No Longer Amused

As the shrill of sirens pierces the muggy air, the tinkling sound of the merry-go-round, the happy cries of children, and the overall din of the crowd fades into the background. A maintenance guy just streaked pass the open window of the cotton candy stand, my temporary detention. I hate giving breaks to the cotton candy workers like Angie. If the wind whips up, you can be wearing a sticky hairnet of pink or blue – depending on what’s spinning for the day. Nothing’s spinnin’ right now as Mr. and Mrs. Benderson, the park owners, come charging down the midway. I’ve never seen them run before. Granted, Mrs. B always seems to be in a hurry. There’s a calm nervousness about her. Yet it wouldn’t be proper for her to cut a sweat. She never raises her voice either, but she still has a way of slicing through the bravado of anyone who dares to stand up to her. She’ll give you one of them cold glares over the rim of her pointy glasses and a “humph.” That means you’re either gonna get your hours cut or do double days at one of the dreaded duties, like the unprotected lemonade stand.

“Get your fresh squeezed lemonade. Right here folks!” Don’t mind them little squashed bugs. “No ma’am. That’s just a lemon seed floating among the ice.”

Only a dunk in the lake will stop the flies and mosquitoes from trailing you for a lick. Cause Mrs. B never warns you that you’ve broken some cardinal rule, there’s no time to slather yourself with suntan lotion or bug spray before your sentence is decreed. Secretly, I think that’s what she considers the real punishment. You’ll burn, sweat, and stink. And you wind up torturing yourself swatting at the insects, slapping your own scorched skin.

Now Mr. B, he at least tips you a smile and a nod as he moseys about the business of keeping an eye on the summer help. He’s a likable fellow. You want to trust him, but he’s too much like the miserable dad – all drawn into himself, brooding, wondering what came along to dash his plans. Despite his six-foot-four frame, he can sneak up on a body unaware. I think it’s all that gray he wears – steel gray, prison gray. Even his hair is gray and growing against the wind. When I spot him, I too just smile and nod. After he passes, I race off to sound the alarm that B’s on patrol. He files away any infraction to be later tried and sentenced by Mrs. B.

But they were both on the move today – zipping right on past all the game booths. They didn’t even notice that nobody was enticing the passersby to take a stab at the darts, a shot at the ducks, or a pitch of the rings to win all kinds of fabulous cheap prizes. They didn’t even slow down to pick up a wayward plastic cup that was fatally rolling toward the back gate, which had been swung wide indicating this was where the emergency vehicles were headed.

Dandelion Park is the perfect place for us high schoolers to land our first job. They’ll even take work permits for those of us who haven’t hit 16 yet. Luckily, I look older. And it doesn’t hurt to have the three of us Hoffmann sisters working here. Half the time they can’t tell us apart. This first year, we’re all under 18, which means you get to sling food, hawk games, or suffer the heat of Kiddy Land. Quiet Janet, the middle one of our crew, is the only one who can tolerate being banished to the far end of the park. There’s little shade and you can’t even catch a breeze off Muskego Lake or one whipped up by the adult rides, which are manned by the college kids, the 18-year-olds.

Now that her break is over, Angie slams back into the tin hut.

“Hey, what’s going on?” I ask.

“Don’t know. Some to-do down by the Ferris Wheel,” she says as she snaps her gum while tying on an apron that ain’t gonna protect her from the flies or the sugar. Too curious to ignore, I decide to check on the Hamburger Stand, which happens to be next to the Ferris Wheel. Surely they need more hot dog buns or ketchup refills or something to warrant my deviation from giving breaks to the concession gals. The crowd had swelled by noon swarming the rides first and now would be demanding food despite the mid-afternoon heat and the churning guts of those who rode the roller coaster or Tilt-a-Whirl. Yet as I approach, the expected restless line of amusement-park patrons is oddly absent. No one’s lined up in front of the screened windows of the Hamburger Stand clamoring for charred burgers, grilled dogs, or icy pop. Instead, they’re huddled at the corner of the building – silent and still.

My sister Jane, the head hamburger flipper, slams out of the Hamburger Stand in her grease-stained uniform. She looks scared and intent on intercepting my path. My sister’s a natural leader and a protector. The Bendersons saw that right off and put her in charge of the burger joint. Jane’s good to her crew. They all pitch in taking turns flipping burgers, stoking fryers, or swatin’ flies while they smile at the rude little gobblers. They’ll even volunteer for cleanup except when they have to hose off puke because some poor slob tries to eat too soon after spinning his guts out on the Twirly Bird. It’s usually the young guys, too cool to admit that their bellies haven’t rejoined their bodies yet too dumb to wait.

