The rides aren't so bad, either. Some of them, anyway.
The traffic and the crowds can suck it, though. I had no idea there were so many young rednecklings zipping about.
The guys between 14 and 18 are the worst, but I won't get into that.
The fair's also a great place to spot fashion trends. Last year I learned that John Deere apparel was getting big with the black kids. Now it seems the Eazy E look is coming back.
A couple of guys had masks on - one had a hockey mask, another one had the guy from Scream. I wasn't impressed, but they were taller than me, so I didn't make fun of them too loudly. I commend them on their brave fashion choices, however.
I should've brought my camera. But then I couldn't have gotten on the rides, since I don't exactly trust carnies with expensive electronic equipment.
Tonight was "wrist stamp night," or more accurately, "indelible flourescent paint on the back of your hand night." I approached the ticket booth quickly.
Inside was a skanky looking older blonde woman, her eyes heavy lidded. She pointed her head at me, without actually opening her eyes.
Okay, they fluttered a little bit.
"I need two hand stamps," I said.
Nothing.
Dead silence.
Silence that stretched.
It got uncomfortable.
Finally, she half-opened her eyes. "I'm waitin' for you to say something. Whaddaya want?"
Oh, shit. She was slurring, and speaking more slowly than John Wayne after a five-week bender with Lee Marvin.
"I want two handstamps." I said it a little harsh. I wasn't in the mood to deal with whatever her particular dysfunction (two links!) was, seeing as I had just fought through traffic and parking, and was surrounded by lots of people.
I don't like being surrounded by lots of people.
I handed her two twenties, and she veeeerrrrrryyyy slowwwwllllyyy put them in the cash box that was six inches away from her hands.
It took her roughly 30 seconds.
She wasn't reaching for my change, either.
At this point, the midget sitting in the other ticket window looks over at me, disappointment in his eyes.
"What do you want?" he mouthed.
"Two handstamps," I said. I honestly thought that Ms. Oxycontin had passed out. Her eyes were closed again, and she had stopped moving, her hands in the cash box.
She snapped to unlife, her eyes half-opening again. "I heard you when you said it the first time," she said.
Midget sighed and returned his attention to his window after telling Ms. Oxy to hand me my change.
She did, and handed me one ticket for a handstamp with a speed normally reserved for three-toed sloths, Christmas and load times for Windows 98.
This was not right. I needed two tickets, and she seemed to have retreated back within the ever-smooth folds of her wee carnie brain.
"I need two of these," I said.
Midget sighed a little louder. Ms. Oxy opened up, ripped a ticket and handed to me. As I reached to get it, her eyes opened all the way.
She looked at me with a burning stare. Our eyes locked.
"You know, I really hate this job," she said.
"I understand completely," I replied, walking off.
Immediately after, I noted that I had to tell some of the nice Kiwanis guys about this. After all, if she hates her job so damned much, I'm sure she won't mind losing it.
Anyway, I figured that'd be about it for my fair blogging experience. 'Twas not to be.
I was convinced to go on more rides than I normally do. Bumper cars, fine. Tilt-a-Whirl, fine.
Heck, I even planned to go on the bobsled ride, but the lines were frickin' ridiculous.
Rides that sling me in the air? No way. Rides that send me upside down? No fucking way.
Going to the fair last year and watching carnies set up eqiupment hasn't helped my anxiety. Here's a picture:
What it comes down to is that, at least as far as my personal safety is concerned, I'm a total pussy.
Anyway, I was convinced to try the swings. I lived.
So far, so good. Feeling brave, I hit "The Orbiter," basically a scrambler that kicks you up in the air (but not upside down).
I started feeling a little queasy the first go-round. Then, the prerecorded voice-over blasting over the speakers on the ride said "Do you want to go again?"
"YEEEEESSSS!" screamed the two girls sitting with Crystal and I in the ride, oblivious to the fact that it was the exact same "Do you want to go again?" we'd heard twice already while in the line.
Slappy the Carnie operating the ride didn't even have a microphone.
The ride sped up again, slinging us around for another couple of minutes. That's when I noticed the guy one set of seats over.
He was a big ol' corn-fed redneck boy, John Deere cap and all. He wasn't looking too good. In fact, he yelled out "Nooooo!" in answer to the phantom's question, and looked pleadingly at the ride's operator.
The operator gave a devilish grin, and kept us going.
The ride slowed down again, and again came the voice-over. "One more time?"
At that point, the queasy redneck proceeded to wave his hands at the ride's operator. I saw him making the tell-tale "hyuuurk" noises, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.
I thought he was going to pop. To his credit, he held it in. But, while the ride was starting to speed up again, he pushed up the metal bar holding him into the ride.
Oooooh, man. If the operator was a real bastard, this was going to get interesting.
He wasn't. It didn't. The ride slowed to a stop, and Queasy was the first person off, hanging his head over the railing.
"Awwww," Crystal said. "I guess we aren't going again."
"There's a bright side," I told her.
"What?"
"At least we know I'm not the biggest pussy at the fair."
2 comments:
You know, it's stuff like this that reminds me why I love fall. The fair is headed to Brunswick soon, and I can't wait to go. Hopefully this will be the year a ride breaks down. And kills people.
You know, as I left Gallop's on Wednesday, I pondered going to the fair, but decided against it. But is was comforted in the fact that had you been here, Chris; I most certainly would have gone after you tried to assemble the Avengers to go forth and battle any insidious carnies. And to see if people die on the rides.
Post a Comment