Kidnapped by a Carnie

I don't go on Ferris wheels anymore.

Innocently, one would not think about how much trust they are putting in another person when they climb aboard this ever-popular carnival ride.  There is only one person who decides whether you ever get off of the Ferris wheel, and this is the Ferris wheel operator; a "carnie."

Based on my particular experience, allow me to paint a picture for you of the typical grocery-store parking lot weekend carnival set-up: Maybe ten or so over-priced rides (which were in hundreds of pieces on semi trucks just hours before you trusted them with your life), flanked on either side by two short midways of games, undoubtedly rigged with the odds stacked against you winning a fifty-cent stuffed giraffe, even though you paid $4 to throw three balls.  Peppered in between all this stimulating attraction are the standard vendors of fare that can only be considered edible when attending a carnival: tall sticks swathed in pastel-hued cotton candy, deep-fried doughy objects bigger than your head and coated in sugar, deep-fried cheese, Twinkies, candy bars... anything you can imagine has been dipped in batter and deep-fried until unrecognizable, greasy, and gooey.  For some reason, this generates an all-encompassing odor spreading across 4 city blocks, which makes us think we should go to the carnival in the first place.

My friend and I (we'll call her Sara), had finished a satisfying sushi dinner at a local restaurant, and eyed the parking lot carnival upon leaving.  It was decided that we should relive one of those magical moments of childhood, and go waste some money.  Sara and I rode a couple of rides, thoroughly unimpressed as adults with what would have certainly blown our little minds as children.  We meandered through the midways, maybe we played a game or two, but failed to take home a goldfish.  We knew we were saving the best for last.  Before we left, we wanted to ride the Ferris wheel, and gaze upon our modest city and the bright carnival lights from up high in a rickety, rusty basket-of-doom.  Tickets were bought, and we waited patiently in line until it was our turn.  The carnie running the Ferris wheel was exactly what you would expect in this environment; old and unkempt, missing several teeth, a stained and worn-out shirt unbuttoned over an equally weathered undershirt, and taking an occasional nip from a plastic cup he kept indiscreetly "hidden" at the base of his control stand.  He welcomed us aboard with a suspicious chuckle.

My friend and I enjoyed the ride, slow and easy, maybe rocking the basket illegally a few times in the warm Tucson night air.  We took pictures and talked and laughed.  After a few times around, the ride was over, and the carnie began systematically emptying the seats.  Over and over, we rhythmically jerked to a stop as another basket was emptied, and then reloaded with freshly anticipatory children and the occasional romantic adults or drunken college students.  Until it was our turn.  With an evil laugh and a menacing wink, the carnie throttled right on past our exit window and moved on to the next basket.  "Oh well," we laughed... we were on for another ride.  For free!  We went back to our same antics, and enjoyed another tour of the richly-scented parking lot air.  By the time this round was over, we were bored of the Ferris wheel.  The childhood magic was gone.  It was time to go be adults again... see what our other friends were up to, crack open some good wine, and let the evening run its course.  Carnie had other plans.  Once again as our turn to dismount approached, he let that wheel chug on past again, leaving us helplessly on board for round 3.  It wasn't fun anymore.  My friend and I began discussing the reality that the only way off of a Ferris wheel is if the operator decides to let you off.  This had never occurred to us before in life, never haven previously been given more "free rides" than desired on a Ferris wheel.  What if he kept us captive until the carnival closed, and we were knocked out and dragged into a trailer, only to awaken on a road to nowhere, slaves to the traveling carnival?

Okay, that last part didn't happen.  But it did cross our minds.  After the third go-'round, we were finally released from our over-used seats on the wheel by a clearly intoxicated carnie who relished in his small victory and flirted as we scurried away fast.  So that's the night I was kidnapped by a carnie, and that's why I don't ride Ferris wheels anymore.