"The Red Devil" by Joseph A. Gross
- Roi Fainéant
- 2 hours ago
- 11 min read
“Because it’s life-changing!” a middle-aged woman in a woven poncho joyfully screamed when asked why she was competing for the $50,000 prize.
Maire Cletz, the region’s most popular news personality, slowly continued down the line recording everyone’s answer.
“It will be so much fun! Wooooo,” a thirtysomething skater dude shouted, his face painted red, a pair of plastic devil horns atop his head.
Finally, she reached me.
“I’m an artist. I’m doing it for my art,” I said loudly. Joylessly. Hoping everyone in line overheard.
The contest, a promotion for the once-popular mountaintop theme park Ghost Town in the Sky, would award the person who could complete the most laps on the park’s premier attraction, the Red Devil roller coaster. It’s not overly thrilling, just a loop followed by a couple of drawn-out helices, but it’s intimidating for most because of its unique location on the side of the mountain. Instead of beginning with a traditional lift hill followed by a drop, it leaves the station, rounds a corner, and immediately dives off the cliff and into the loop.
A local radio station sponsored the event, blasting well-curated songs such as “Rollercoaster of Love” and “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.” A popular restaurant catered it with complimentary drinks and snacks, including devil’s blood cocktails, red velvet cake, and deviled eggs. Entertainers in western wear performed choreographed battles against entertainers in Native American headdresses.
Documenting the event: local news crews, the Discovery Channel, and several roller coaster enthusiast clubs, all of whom captured the still circulating video footage and photographs. And then of course myself, as this was my thesis for an MFA in Performance Art. Using a disposable kodak, I’d snap photos of myself throughout the contest, accurately capturing the stress winning the grand prize caused my body and mind - the prize symbolizing the American dream, and the contest, the price to achieve it in the contemporary capitalist system of the 1990s. I’d pair the photos with an essay, throwing in quotes from buzz names like Marx, and Barthes, and Butler. For sure I’d win the award for distinguished thesis. And the $50,000, which I didn’t care about aside from it strengthening my statement.
As the 28 of us competitors took our seats, the park president explained the rules: 20hours and 40minutes of riding daily; food, drink, restroom visits and the like reserved for our two 10-minute and two 30-minute breaks; sleeping permitted only in our assigned coaster seats during our nightly two-hour break. Sounded intense, but I had little concern. By the looks of my competitors, all older, I didn’t expect they could outlast me. My goal was to win with as little time as needed to generate compelling material for my piece. I estimated it should take about five to six hours.
Following the recitation of the rules, the DJ led the crowd in a 30 second countdown as station attendants lowered our restraints. Seated next to me in the front row, a freckled woman in hazardous headwear - a sun bonnet, tied tightly under her chin, with feathers clipped to the sides.
She grabbed my hand with a smile and pointed at herself while shouting out of the right corner of her mouth, “Lisa! Lisa!”
The countdown reached one. Before I could introduce myself, the crowd cheered in a swarm of glittery red confetti, the train exited the station, turned the corner, and dropped us into the loop. Lisa threw her arms in the air shouting, “Whoomp there it is!” The ride, a bit shakier than I remembered, wasn’t intense, but I needed to brace during the transition into the first helix to avoid slamming against the side of the cart. Lisa stopped shouting when we reached the lift hill to the station. As we made the ascent, riders behind us laughed and buzzed about building pools, starting their children’s college funds, and paying off credit card debt.
Upon our return, the crowd of spectators chanted “Number two, number two.” We exited the station again. Lisa repeatedly shouted, “Whoomp there it is,” I assumed with the intent of annoying me out of the competition. After the loop, I braced for the transition into the first helix. Moments later, we reached the lift hill. This time, I introduced myself to Lisa.
“How many times have you ridden, Ryan?” she asked, still speaking out of the corner of her mouth.
“Oh. At least 15 times,” I said, despite only having ridden it twice a few years back.
“Wow, just 15? You didn’t train?” she asked as we reached the station.
The crowd chanted, “number three! number three!”
“Train?” I asked with a laugh.
She looked at me with pity as we dove off the cliff.
Now preoccupied with my lack of training and Lisa’s superior skills, I forgot to brace for the helix. My ribs slammed into the side of the cart. I screamed, grabbing hold of my right side. I was in pain, but at least the likely bruise would make a good photograph.
Lisa took notice of my injury but continued shouting, “Whoomp there it is.” When we reached the lift hill, she said, “That’s why we train.”
“So, you’ve done this before?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
She nodded with a quiet laugh and began counting on her fingers, “Belmont Park, Coney Island, Magic Mountain, Great Adventure, Kennywood, Knoebel’s, Bush Gardens – The Dark Continent and The Old Country – Kings Dominion, Astroworld, Kings Island, and Cedar Point. I’m forgetting – Oh! Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, Opryland, and Dollywood. You could say I’m on the circuit.”
“The circuit?”
