A Styrofoam cup, crushed ice (perfect) and lemonade – it’s freshly squeezed…
The man with the greasy hair smiles at me with an exaggerated smile –
and hands me my lemonade – I drink it with a straw -
My father smiles, and then I smile
It’s the first day of the County Fair
The Farris Wheel spinning predictably against a cerulean blue sky –
with the clouds billowy and predictably white,
with hints of crimson and cotton-candy pink
“Dad, can we stay awhile longer”, I ask as I hungrily eye the carnival games –
“I suppose we can stay a little longer”, my father relents –
I win a Batman helium balloon and a dog made out of clay –
for squirting the water into the mouths of stationary clowns
“you have quite a boy!”, says the man with the greasy hair –
And my father smiles – then I smile also
____
The hands on the clock sound like dripping memories (to me)…
dripping slowly into the area beneath…
into the space we cannot see –
moving us into the unpredictable future
____
It’s when I got my first blowjob –
It’s the first day of the County Fair –
my arm around my girl – drinking a sarsaparilla from the bottle –
leather jacket with anti-society hair – punk and rebellious –
purposely-torn blue jeans with an anarchist smirk of contempt –
with face stubble in need of an almost daily shave…
The Farris Wheel penetrates the sky –
as the Gravitron spins us wildly around and around –
like a motherfucking top –
like a mother-fucking merry-go-round on fucking meth…
The sky stabbing red and sometimes violent,
as boys show off and discover a world of sexual encounters beyond their father’s not-so-well-hidden pornography –
Marking territory and establishing dominance –
building castles of testosterone and bragging about getting laid
“I fucking hate my dad”, I say between drags off a cig
My girl nods and pops her gum –
Her hair light brown with lollipop cherry highlights –
“when does he get out of jail?”, she asks, and I ignore the question…
my arm around her as I blankly stare into the darkening sky –
The sky is darkening – and I am staring into it
____
Fucking video booths and turning tricks at the drive-in –
In a muscle shirt without muscles – skinny – rail-skinny –
boy-skinny (do you know what I mean?)
The man with the greasy hair hands me a score and we disappear into the shady corners beyond the neon - beyond the velvety red painted walls…
I slowly remove my pants and then I remove my underwear,
securing the twenty in one of my socks – because you can’t be too careful…
____
It’s the first day of the County Fair –
and we’re high as fuck –
(I snort my drugs through a straw)
my arm around my best mate –
as we walk around the grounds, sloppily
“why don’t you win me a fucking stuffed toy or something?” he playfully jeers -
and I smile – but it’s more of a reckless sneer –
“you just watch me fucker – just fuckin’ watch me, fucker”…
I say with exaggerated bravado
- as I clumsily pick up a dart and hand the man with the greasy hair a fiver
The sky is light grey becoming a darker shade –
Rain is not predicted, but I can feel it – I can smell it
(do you know what I mean?)
The approaching thunder is within my veins, within my bones –
The vicious clouds move across the shrinking sky angrily –
“maybe you are in no condition to be throwing darts, lad”, the man with the greasy hair tells me with a knowing and empathetic grin –
And I know that he is right…
____
It’s my dad’s funeral –
friends, family, former co-workers, and kind people are in rows –
sitting tearfully upon metal seats as the minister says words I am unable to hear…
I sit separately – watching from afar…
because I wasn’t invited – because I am not welcome
____
It’s the first day of the County Fair
and I’m wearing a shirt with cut-off sleeves –
I walk the grounds alone and smoke one cigarette after another…
my skin weathered, my expression experienced –
remembering the Ferris Wheel – remembering the rollercoasters –
seeing them around me now and not recognizing them –
not as I remember them - they aren’t as I remember them, exactly –
the rides are run-down, rusted, and dirty
(“on their last legs”, I think – and, I ask aloud, “has it always been this way?”)
the man with the greasy hair asks if I want a lemonade –
and I pull out a fiver and ask for a medium with crushed ice,
“in a Styrofoam cup, if you will, mate”
The sky predicts a storm – with the radio announcing a tornado warning –
but I know better – I can feel it in my veins – I can feel it in my bones –
the sky will drizzle and the clouds will pass
and the sun will eventually shine again –
it will eventually fucking shine again –
at first – perhaps dim and hazy and out-of-focus or too bright and blinding to someone who hasn’t looked up in years…
I walk alone on the fairgrounds with my NA chip tight in my aging hand and I can feel it’s weight…
I drink my lemonade from the Styrofoam cup as I ride the merry-go-round –
round-and-round I go – round and round I go (the memories…)
sitting on a faded multicolored horse with peeling paint –
the horse has seen better days –
…and I know how it fucking feels
I hold my NA chip tight in my hand and light another cigarette
as I walk home, alone
Photo: Jimmy Broccoli.