But these are the horror stories we’ll swap after the park closes when we gather to bitch, to brag, and to bond. The parties are the best perk of the job. The only. I’ve never had so many friends. Heck, I think there are more kids working this park than the whole dang population of the farm burrow where I live – Big Bend. Sure we might gripe about the crude and the rude, but the ever-changing love affairs each week are enough to spark a flame of interest and snuff out the bad. The braggin’ is usually reserved for the game-booth workers who compete at suckering the most money out of the foolish revelers. Jay’s the best with the milk bottle toss. He loves scoring off the drunk dudes at night, who are either trying to show off for some gal or a loud-mouthed dad proving to his kids he’s a hero despite the wallop he just laid on ‘em. That’s when we band together.

Some of the worst crowds are the private parties. The annual policemen’s picnic outranks them all. I don’t know who’s protecting the streets of the greater Milwaukee area when all these boys in blue sweep down on us out in the toolies for a little amusement. But it often gets ugly – as it did today. Regardless, the Bendersons demand our best behavior while the cops and their entourage are given carte blanche. The kids are brats; they never follow the rules of the rides; they demand the biggest and the best prizes even if they haven’t officially won, and they stuff themselves with half-eaten junk food only to claim they’re still hungry after tossing the remains into the path of some other kid. Today is no exception.

The ambulance rockets through the back gate crushing the stray plastic cup as it zooms by. A few boys in blue, who apparently are serving the wrath of their own Mrs. B, are tailing the disaster mobile. The paramedics also will be on their best behavior if they noticed the sign out front announcing the cop’s big bash. But they needn’t worry. Most of the city boys are already drunk, too busy trying to cop a feel off any female worker who isn’t savvy enough to put a barrier between her and the leering leeches. Some of the girls are dumb enough to enjoy the attention. Others not so. When I was making the rounds earlier with water refills, one tried to grab Janet. He thought sure this little hick would swoon or something when he slurred what a “pretty young thing” she was. Clumsy me tripped on one of the iron rails circling the little airplane ride and chugged the whole thermos of ice water into his crotch. I was sure to sputter how sorry I was for dousing him. Too bad it wasn’t lemonade.

The sirens stopped wailing mid screech. Although the other rides continue to whirl and twirl with their obnoxious music blaring and kiddies wowing, there seems to be a shadow descending on the park. It’s sort of like when they found that girl last week out in the woods past the paddle-boat launch. Someone really worked her over is what the cops said before they shooed us out of there. Yet the Milwaukee Journal ran the obituary the next day announcing how tragic it was that the young girl had drowned while swimming at night. Drowning doesn’t bruise and batter a body, and there ain’t no current strong enough in Muskego Lake to tear the shorts off a person.

A primal scream blasts the crowd. We all jump in unison as if we’re on some new ride that pops its participants joltingly into the air. Jane grabs my arm from behind. “Don’t!” she cautions. Never one to listen, I shake her off. Plowing into the group, I mutter “excuse me, pardon me, comin’ through.” As the small herd begins to recognize my badge and the Dandelion Park uniform, they stomp and huff but grudgingly shuffle out of my way. There’s a cop with his hand on Randy’s shoulder. The quiet Ferris Wheel operator, who hides his shyness behind mirrored sunglasses, is standing with his wavy hair hanging, his body heaving. Randy’s my latest crush. I don’t think he’s cruel despite trying to be cool. But he knows I’m 15 – jail bait.

The maintenance guy I saw flash by earlier is dragging a hose. One paramedic slams shut the back door of the ambulance – no sirens, no lights. The other guy seems to be holding up some weird lady who’s acting like she’s possessed or somethin’. She squeaks and moans and babbles unintelligibly tossing her head until she drops and wails like a wounded animal. It’s the same cry that had us jumpin’ a minute ago.

I slide on over next to Randy ready to ask what’s wrong. He’s weeping, sunglasses hanging from his limp right hand, his left arm now shielding his eyes. I can’t impose on his vulnerability. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a puddle. A red puddle. A slimy, red puddle. A puddle that’s creeping along the pavement towards our feet. The smell is acute and putrid. Flies are swarming. There are chunky bits like chewed up burgers drowning in ketchup floating near the far edge. Toward the left, near the ambulance, the red puddle smears into a blur as if trying to erase some wrong. I look up at the Ferris Wheel. One of the red and white carts has broken free of its hinge on the right side and is swinging eerily to and fro void of its occupants. Motionless riders are trapped in the other carts, tilted forward, beady eyes staring down at me. On the platform, next to the sign warning DO NOT ROCK THE CARTS, a young couple is frantically trying to squirm under the safety bar – no longer amused.

On the other side of the landing, near the hand-break, the maintenance guy is diluting yet another pool of red. Mrs. B, with her hands covering her perpetual frown, keeps shaking her fuzzy gray head at some official looking guy in a suit. Where’d my sister go? Other cops have arrived and are trying to disperse the crowd without much success. They’re here for entertainment. They ain’t gonna budge.