We stood on the fading bricks of the courtyard, bleached by the sun and eroded by blinking soles of kindergarten sneakers. The massive wooden playground stood in front of the crowd. Yellow CAUTION tape slithered around the white fence. The fence used to be wood, but the parents complained about splinters so they changed it to this shoddy, hollow plastic. Then we would rock back and forth on the base until it would snap. Then parents complained about bloody heads.
A construction vehicle lumbered onto the site. I wondered why they didn’t have a proper demolisher like in the movies. Instead there was this excavator. The kind that picks up dirt and moves it to another place. Its dull teeth were bathed in mud. All the high schoolers in front of me took pictures and videos with their flip phones and pagers. The excavator rumbled over to the middle and raised the crane. We waited, because we didn’t know what was going first, the playground, made of warm, weathered pine, or the building behind it, with the library and the art rooms. The crane dropped down and hit black shingles.
My stomach fell faster than the building. Like potato chips, the roof crackled with no restraint. Suddenly, we could see the inside, all the rooms, hallways, carpets, and the windows on the other side. I saw the place where I played with red, yellow, and blue building blocks and where I made Jell-O for the first time. I saw the empty library, and all the times the librarian would warn us about the book drop-off box. He always said that if we dropped the book into the box too slow, the lid would slam onto our hand and we would get a welt like Tom does after he chases around Jerry.
The foundation deteriorated into dust and cinder blocks. The yellow excavator ravaged the ground, tearing up the stone walkway and the grass surrounding it. I couldn’t imagine all the worms that found themselves suddenly in the air. I used to look for those very worms with tools from the sandbox. We ran over with shovels and sifters, our hands ready to get dirty. I think at some point we found a maggot or two. Perhaps they were termites.
Soon enough, our view to the road was clear. Nothing was left except for a pile of lumber. And the playground.
With no hesitation, not even a breath in between, the excavator chomped at the majestic towers. The wooden towers where I was the Tuesday queen and the Wednesday ice cream man. The ugly yellow machine gobbled at the slides where I broke my tailbone and tore up the swings where I thought I could fly. The machine rolled over the sandbox, where a friend and I dug and dug, looking for treasure. The playground staff asked if we were going to China. I thought they were stupid; treasure was much better. When we hit clay, we were were told to stop digging.
The destined location for my first kiss splintered, and blended into the wood chips on the ground. Shreds of magenta rubber tubes and shining steel lay scattered amongst the remains. The crowd clamored and prayed that a souvenir would be left behind. A single tower, a monkey bar, something. We all looked at the pole at the very front of the playground. Painted red and encircled with a little foot platform, no one knew what it was for. Too short to be a climb thing, and too bare to be a maypole, it was one of the lesser popular attractions. Girls would circle around it, leaning from their hands on the sun-warmed metal. I once danced around it, pole-dancing not yet formed in my vocabulary. I didn’t understand why all the boys were laughing.
We held our breath, fixated on the red beacon in front of the pine tree. The massive tree that showered pine cones into the towers, onto the bridges, and throughout the wood chips. Used as currency, bullets, or sacrifice, pine cones proved to be valuable in playground commerce.
But the excavator reared back and collapsed the red pole in a single go. An air of defeat descended upon us, heavy like smog. At that point, the crowd of students and staff slowly migrated back to class. I stood there, hoping for a cinematic moment. A single tear down my cheek. A profound reflection.
But all I did was stand and watch. I wanted to scream and shout, like the pictures of people fighting back the police in my textbooks. I wanted to cry. But nothing surfaced. In between the tall shoulders of upperclassmen moving past me, I waited for nothing. Inside of me, a heavy disappointment sank to the ground. My pitiful homage laid on the pavement, angry and bitter, as I retreated back to the fluorescent lights of Algebra II.
