Aaron reflects on his childhood obsession with growing up too fast, culminating in a humiliating moment when he got stuck on a giant slide, embarrassed in front of an entire amusement park. Through this and other stories, he shares how he learned the hard way that adulthood isn't all it's cracked up to be.
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Story created & performed by: Aaron Calafato
Senior Audio Engineer: Ken Wendt
Additional vocals: Cori Birce
Art: Pete Whitehead
Original Music: thomas j. duke
Transcript
Aaron Calafato:
Don't you say that. Don't you dare say that. You stay here for as long as you can. Do you remember this quote from Billy Madison, where Adam Sandler is telling that kid, "Don't grow up. Be a kid. Stay in third grade." That's what I've been telling my kids: "Just stay a kid because there's going to be time." And they go, "Well, what are you talking about?" I said, "Listen, I can tell you from experience, as soon as you wish it, it'll happen, and you'll wish you hadn't." And they’re like, "Yeah, right, Dad." But I’m serious.
There was a time when I wished it into existence, and I’m going to tell you about that very moment right after the music.
For me, it started off feeling like an adult. My grandfather used to say, "I feel like I was born old," like he had been here before. And I kind of agreed with him. I felt the same way. I don't know if anyone else listening feels this way, but even as a kid, I didn’t feel like a kid.
I always wanted to hang out with adults. I always wanted to do what they did. I remember being at dinner parties and asking for coffee. I’d say, "Hey, let me get a cup." They’d say, "You’re six!" But I'd insist, "No, the real thing, like everybody else."
I wanted to be like all the guys on my dad's side of the family. All the Italian guys huddled around, smoking cigars, playing cards, talking. I wanted to be in that group. But they’d say, "You’re too little. Get out. It’s not for kids." And I’d argue, "I'm not a kid!" But at my grandfather’s house, it was an unwritten rule: as a kid, you really couldn't participate in adult conversations until there was a moment—a ritualistic moment—where you got to add something.
So I had to sit there for years, taking notes, listening like an apprentice, studying how they talked and their point of view. And I remember the year and the moment when I finally got to say my piece. Everyone turned around, and my grandfather, almost like in The Godfather, just nodded. I knew I was in. But I was still a kid—11 or 12 years old.
That wasn’t enough for me, though. I had this weird, obsessive mission where I wanted someone to walk by, look at me, and say, "That man is an adult." I don't know why, but I wanted that. I remember my grandfather taking me to a place called Geauga Lake. They had this roller coaster called the Double Loop. I was way too short to ride it. This wasn’t about age; I simply shouldn’t have been on it. But I pleaded, and somehow, he snuck me on the ride. I remember the safety bar coming down on my chest, and I could slip through it because I was so tiny.
As we went upside down on the first loop, I started sliding through the belt and chest restraint. My grandfather grabbed my ankle—I was dangling in the air. The only thing between me and death was my grandfather holding my ankle. He pulled me back in, and I survived the ride. Afterward, my grandparents were like, "Never again!" But even that wasn’t enough for me.
Still a kid, still with a Napoleon complex. I remember my dad took me to Cedar Point. This time, it wasn’t a roller coaster or water slide; it was one of those giant playground slides, hundreds of feet tall, where you’d go down in a potato sack. And this thing was fast. The line was long, but my dad finally said, "Fine, you can go on it." When I got to the guy with the measuring stick, I was too short. So I stood on my tiptoes, and for some reason, the guy must’ve felt bad for me. He let me through.
I went up and waited my turn. When it was time, I got into the potato sack, and the attendant gave me instructions on how not to die. I wasn’t listening. I was too focused on proving I wasn’t just a little kid—I was a teenager. I got down the first hill okay, but then I came to a screeching halt. I was so light that even the potato sack couldn’t keep me moving. I got stuck at the top of the slide.
People in the park started to panic. They looked like ants from where I was, and I could see them preparing to bring up an EMS truck. I froze. A woman on the loudspeaker yelled, "Make your way down the slide!" But I was paralyzed with fear. I kept yelling, "I’m stuck! I can’t go up or down!" Eventually, the woman said, "Stay where you are. Help is on the way." My face was red with embarrassment. I wanted to disappear.
And then, over the loudspeaker, she said, "Everyone stay calm, there’s a little boy trapped on the slide." I wasn’t paralyzed anymore—I was furious. I stood up, threw my potato sack off the side, and screamed, "I am not a little boy!"
I wasn’t a little boy. Years of frustration came to a head in that moment. I climbed back to the top of the slide, stomped down the stairs, and from that moment, something clicked.
As the years passed, life got more complicated. I had more responsibilities, and things got harder. That brings us to today—2024. I have three kids now, and they tell me, "I can’t wait to be an adult." And I say, "You don’t want that. There are bills, problems, and anxieties you can’t even imagine. Don’t do what I did." I turned to my daughter and said, "Don’t you say that. Don’t you dare say that. You stay here as long as you can." God, I wish someone had said that to me when I was a little boy.
