Beware the Carousel

Girls in The Gravitron are slutty. At least that’s the rumor in my town. Most fathers think The Gravitron is the dangerous ride. They don’t know the Ferris wheel is the mother of all murderers. Dad never lets me ride The Gravitron. Says the centrifugal force is three times that of gravity. The inertia of my madness moves a little slower. Dad’s always holding me back.
+++++“Not until you’re taller.”
+++++“That kid only hit his head because he was doing it wrong.”
+++++“Accidents happen.”
+++++Every afternoon around dusk Mom picks me up and Dad disappears. Says he’s going to have a drink with his buddies. But today I tell Mom we’re going over to a friend’s house, follow Dad as he crisscrosses between cotton candy machines, face painting booths, animal balloons, ticket stands, chili corndogs, and the ever-present effervescent chunks of fluorescent heroin used to lure over-sugared children.
+++++Dad walks fast, sweeping in and out of traffic like a puppy looking for his master. He ends up in the corner of the carnival by the trees, trash cans, bees, and mothers hovering over little boys who ate too much garbage. Dad floats toward the beer booth and buys a couple Coors. He drinks them standing. Where are his friends? The foam collects on his lips beneath the sinking sun. He buys two more. Yellow jackets circle his plastic cups. He doesn’t mind. Nothing fazes him. He no longer looks like my dad; he’s morphed into a different mindset, a secret life.
+++++Hiding behind a maple tree soaked in vomit, I watch it all: Dad’s eyes attached to the rides, the women, the screams, and the putrid smell of sickness drifting through humid air. He sips beer and watches the Ferris wheel, Funhouse, the Whip. Kiddie rides don’t interest him. He hands cash to a homeless man digging through Styrofoam trash–redeeming himself as my hero–until the donation is wasted on four more beers. They sit Indian style in the grass and drink like hobos. Dad’s talking loud, laughing with this madman Mom would never give the time of day. The vagrant’s words make no sense to me, but Dad seems to understand.
+++++“Wanna ride The Gravitron?”
+++++The man’s mouth opens; mostly toothless. Eyes like roman candles, pupils expand as fireflies come into focus, approach us from the magical place these fairies hide during the day. The whole affair makes me want to throw up a little in my mouth. Almost want to kick Dad in the shins and see what he says, but need to dig deeper into the decrepit carnie hole he crawls when me and Mom go grocery shopping. He’s in a different world as I stare for fifteen minutes into the lobster tank.
+++++They finish their beers. Dad orders two more.
+++++“Rocket fuel.”
+++++They wander off toward the crowd, lost in the iridescent insanity they’ve become a part of. Following them toward The Gravitron, people stop and stare at the disheveled homeless man holding my father’s hand. So this is what he does when he gets drunk? Dad dances to the rhythm of Metallica as they hand over their tickets, wait in line. Kids are laughing, but Dad doesn’t give a damn. He’s going to ride the lighting. Most of these tools weren’t even born when metal was at its best. Neither was I.
+++++Only thing keeping tears from streaming down my cheeks is the third grader waiting in line a couple dozen people behind Dad. The machine is going crazy. We can hear the screaming. Beams of light making love on our faces, it feels like an awakening as the orange moon watches unaware.
+++++Time expires; teenagers waddle away from the mechanism. A couple punks puke in the grass behind the majestic open-mouthed contraption. It swallows Dad. The chick sees me, asks, “Ya wanna ride it with me?”
+++++“I’m too young.”
+++++Don’t want to admit I’m too short. She’s at least a foot taller, boobs pondering their existence.
+++++“My cousin works here.”
+++++She points to the gothic monster taking tickets, standing at the entrance to the gates of heaven. I look at the vomit and bubble gum on my shoes. There’s a chunk of caramel popcorn in her hair. She’s making love to her box of Cracker Jacks.
+++++“I would, but my dad’s on this thing, he can’t see me.”
+++++Butterflies and dragonflies have sex in my stomach as she giggles.
+++++“Put this on.”
+++++“It’s a ghost mask. Almost wet my pants. Dreaming of reaching second base, she places it over my face and hands her tickets to the lunatic of her uncle’s loins.
+++++“Have fun Casper.”
+++++The machine smells even stronger than I imagined: fresh vomit, cotton candy, dirty socks, and something extra. The girls in The Gravitron are pulling down their shirts, tucking them into their shorts. Not slutty behavior by any standards. It disappoints me. Maybe they wait till they start the revolutions? Dad and the wino are already spinning, rubbing arms, laughing like the worst town drunks on an awful binge.
+++++The door closes and the man returns to the middle: where the magic happens. Dad is hysterical as the centrifugal force pulls us backwards, sideways we spin, spiders in paradise. Dad signals to the captain. The microphone comes to life and warns not to walk on walls or get upside-down. Dad struggles onto his knees as we pick up speed. The captain is snorting into the microphone, rubbing the tip of his nose. The homeless man is urinating himself. My mask falls off as Dad rises to his feet and begins walking around on the walls. I’ve never been prouder in my life.
+++++He smiles as a child tries to kick him in the nuts. Only the strong can maintain themselves when The Gravitron really gets kicking. Metallica is still raging. Master of Puppets is pulling the strings to my father’s madness, making him dance and people are shouting. Dad smacks his head against a metal bar.
+++++“Look at this fool.”
+++++“Sometimes he does this naked.”
+++++The machine nearing maximum velocity, his blood looks like vomit and we chase it in circles, this comet of our inertia. Never felt closer to my father than that evening in The Gravitron, leaning on third grade breasts, the stars so bright and big.
+++
+++
+++
+++
Matthew Dexter is an American writer living in Mexico. He survives in Cabo San Lucas.