If You Want It Bad Enough You'll Kill It

I stood in line for the Ferris wheel. Finally. I was brave enough, now, and Mom said I was big enough. (Dad said he didn't give a damn, but he said that about everything except another drink and another woman.) I was scared of heights, so terribly scared of heights, I almost cried when my mom took my on the kiddie rollercoaster the previous summer. Now I was old enough, though, and tough enough, like my big brother who did this stuff without even thinking about it.

The night was still warm, and the little carnival smelled heady with buttery popcorn and beer. The ground was littered with wax-lined Pepsi cups and paper hot dog napkins. The Ferris wheel was right in the middle of everything, bright and tall and majestic. A hundred yards to the left, the lights died away, the movable steel barriers just shadowy suggestions, and it was just normal road again, dimming into the neighborhood. To the right was the firehouse and the city playground, now another alluring dark mystery. The bingo announcer droned in his tent, and some third rate band banged out starting tolerable to the grown-ups who were getting pretty deep in the cups by then. And the Ferris wheel, with its bold height, stood haughtily in the center of it all.

I shifted from foot to foot with nervous excitement, my ticket in hand--the last ticket of the night, Mom said, we can't afford any more. The line moved forward, and I jittered and fidgeted and grinned, looked around and didn't see Mom or Dad and felt a thrill because of it. Just one more wave of people now; when wheel stops, I'll get on and just sit there looking bored and tough, like my brother. I took a deep breath and took a step forward with big boys…

Then I looked down at the ticket in my hand, having rubber-necked everyplace else possible. I looked, and I stopped jittering, stopped dreaming. I stopped moving forward with the line. I stared in my hands at the tiny, sweaty pieces of cheap card stock that had been my ticket. As I had jittered and watched and grinned, I fidgeted hands, and I had torn up my ticket completely. I stepped out of line as others flowed impatiently around me. I watched my brother and his friends laughing and pushing each other as they got in little cages, rocking the car until the ride statement yelled at them. I stepped out of the line and watched him from the ground with the rest of the little kids, somehow managing not to cry.

There were no more tickets coming; Mom hadn't been bluffing. It was also getting late, and some of the attractions had already shut down. The mystery and energy of the night had soured for me. The stale beer from the tents and the rank odor of the sluggish summer Creek by the playground smelled offensive; the grownups were all turning surly (including Dad, tired of hearing Mom say "Jimmy you've had enough, now" after every paper cup of beer--tired of Mom altogether, it turned out.).

The ride home was tense and quiet as usual. Mom tried to lighten the mood by asking me how the Ferris wheel was, and I mumbled I had lost my ticket. She looked at me sympathetically. My big brother, who I looked up to so much, wanted to be like so much, who I wanted so much to be kind to me even just sometimes, said "You tore it up, jackass! You--"

"Knock it off!"

The silence fell again like a curtain, the way it always did when Dad snapped at us... or at Mom. He muttered "idiot" under his breath, and then all was silent until we got home. I ran upstairs, brushed my teeth, and climbed into bed. I was so disappointed, so ashamed, so sad. Just before I fell asleep, my brother stuck his head in my room with a comment he though, perchance, would help me dream. "Did you hear that in the car? Even Dad thinks you're an idiot," he whispered cruelly.

I guess was the only freak show our little carnival needed that night--the kind of night all my dreams have been made of ever since.