"A Line Has Two Dimensions" (short story)

A LINE HAS TWO DIMENSIONS

by Alex Fulton

The park opened at 9am and the line formed shortly thereafter. Advertisements made it clear that this was one ride not to be missed, and they were everywhere: split-second television spots, gaudy posters on bus station walls, pop-ups on a variety of high-traffic websites (their paper equivalents—3x5” postcards slipping out of magazines—were also employed). You couldn't miss the hype surrounding it. So when the line formed so quickly and remained so long and dense for much of the day, no one was entirely surprised.

The details of the ride itself remained obscure. The line's front-end was not visible to those standing caboose, not because of the length but because the ride itself was set way back in the forest. The line seemed to end past a rickety awning where the pathway made a sharp right turn into the wall of trees. No one quite knew how long they would have to wait. The park staff had only rough estimates; the ride had until then only been operational in tests. The logic of waiting in line decreed that once you are in it, it would be absurd to leave, to have wasted the time, and the money that signified the time. So the line continued to grow, snaking its way farther and farther back, towards the entrance.

It was hot: a true summer day's weight beat down on the line. This was primetime for amusement parks everywhere. The black asphalt pathways absorbed the heat. The metalworks of many rides trapped it in an echo chamber of temperature, and the swarming mass of human bodies transmuted it into delight. The morning was dewy and cool, but by midday people in line began to sweat in earnest, deprived of the fresh air that comes from constant forward movement. People began to make remarks to one another, as people often do when forced to sweat together in public.

“This better be good. I'll have a mind to complain to someone about it if it ain't.” 

 “Why don't they provide refreshments for people in line?” 

 “Refreshments are in another line. You want a drink, go get one, I'll hold your spot. Get me one too while you're at it.” 

 “No way you'll just take it. The way this thing is growing they might not let me back in. Get your own drink.” 

 “I'm not thirsty.” 

 “Sure you ain't.” 

The people shuffled forward, distempered and slow. All around them the park's confusion continued. The metal clanking of merry-go-rounds and loop-de-loops, the high-pitched screams of childish satisfaction. The lower pitched yells of adults having more fun than they expected. Carnival sounds, insistent ice-cream truck melodies, excitement condensed into colorful vibration. The line had come to a standstill, and the day's chaos around them began to wear thin on the patience of those who had committed to wait.   

“OK what the fuck.” 

“There are children literally everywhere around.”

“Yeah but how long have we been here now?” 

“Check your phone.”

“I left it in the car. The price we paid for tickets I thought there'd be enough amusement today I wouldn't need it.”   

“Guess you were wrong.” 

“Can I look at yours?” 

“No way, I'm using it.” 

“Then will you tell me how long we've been standing here?” 

“You don't wanna know.” 

Children in bathing suits carrying popsicles wandered by aimlessly like it was a giant daycare center, no parents in sight. They might as well have been wards of the park: everybody's children. Yours too, if you looked at them long enough. The line hadn't moved for at least half an hour. There seemed to be some malfunction with the ride, though park workers were under orders not to provide details. As compensation, one of the park managers made an appearance, wandered down the line's perimeter, put forth placid greetings to his frustrated patrons.

“Howdy folks. Sorry about all this. It's a new attraction. Technical difficulties, you know how it goes.” He referred to it only as the attraction. “We should be up and running in a matter of several minutes. In the meantime, I've asked Convenience to send some people over, provide some cold beverages while you wait.”

Tacit approval, reserved optimism. Not much later a troupe of men and women, clad in identical blue polo uniforms as per the park's dress code, arrived holding strong wooden boxes supported by shoulder straps, filled with pre-poured sodas, lemonades, waters, as well as cotton candy, long strings of licorice, milk duds, and cheap domestic beer for those of age. The line was constantly shifting in thickness as the various bodies composing it moved about, but the boundaries delineated by Convenience, hovering like insects—their make-shift guardrails composed of yellow string—kept its overall integrity intact. Surprisingly few left. Before long movement returned, and the people in line stuck it out into the hottest part of the day. The Manager assured them it would be worth it.   

“How far back in the woods does it go?” 

“I'm not sure exactly. Quite far, quite far.” 

“Can I get another beer–“ 

One segment of the line passed by the water park. Blasts of moisture from the log-ride were intermittent and welcome to most. The people approaching it got big smiles on their faces, made general remarks. Some of them weren't in the mood to get wet, and frowned when they failed to avoid getting soaked, much to the others' amusement.

The line remained the same length for most of the day. Those who stuck it out, made it under the awning and into the shade of the forest, were replaced at the back of the line at a steady rate. The line drummed up interest, distracted from the presence of other, older rides.

“Most rides you get to see the folks comin' off. Their hair's blown back, looking all scared. Or not scared but, like they just went through something heavy. I don't see that here though.”

“Most rides, not all. Idiot.” 

“Whatever. Just don't see the Exit is all.” 

---

In another section of the park, new forms of Attraction were being promoted and tested. One station offered willing participants “a bird's eye view of the park,” and it had its own fairly impressive line as well. One at a time, the participants were suspended in the air facing down and fitted with a helmet enclosing the entire head, with a thick visor extending down across the eyes and nose. The helmet was connected to a high-def video camera attached to the underbelly of a small, consumer-model drone, presently floating in the air above the grounds and streaming real-time footage into the helmet's visor. For a small fee (this service was promoted by an outside agency contracted with the park to charge their own gates and was thus not included in the ticket-price), the participants got 10 minutes, or maybe more if the line was short and the operator was feeling generous.

Small, quiet fans were used to simulate wind on the face, and the helmet was noise-canceling. Speakers were installed, and participants were invited to use their phones to provide their own soundtrack, or to choose from one of the many tracks pre-selected by the agency, an array of well-known and well-liked tracks from most genres of popular music, including classical. Playlists were to be compiled while waiting in line: no last-minute changes-of-mind. Some opted for silence, or more precisely the sound of their skull's own processes, the more conversant ones arguing that this would be more faithful to the experience of a bird.

The view was spectacular, as you might imagine.