“Oh yeah,” Lisa said, nodding. Her tone serious. “It’s how I make a living.”
At the station, Lisa waved to a group of women all in bonnets with feathers attached just like hers. The chanting was losing steam, and the crowd at the station had thinned a bit, but the festivities continued.
The DJ announced, “Number two on the Billboard Hot 100 for its sixth week, this goes out to a special lady vying for her fifteenth win. Let’s give it up for the queen herself, Looping Lisa!”
The crowd screamed as Lisa blew kisses. “Whoomp There it Is,” blasted from the speakers.
After lap five, a man sitting six rows behind us shouted, “I’m out!”
Spectators covered their mouths and pointed. Some cried in disappointment. The sound of the man’s heaving wrestled with the bass of “Devil Inside.” Lisa and I turned around just as he jumped from the train, splattering cocktail-colored vomit across the station floor. Crowd members closed their eyes. Some made noises of disgust. A station attendant approached the rider with a bottle of water, sitting him down in the corner. Another grabbed a mop.
With hope of gaining intel about what it might take to win, after the next lap, I asked Lisa, “What’s the longest you’ve been on one of these?”
She immediately replied, “70 days. Belmont Park. Five years ago.”
“Days?” I asked.
“Dayyyys.” She repeated. “They stopped the contest early because of wear and tear on the track and split the winnings between the last five of us. They threw in a trip to Hawaii for each of us, too. I would have outlasted everyone. It’s still a win in my book.” She shrugged her shoulders.
After hour one, Lisa finally stopped shouting, “Whoomp there it is.” I stopped counting laps and talking to Lisa around hour two. I needed to save my energy. I wanted to live in the moment. I took in the view of the Smoky Mountains and the turning leaves. I caught snippets of birds feeding their young and squirrels filling their cheeks.
Not long after sundown, the celebration ceased, the park shuttered, and the catering crew taunted us by moving small tables of leftover cocktails and snacks to the station. The void left by the exodus of the parkgoers and the DJ, the closed games and rides, stripped us of welcome distractions. The sound of the wheels slamming into the helix became louder and now included a dull scratching. Having a suitable number of bruises by this point, I braced tighter in my attempts to remain injury-free.
During hour seven, several more people dropped out. The last one, a heavyset bald man in a Cedar Point shirt who Lisa knew from the circuit, cried.
“It’s time to put that one out to pasture,” she said. “Never lasts an entire day and cries every time. As if he ever has a chance.”
A few others huddled in the corner, eating leftover finger foods off Chinet plates. I felt bad for the losers and their crushed dreams, looking so pathetic under their blankets, so I made eye contact and smiled at one as she bit into a deviled egg. She quickly looked away and nudged the man next to her, shaking her head vigorously as she spoke to him. They both scowled at me as the train departed the station.
While upside down, I fantasized about red velvet cake and vodka. I hoped there was cake left when it was time for our next 10-minute break. To take my mind off the things I couldn’t have, I thought about what I would do with the “life-changing” sum of $50,000 if I actually cared about it: buy a brand-new Suzuki Samurai, get stoned in the recently unified Germany, create a cold-war-themed performance piece on a frozen canal in the former East Berlin. We hit the helix before I could think of more and my neck jerked. I thought I heard a pop. I felt pain all the way to my right fingertips.
The train stopped and three more riders exited. Two of them hugged, sobbing and mumbling, their long hair tangling with their embrace. The only thing I could make out through the cries was “for my daughter.” It hurt to turn my neck left or right, but I didn’t want my competitors to see my weakness. I smiled through the pain, unintentionally making eye contact with the deviled egg woman. She took a bite of red velvet cake, licked her fingers, sipped a devil’s blood cocktail. I quickly turned my head, shooting pain down my neck and arm.
It was dawn and a few hours after our sleepless two-hour sleep break when I first questioned my ability to continue. There were eight of us left. No more deviled eggs. No more red velvet cake. The station empty, except for a documentary crew, a couple of recent dropouts, and the third-shift ride operators. They tried to lift our spirits by counting down the laps until our 30-minute break. We coasted into the loop. The sun rose over the mountains like that Hudson River School painting at my university. The cool air felt fresh against my face. The helix added grinding to its cacophonous catalogue of sounds. My upper, middle, and lower back hurt. The bruises on my torso and legs and the puffy dark circles under my eyes were proof of what I had endured. Maybe failing to achieve the American dream would make a more powerful statement? But now I felt I deserved the $50,000.
During the 30-minute break, I ran to the vending machine for Diet Cokes and Kit Kat bars. At the station, I saw Lisa stretching and rubbing Tiger Balm on her bruised thighs.
“Ya drink any water?” she asked, taking notice of my sodas.
“Not yet,” I said.
She looked at her watch and shoved her tub of Tiger Balm into my hand. “Need some?”
“Could you take photos of my bruises first?” I asked, handing her my camera. “My puffy eyes, too.”
