On West 7th Street in Eugene Oregon there used to be a pizza place called Pappa’s Pizza. They featured an unpretentious atmosphere of screaming kids and picnic-table-style seating, crappy pizza, a few video games, free Pepsi refills, and sometimes one of the high school-aged employees would put on the clown suit and walk around with a helium canister and blow up balloons. It was also the only place in Eugene with a “Pit of Balls,“ one of those sunken pits full of plastic multi-colored balls that kids can jump around in.
My wife and son and I were there for some neighbor kid’s birthday party. We had ordered pizza about a half hour ago and were still waiting for it. Through the din of raucous children the clown was making his rounds with the helium canister.
“Let’s go check out the Pit of Balls,” I said to my son Kyle.
We approached the Pit. There was another high school-aged employee there, supervising. After waiting in a short line it was almost Kyle‘s turn to enter the Pit. But the supervisor took one look at him and proclaimed, “You’re too short to use the Pit of Balls.” He indicated a sign, one of those “You Must Be This Tall” signs, which we had pretended not to notice earlier. It was no use arguing. We were law-abiding citizens, and rules were rules, so we went back to our picnic table. Luckily, our pizza had finally arrived.
Meanwhile, for some reason the clown had lost his temper. Some kids were acting up in the play area and he started yelling at the kids. It’s not a pretty sight, watching a clown act threateningly toward a group of children, when you’re sitting there eating pizza after The Man has just stomped on your son’s dream.
Kyle was disappointed about the Pit of Balls, but he took it pretty well. “Don’t worry, son,” we both reassured him. “We’ll come back sometime, and you’ll be able to play in the Pit of Balls.”
We picked up the pieces of our lives. I was in college and finishing my degree. My wife was working at the college. Kyle went into kindergarten and excelled in several subjects. We kind of forgot all about this minor incident at Pappa’s Pizza. When it was time to pick a restaurant to go to, Pappa’s always seemed to lose out to places that were closer, or places with good food.
But one day we were in the area and we were hungry and so we walked into Pappa’s Pizza. It was slightly remodeled and it seemed a little nicer. There was no clown in sight. Thankfully, they still had the ever-popular Pit of Balls. Kyle was excited. He had definitely done some growing since the last time, and finally he’d be big enough to jump into that polychromatic pool of fun.
He ran to the Pit. There was a high school kid there. “Wait a minute,” he said. He gave Kyle the once-over. "You’re too tall to go in the Pit of Balls.“ They had a new sign and it showed the range of heights. You had to stand next to the sign. Kyle was about 1/2 inch too tall.
This time I was armed with some righteous indignation. I told this pimply-faced bastard about the last time, the change in height regulations, how much this meant to Kyle, the American Dream, Freud’s view of civilization and sublimation, and, most importantly, how miniscule a difference it would make if he would just let Kyle have his moment of simple joy in the Pit of Balls. But it had absolutely no effect.
Kyle was devastated. The old “good things come to those who wait” platitude had proven hollow and false. I felt like the angry clown.
And if some kid had been acting up at that exact moment, I would almost certainly have taken my helium canister and behaved in a most threatening and unbecoming manner.