ImageThe county fair was here to stay. The fair was something we looked forward to all summer; on the second week of September the flat expanse behind the racetrack would spring to life with rides and booths, lighting up at night in bright, blinking lights. It was the most excitement we got in our little town, where it seemed that most things, even the weather, never changed much. This ephemeral quality was what gave us such nostalgia year after year--the fair was exciting because it would only be there for a week and then it would move on. And so, at the end of the week, when we found out it was staying, we weren't sure what to say.
"It's staying forever?" I asked. My mother had walked all the way up the stairs to tell us. I had been working on some homework and only looked up when she dropped the newspaper on my desk. It was folded to show a small article, its headline reading, "The County Fair is Here to Stay".
"I don't know," she said. "That's what it looks like."
My brother got up from his bed, where he had been reading a magazine. He looked down at the newspaper, scanning the article, which was only a short paragraph.
"Admission's going to be free," he pointed out. "We can go any time we want, even for a short trip." He looked at me and shrugged. It was good news, but not great news.
Lucky for us, the fairground was only a short bike ride away. The next Wednesday, after school, we headed over.
We locked our bikes to a scrawny leafless tree near the entrance gate, and for a moment I looked back at the dusty flatland that had served as a parking lot. There were a dozen or so cars and trucks parked near the front, but most of the lot was empty. It wasn't until I saw it like this, on a slow day, that I noticed there weren't any lines to denote spaces, nothing to distinguish one lane from the next, only a large dusty lot.
Inside, things were very stripped down. Unlike our earlier visit, on the first day the fair opened, it was nearly empty. It was the same fair, only much more subdued. At a booth where there would have once been four people working, making hot dogs and serving refreshments, there was only one--an old man who leaned on the counter with his shoulders slumped. My brother waved to him and the old man nodded. Nearby, a dart booth sat silently, decorated with stuffed monkeys of varying size that swayed in the wind. We stopped in front of it and looked up at the targets. The game had given my brother much frustration--probably rigged, he'd said. He looked up at the monkeys hopefully. Behind us we heard the door to the hot dog stand open and the old man approach us.
"Darts?" he asked.
We looked at each other, neither of us bothering to point it out: the old man was working both the hot dog stand and the dart game. Along the row were booths featuring basketball hoops, a squirt gun game, and a face painting booth, all empty and silent. He was probably covering those too. My brother politely waved the old man off. We only had a few dollars--enough for a ride or two. The old man turned around and slowly walked back to the hot dog stand, closing the door behind him.
We continued down the row, past the hammer strength test, and the fun house whose mirrors had made my mother nauseous a few weeks before. Without any crowd the fair seemed much smaller; we walked all the way to the roller coaster in only a few minutes. On our original visit, we hadn't reached the roller coaster until several hours into the day. Nearby, the large plastic gorilla looked on.
Another old man, although perhaps not as old as the first, stood in front of entrance to the roller coaster. He smiled as we approached.
"Hello gentleman," he said, theatrically gesturing with his hat. "Two dollars each, please."
My brother handed the old man four dollars--both of our weekly allowances combined. The old man stood aside and let us pass. We stepped over the metal barriers that originally formed the line, walking up the stairs to the platform. The old man walked behind us. At the top of the platform he pointed to the coaster and climbed a small ladder into the operating booth. He flipped a few switches on the control board, and all of the lights on the platform came on, spinning and blinking. Until that point I hadn't noticed anything was off, but when it was on, it suddenly seemed like a much bigger affair. My brother and I sat in the front row and pulled the bar onto our laps. The old man tapped the microphone.
"Please keep your hands and legs inside the car," he said, quietly. He pushed another button and we were off.
My brother and I rode in silence. We were quiet, casual kids, not prone to the excited yelling of most rollercoaster patrons. Normally this wouldn't be much of an issue, but without anyone yelling or being excited, the ride itself was much different--it felt forced, mechanical, like we were doing someone a favor. At the end, after the large dip, the climax of the ride and of the fair itself, we looked at each other again, and again communicated without speaking. The fair was a very silly thing.
We stepped out of the ride and thanked the old man, who was drinking water from a large bottle. He nodded to us. At the bottom of the stairs, another old man swept up dirt into a dustpan. The fair, it seemed, had replaced all of its staff with old men.
