The Monster Jam

Buster suggested weeks ago that we attend the annual event which showcases the world’s biggest, loudest, and most monstrous of monster trucks known as “Monster Jam.” While I had never before considered attending such an event, and initially had no interest, I decided in the spirit of adventure that I would be open to trying something new and agreed to go. After mentioning this intention publicly, my friend/student Penny offered to donate her tickets to us, as she had a conflicting event at the animal shelter. Buster and I were thrilled to receive free tickets, made even sweeter given that these were Club Seats.

The cosmos tried to warn us not to go. We’d been advised repeatedly to bring earplugs, as this is a LOUD event. Sure, no problem, I can handle that. We ended up eating Zaxbys for dinner at the end of JTB and Phillips in the hopes that the shuttle service, which runs from there to the football stadium during Jaguar games, might be running for the Monster Jam as well. It was not. Having not yet procured earplugs, we decided to pop into the Walmart on Philips heading toward the downtown area. We all know how I feel about Walmart.

The earplugs were difficult to find, but with some help from the Pharmacy, we located them. None of the ten express lanes were open, so I chose a line with a large woman buying groceries, and a well dressed, elderly gentleman. It took close to five minutes for the woman to complete her transaction, and afterwards, the clerk beckoned the gentleman to come forward. Apparently he was blind and his escorts, apparently a young man and woman, had abandoned him in line. After a few tense moments, they returned. The elderly gentleman bought a few items and the disheveled woman wrote a check. Buster and I marveled at the fact that people continue to write checks at all anymore and patiently continued to wait as the approval process was performed. We sighed in relief as the man received his receipt and the $20 in cash he had requested. The woman then decided she needed to purchase a pack of gum. She also wrote a check for this, from a different account. It was denied. They tried it again. Still denied, for a $.96 pack of gum, while the man held $20 cash. Twenty minutes have now passed and we thank our lucky stars that we have money to spend and aren’t in the same predicament. However, if you need to write a check for something frivolous, such as a pack of gum, do you really need to be buying it in the first place?

Finally departing Walmart, after roughly half an hour, we headed downtown. The Main Street Bridge was a nightmare of traffic cones and confused drivers, we among them. The entire downtown area appeared to have been carefully structured with cones and traffic cops to maintain some sort of order as everyone made their way to the arena. As we crept down the road leading to our destination, a parking area appeared on our right. Roughly two miles from the site of the event, and at a rate of $20, we decided it was a best bet for getting in and out quickly. We parked and began the trek to Monster Jam.

Let me pause now to say that I grew up in some rather rough neighborhoods here in Jacksonville. I am familiar with the different demographics and generally try to avoid returning to the areas I spent my childhood in. My parents were little more than teenagers themselves, and exposed me to a great many things I probably ought not to have been exposed to. I spent time in bars before I was ten, hung out during backyard bonfires with my parents’ twenty-something friends, and rode in many cars driven by drunk drivers. My dad drank; a lot. When I was old enough to become aware of the details, I realized he was drinking a fifth of Seagram Seven every night. I knew something wasn’t right from a young age, and was constantly on alert. Our family lived basically on the edge of disaster. My parents could never hold steady jobs and we lived on the generosity and pity of others. While my father adored his family and was never abusive, he was not the same person when he drank. I learned very early that someone who is drunk cannot be reasoned with. They are not the same person they are when sober, and you cannot reach them. My father terrified me more times than he could ever realize simply because he wasn’t the sweet, gentle, caring, always a bit sad and reserved person that he would be during the day. At night, and around friends his age, he became loud, careless, rough and wild. I will never forget the time I was very young and he was “playing” with me near the backyard bonfire by picking me up and pretending that he was going to toss me in. I learned to “play along” so as not to make him mad, but I was hurt that he would scare me so badly and not even remember the next day. He almost never remembered what had transpired the next day.

Given that he was a poorly educated man, raised by an abusive alcoholic himself, it is no surprise he turned to alcohol to cope with life. I am blessed that he was never physically abusive, but after many years of degrading behavior, I finally severed all ties with him in my early twenties.

I personally have never been terribly comfortable around alcohol or people who use it. I never had one sip of alcohol until I was 22, and although now I have learned to drink socially, I am always on “high alert” around others who are drinking. In my experience, people turn into animals when heavily intoxicated, and are dangerous, irrational, and quick to become aggressive. People who are enjoying a vacation in Key West may be harmless when drunk, but the hordes of poor, uneducated, aggressive youths of Jacksonville are not harmless. We encountered the latter in spades at Monster Jam.

We were forced to walk under the raised highway near Metropolitan Park, where people had obviously been tailgating for hours, if not days. It looked like a scene from a movie portraying the post-apocalypse. I have never in my entire life seen so much refuse in the form of discarded beer cans, food, cigarettes, and even furniture. There were unattended fires, canopies, and massive hordes of stumbling, loud, drunken youths. I clung to Buster as we tried to make our way through the volatile crowds with almost no police in sight. After ten terrifying minutes, we made our way into the arena. Amidst pushing, shouting, running, and absolute chaos, we made it to our seats. I was already traumatized at this point, and could not enjoy the gargantuan trucks making their leaps over dirt covered hills with engines roaring. Two small children incessantly kicked the back of my seat, which finally sent me over the edge. Poor Buster could not endure my misery any longer, and although he was really enjoying the trucks, he insisted that we leave.

Bless his decision, as leaving would have been even more dangerous with the 72,000 people in attendance departing simultaneously at the conclusion of the event. Again I clung to Buster while we kept our heads down and tried to ignore the drunken idiots who tried to talk to us about lord only knows what as we left the arena. Once more we made our way through the now virtually deserted post-apocalyptic walkway, which was now completely void of any police monitoring. A few dark subjects lurked among the trash, sending another jolt of terror through my spine as I anticipated being mugged at any moment. At one point, we came upon a young woman and her two very small children. I could only imagine how afraid she must have been and mentioned this to Buster. Given our rapid pace, we soon reached her side and she turned to ask tentatively if we were sober. She pleaded for us to walk with her until they reached their vehicle, and we happily agreed. She explained that her husband would normally have come, but had to work, and as it was her 4 year old son’s birthday, she had promised him they would attend. Her 7 year old daughter was along for the trip as well, and due to the overwhelming number of attendees who were drinking, she had made the same decision to leave early as we had. I do not regret attending, if only to have helped them make their way safely back to her car.

We parted ways with some distance left for Buster and I to cover, and again, I cringed at every person we passed. Finally arriving safely at our vehicle, we passed the stadium on our way to the bridge home, and could still hear the roar of the engines and the announcer shouting over them. I have never been so grateful to get home and snuggle with my dogs on the couch.

Perhaps I was overly sensitive, and perhaps we were not in as much danger as I perceived. However, given the number of drunk drivers who no doubt left the stadium at the end of the evening, it would be a miracle if no one was hurt that night just in that respect. Either way, the next time Monster Jam comes to town, I will be staying at home.