the suitors whooped and cheered, sticking their nail-bitten fingers into their mouths and extracting their day’s work, mounds so huge they made you wonder at the strength of their braces. They’d wave their creations in your direction and you’d squeal to no avail, for every squeal only made them more confident, more powerful.
You couldn’t help but stare at the gum wall, agog, confused as to how it all stayed stuck even through the harsh Maine winters, confused as to why the Funtown Splashtown USA staff didn’t clean it off. Were they unaware? Had none of them ever taken this ride? Were you floating down a man-made river that even the men who made it dare not traverse? Or was this strange mating ritual held sacred and untouchable?
The suitors threw themselves at the wall, the log tipping with their weight and threatening to hurl you into the deep. You ducked as if protecting yourself from an airborne attack as they slapped each other’s hands out of the way and stuck their mounds as high as possible, because even this is a competition.
And then it was gone, the gum wall, receding as quickly as it appeared. More whoops and celebratory high-fives from the suitors, their mouths now free to make kissing noises at you and your friend, instead.
You hadn’t planned to kiss any of those mouths, and yet you did, eventually. After standing together, dripping and hungry, outside the flume; after you ate your soft pretzel and your Dippin’ Dots, but before the mother returned to pick you all up, you ducked out and gave one of them a chaste kiss behind the porta-potties.
You told your friends about it back home in the privacy of the cul-de-sac, swoony and blushing. Because is that not why you all went to Funtown Splashtown USA? Is that not why you braved the tea cups and the swings and the Dragon’s Descent and the log flume gum wall? To get kissed?
Emma Chance also writes The Overshare at emmachance.substack.com.
