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When I was in high school, probably at 14 or 15 (so in other words, deeply rooted in teen angst and self-absorption), my family and I took a vacation to Vegas. Because I was far from age to enjoy all that Vegas had to offer, we spent a large amount of time by the Flamingo Hotel's pool area--me laying out in the sun so I could tan my rail-thin frame, and my parents lounging in the 95 degree shade.
The pool complex at the Flamingo made all other hotel/casino pool complexes jealous. With its lush gardens decorated with palm trees and patches of manicured lawn, lagoons like hidden coves around each oversized boulder, and, if I remember correctly, actual flamingos milling about, it was enough to make the neon and slot machines inside lose a bit of their allure. At the heart of this water park sat its crown jewel: a twisty snake of a water slide that tumbled its riders from the third-story starting point until its splashy end some 20 seconds later in a moderately sized, waist-deep kiddie pool.
By mid-morning, I had already ridden it several times. My dad and sister were in one of the lagoons, unbeknownst to my mom, and whenever her children are out of her sight, she searches for them with growing concern. Her search took her to the top of the slide mere moments after I had taken off. She didn't want to slide down, but also didn't want to defy the attendant, who urged her to give it a try. So, according to her, she sat down at the mouth of the slide, and without any effort on her part, was immediately swallowed by the slope and momentum, enveloped by water and rolled to a point where she lost all sense of physicality.
By the time she plunged into the retaining pool at the bottom, who knows which end hit the water first? She certainly couldn't tell. I was already out of the pool when I heard the loud splash from behind me. I turned and saw violent thrashing, ribbons of water flying everywhere, but no limb or head in sight. Though this went on for what felt like an interminable amount of time, it ended as quickly as it began. A figure then slowly emerged, just stood up in the three-foot pool with hair matted down to the front of her face looking like Samara from The Ring. She opened her eyes to the small crowd of strangers that encircled her out of bewildered concern, and me, her mortified son, standing above her yelling, "Mom!! What are you doing?!?"
She was livid, ever-so-pissed. Later, she berated me, asking me what I thought she could be doing, flapping about like that, and why I just stood there and didn't come in and save her. I seriously did not know how to even consider jumping into a kiddie pool to save my mother at that age, not while I was busy pretending I was in Vegas altogether without my parents.
She recounts this tale with great drama, how the speed of the slide could have challenged Galactica's FTL drive (my interpretation, not hers), how the water suspended her between worlds, not allowing her to reach the bottom with her feet or crane her neck up high enough to gasp for air. Fortunately, there were no lasting consequences other than this story we all laugh about now, even though she still curses us for doing so.
To my credit, I would like to note that even in the chaos, in the midst of what is clearly an embarassing situation for all involved or adjacent, I still called her 'mom.' For a sulky, sullen, downright bitchy 15-year-old, I should have received a Son of the Year award for my acknowledgement.
(Even better, the telling of this story once won me two tickets to see Margaret Cho in concert while I was at UC Davis, so I guess that other award can wait. Happy Mother's Day!)
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