I lifted my shirt to expose the large bruise that covered part of my ribcage and leaned against the red station wall. “A full body shot and some closeups.”
“That’s a goodie,” she said.
I sat on the cold floor and massaged my neck with the cream as Lisa left the station. I mixed diet Coke with the Polish potato vodka hidden in my knapsack and finished a Kit Kat within seconds, doing my best to take photos of myself while doing so. The operators announced 15 minutes left of the break. I inhaled the scent of Tiger Balm before rubbing some into my lower back.
Lisa returned with two bottles of Evian. “Need some?” she asked while slamming both down in front of me.
“I’m your competition,” I said.
“I know, but I don’t want you to be in pain. And I know I can beat you,” she laughed, punching my right arm, sending a jolt down my neck.
30 seconds left as I returned from the last-minute restroom visit Lisa “suggested.” I doubled the pace of my steps even though my enthusiasm had now dipped to half empty. At this point I’d rather keep eating Kit Kats and drinking Polish potato vodka. I’d rather watch the morning light turn to afternoon. I’d rather cheer for Looping Lisa or the woman competing for her daughter’s college fund than I would myself. What I didn’t want was my competitors thinking me pathetic while I chewed Kit Kats underneath a blanket. The attendants slammed down our restraints. The operator punched the green button. The rattling of wheels on metal became white noise. The tinges of pain with each shake became bearable. My desire to continue returned.
At 11 a.m., the park opened for business. The losers’ vacant seats now filled by the paying public, free to come and go as they pleased. They objectified us with their glances, patronized us with words of encouragement. I scowled at them like the deviled egg woman did me.
After seven days, only three of us remained: Lisa, a guy in the back of the train named Jeff, who Lisa knew from the circuit, and me. Lisa estimated, based on Jeff’s past performances, that he had about forty days left in him.
“He needs an attitude adjustment,” she said. “So entitled every time.”
Lisa wasn’t so far off. On day 44, Jeff dropped out, kicking the side of the train. He fell to the floor with his head in his hands. Forty-four days of his life wasted. I thought about the deviled egg woman, sad after only five or six hours of wasted time. She was at least able to eat leftover finger foods before returning to her regular life the next day. What would Jeff be returning to? What would I be returning to? An MFA in Performance Art and a beat-up body? Even though I believed I couldn’t beat Lisa, I felt I had reached the point of no return. I deserved the $50,000. I wanted the $50,000.
On day 52, an hour before park closing, the few public riders behind us shouted in fear when the train jackhammered in the helix. I was numb to most sensations at this point, but I felt the jolt and recognized it as more severe than it had been just 10 or 15 laps earlier.
“Not good,” Lisa shouted out of the corner of her mouth.
After their ride, the non-competitors braced their necks and backs as they alerted the attendants of the issue.
“It’s just not right,” a woman with two children said.
The attendants, shrugging their shoulders and rolling their eyes, filled seats with new riders.
“But she’s right,” Lisa said in anger, “it isn’t right!”
Before the attendant lowered our restraints, Lisa jumped from the train and tiptoed to the operators’ booth. “Need to call your supervisor?” she said sternly from the corner of her mouth, pointing to the phone.
The operator shook his head in silence as the attendant lowered my restraint and signaled all clear. As the train began moving, Lisa held her arms out, mouth agape. The contest was officially over.
On my victory lap I caught the sunset from the Red Devil for the 52nd time. I thought about my new Suzuki Samurai as I hung upside down in the loop and shouted, “Whoomp there it is.” I braced for the helix like a pro. Wheels screeched. The train violently shook side to side. Sparks flew up beside me like the Fourth of July, engulfing me in that smell that never signals something good. We lost speed, but not fast enough to keep the cart from disengaging from the track. My stomach slammed against the restraint as the car, still tethered to the rest of the train, halted midair, its nose pointing south.
I dangled alone, staring at the steep mountain grade below. It was peacefully quiet until a rider in the second car, just barely off the track, began praying loudly. Assorted shrieks and cries followed. Someone farther back shouted, “Call EMS! Please.”
Now I could hear the buzz of terror from parkgoers on top of the mountain and Lisa screaming, “Ryan. Ryan. Are you ok?” from the corner of her mouth.
I was scared to breathe or speak. The restraint, uncomfortably pressing into my abdomen, still held me, but how long would the car remain attached to the train.
It wasn’t long before the news crews were on site. Emergency vehicles trailed behind.
In the early morning of day 53, they removed us one-by-one from the derailed Red Devil roller coaster. News crews followed as paramedics wrapped me in a blanket and wheeled me from the cherry picker to the ambulance.
“Was the win worth it?” a reporter shouted as she and her crew shoved a microphone and camera close to my face.
I didn’t know what to say.
“Are roller coasters safe? Is the park at fault?” She asked.
I didn’t know what to say.
“Sir. Do you have anything to share about your terrifying experience?”
“Whoomp there it is,” I managed to shout before passing out.