"Maybe they're veterans," said my brother. "Maybe that's why they're keeping the place open, to give them all jobs." I looked around and thought it possible enough. On the way out, we thanked every old man we saw, even those that hadn't really helped us with anything.
In the parking lot, an old man seated in a wheelchair rolled by us as we unlocked our bikes.
"Did you boys have fun?" he asked.
"Very much," I said. "Next time we'll bring more money."
Lucky for us, the fairground was only a short bike ride away. The next Wednesday, after school, we headed over.
We locked our bikes to a scrawny leafless tree near the entrance gate, and for a moment I looked back at the dusty flatland that had served as a parking lot. There were a dozen or so cars and trucks parked near the front, but most of the lot was empty. It wasn't until I saw it like this, on a slow day, that I noticed there weren't any lines to denote spaces, nothing to distinguish one lane from the next, only a large dusty lot.
Inside, things were very stripped down. Unlike our earlier visit, on the first day the fair opened, it was nearly empty. It was the same fair, only much more subdued. At a booth where there would have once been four people working, making hot dogs and serving refreshments, there was only one--an old man who leaned on the counter with his shoulders slumped. My brother waved to him and the old man nodded. Nearby, a dart booth sat silently, decorated with stuffed monkeys of varying size that swayed in the wind. We stopped in front of it and looked up at the targets. The game had given my brother much frustration--probably rigged, he'd said. He looked up at the monkeys hopefully. Behind us we heard the door to the hot dog stand open and the old man approach us.
"Darts?" he asked.
We looked at each other, neither of us bothering to point it out: the old man was working both the hot dog stand and the dart game. Along the row were booths featuring basketball hoops, a squirt gun game, and a face painting booth, all empty and silent. He was probably covering those too. My brother politely waved the old man off. We only had a few dollars--enough for a ride or two. The old man turned around and slowly walked back to the hot dog stand, closing the door behind him.
We continued down the row, past the hammer strength test, and the fun house whose mirrors had made my mother nauseous a few weeks before. Without any crowd the fair seemed much smaller; we walked all the way to the roller coaster in only a few minutes. On our original visit, we hadn't reached the roller coaster until several hours into the day. Nearby, the large plastic gorilla looked on.
Another old man, although perhaps not as old as the first, stood in front of entrance to the roller coaster. He smiled as we approached.
"Hello gentleman," he said, theatrically gesturing with his hat. "Two dollars each, please."
My brother handed the old man four dollars--both of our weekly allowances combined. The old man stood aside and let us pass. We stepped over the metal barriers that originally formed the line, walking up the stairs to the platform. The old man walked behind us. At the top of the platform he pointed to the coaster and climbed a small ladder into the operating booth. He flipped a few switches on the control board, and all of the lights on the platform came on, spinning and blinking. Until that point I hadn't noticed anything was off, but when it was on, it suddenly seemed like a much bigger affair. My brother and I sat in the front row and pulled the bar onto our laps. The old man tapped the microphone.
"Please keep your hands and legs inside the car," he said, quietly. He pushed another button and we were off.
My brother and I rode in silence. We were quiet, casual kids, not prone to the excited yelling of most rollercoaster patrons. Normally this wouldn't be much of an issue, but without anyone yelling or being excited, the ride itself was much different--it felt forced, mechanical, like we were doing someone a favor. At the end, after the large dip, the climax of the ride and of the fair itself, we looked at each other again, and again communicated without speaking. The fair was a very silly thing.
We stepped out of the ride and thanked the old man, who was drinking water from a large bottle. He nodded to us. At the bottom of the stairs, another old man swept up dirt into a dustpan. The fair, it seemed, had replaced all of its staff with old men.
"Maybe they're veterans," said my brother. "Maybe that's why they're keeping the place open, to give them all jobs." I looked around and thought it possible enough. On the way out, we thanked every old man we saw, even those that hadn't really helped us with anything.
In the parking lot, an old man seated in a wheelchair rolled by us as we unlocked our bikes.
"Did you boys have fun?" he asked.
"Very much," I said. "Next time we'll bring more money."
