Fiction of the Week: Zipper

Sitting in the plush passenger seat of my Dad’s mauve Dodge van, I leaned out of the open window, cheeks to the wind, inhaling enchilada grease from Don Cuco’s across the street while we waited for the light. There it was--a carousel, a petrified firework. Dad drank Coke from a Styrofoam cup, mostly ice, I judged by the muted garbage disposal sound, as I stared across the street. Cotton Candy. Tilt-a-Whirl. Sea Dragon. You Must Be This Tall to Ride.

Dad wasn’t usually into that sort of thing, but it was Wednesday, our night.

“Can we go?”

He smiled, his cheeks rising to hide tired eyes and shrugged, “Why not?”We flipped a U and parked in the blacktop lot near the ticket booth. Dad sighed and turned off the engine and we headed toward the lights.

“See that one?” Dad said, his eyes set on a tall metal structure with elbow macaroni pods squealing up, over, around the vertical track, and also spinning in circles. “That’s The Zipper. Rode it in high school with Jimmy from across the street. He threw up all over his car,” he was laughing a little now, rays emanating from the corners of his eyes. I loved when Dad told me stories like these. Jimmy, my uncle Dale and Dad used to climb into abandoned cars and rocky caves that hid in the brush hills near their street. They had all sorts of adventures I could only dream about here in suburban sprawl of Simi Valley.

“Ew! Gross!” I shrieked, but kind of intrigued.

“I must have gone on it ten times that night.” Dad’s cheeks glowed orange, his wrinkles smoothed in the flashing lights.

I was scared to go on The Zipper, but Dad convinced me. Seeing him happy made me happy. The metal pod smelled like a doctor’s office. My eyes squeezed, nervous, as I gripped the metal bar, cold and grooved with peeling gray paint. “Woo hoo!” Dad yelled, while I screamed, wanting it to be over soon. I hoped my stomach was stronger than Jimmy’s, keeping my forehead pressed into Dad’s shoulder as we flipped upside down. His Old Spice aftershave made me feel safe.

Almost ten years later Liza and I watched men unload candy-colored metal frames in the dirt lot next to the worn playground, its once red slide turned salmon from sun exposure. As we walked closer, the late-September breeze carried the smell of cold dirt mixed with roasted peanuts, making our hairs sticking up like electricity. The carnival lights burned against the almost navy sky, canceling out the stars.
We were supposed to be studying for our Bio midterm, she reminded me, her muddy eyes hard. Fifteen minutes, I said. Beats another coffee break.

Around us pudgy kids proudly sported ice cream stains and brandished sticky fingers as they dragged their parents from ride to ride. Carnivals. All that work, then pack-em-up by dawn on route to the next town. I had experience with packing, with back-and-forth. Packing life up from one parent to the next. It wasn’t so bad. I liked having everything I needed right with me.

I looked around for the ride I wanted to find. There. “That was my Dad’s favorite growing up,” I said to Liza, pointing to The Zipper, proud to know that fact about him.

“It looks like it’s about to fall apart,” she replied. It did. But I still wanted to go. For Dad.

Liza typically got what she wanted, which meant we didn’t ride it. Instead, we played some games, Tic-Tac-Toe, the Ring Toss, trading dollars for stuffed animals filled with sawdust, the kind my mom warned me were dyed with pee. I held mine gingerly before passing it off to a girl in French braids on the way to Liza’s sedan. The girl smiled and hid behind her mother’s legs.

Fading with each step were the high-pitched carnival screeches. The Zipper-riders laughing in excitement, screaming in terror. Taking what they could from the experience before it packed up and went to the next place.