A Day at the Fair

We drive until we reach the amusement park. It’s directly across the street from the speedway; I used to fall asleep to the distant droning buzz of its racecars at night. We find somewhere to park where the little old man isn't staring out of the window of the speedway commentator booth. He smiles at us, and we wave back, knowing that his smile is one meant for strangers, not familiar friends. We find another place to park, out of range of his beady little crinkled eyes. We get out of the car, he with his huge coat and I with my camera equipment. We cross the road silently, stepping so easily across the old wooden bridge that we stop next to the ghost of a ticket booth, waiting for someone to make us turn back and yell at us that it's not that simple. We don’t say a word as we wander pass the 'No Trespassing' and 'Private Property' signs.
Now we've entered another world. Blue tarps flap in the wind, snapping and thwacking at our ankles. When pulled back, they reveal tent rooms with tiny rubber ducks littered on a confetti-soaked dirt floor. Above the mess is a crooked and weather-beaten sign reading “A Winner Every Time!” Inside a barn there are bumper cars, old benches, rusted signs and some tractors. There's a huge board crowded with colored bulbs. I wonder what it used to advertise as I take shot after shot of the sun hitting the dusty red spheres.We come across a rusted German chair swing. It stands tall against the blue sky, its swings hanging sadly by their chains like dirty ribbons. I wonder what it would be like to start up the ride again; I can imagine its rusted parts screeching and groaning into action, protesting against the rude awakening. We head to the merry-go-round, where a plaster menagerie prances, struts and prowls, all staring wide with dusty glass eyes. A white horse is beginning to peel; its teeth are drawn back to its lips in an eternal grimace. Another horse bucks tall, its mane flailing in the still air while its eyes roll back terrified into his head. An ostrich swaggers near the center of the carousel, his beak pointed forward in anticipation of the next turn that will never come when he may see the rickety wooden roller coaster again. A tiger crouches, its jaws growling at an invisible foe, or perhaps prey. His big yellow glass eyes stare vacantly out towards the fun house, which tilts dangerously towards the ground; I wonder if it was built that way. German figures sit atop its balcony, grinning and wild-eyed. One of them is wearing a pair of lederhosen and holds a pint of beer his wooden hand. Another sits atop a scraggly dog with another pint of beer, his legs splayed out drunkenly on either side. He toasts to a ghost crowd; I can imagine his wooden potbelly jiggling, and I smile as I realize something: it's a German interpretation of Bacchus, the Greek god of wine who always sat atop a donkey.

Parallel metal tracks can be found meandering throughout the park; only when we reach the end of them do we realize their purpose: a broken down train ride lies in shambles next to the carousel; '1863' is inscribed on each car.
We see a van and know that it's time to leave. We hide inside the barn for a while, waiting for the beady-eyed old man to leave. He snoops, and we wait. I take shot after shot of the light board, right when the sun hits it. I hear the van rumble over the wooden planks of the exit bridge, and know that this is our chance. We bolt back across the bridge, having triumphantly infiltrated yet another restricted wonder world.