Wristbands snugly encircling around our wrists, it was ride time.

Here’s the thing. I didn’t mention it because I didn’t want to be a bad sport, but I get terrible motion sickness. Just looking at those whirling metal titans had my innards performing jumping jacks.

The effect has gotten worse as I’ve aged, so I haven’t been to any amusement parks for years. But I was determined to hang in as long as I could. I didn’t want to be the boring dad who sits out, reading the sports section, while the rest of the family has fun. Blood was nearly SHED over my ride pass, so it was getting put to use.

We rode. I smiled, convincing my new friends (and, I hoped, my own body) that I was having a grand ol’ time. Me? Ill? Certainly not! What’s next? Another spin-me-round, tip-me-up? Absolutely; I’m in!

The self-deception actually seemed to work – for a while.

And then it hit me all at once. I got queasy. REALLY queasy. Yes, eventually all the tilting and whirling was going to catch up with me no matter what I did, but the condition of the rides accelerated that reckoning. They were old and bitter, bucking and snarling. Each unnatural movement was accentuated by their rickety malice. Ah, yes. The rest of the fair may have been elevated by a fresh coat of paint, but these were definitely the same sort of shambling monstrosities I remembered from childhood.

I was already nervous before the amusement gauntlet began, but that maelstrom of “fun,” turned gut-flutters into whirlwinds.

A few strategically-placed excuses saved me from enduring the most topsy-turvy rides. Other members of the group joined me in abstention from time-to-time for their own reasons. Maybe they were inspired by my scheme, I don’t know. My most frequent partner in forbearance, however, was Laurel.

I think it was our third such convergence that she confided, “I am one big dip away from vomiting my guts out.”

Provoked by her admission, I spilled as well. “I’m not quite that bad,” I said. “But another whirl-i-doo and I’ll need a cold compress.”

She grinned at me wanly. “I THOUGHT that’s what you were doing. Your shoelaces always seemed to snag before the most treacherous rides.” She inclined her head toward the nearest torture-trolley. Our friends whaled in masochistic glee as their internal organs squished against 2-inch metal restraints. “Brent, at least, is onto you. He might propose a pit stop to pick up some velcro loafers. What’s your size?”

“Stall him, PLEASE.”

She laughed, “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.” She extended her hand toward me. “But let’s make a pact right now. If Brent tries to get us to ride the Crumpled Condor again, we revolt.”

I gave her hand a single, enthusiastic shake. “If we don’t, my stomach will,” I said. “It barely survived our first encounter. That thing was brutal.”

She nodded, “No kidding. I’m going to have nightmares about that first bend.”

Pact enacted, we rejoined the group for the next ride. And the next. And the next.

Rarely did seating arrangements go my way. It’s silly, little kid crap, I know, but I would have liked to have ridden with Brooke more. Brase was most frequently my misery-buddy (he even offered to sit out with me every break I took), though occasionally I was paired with Cal. Maybe it was for the best. I’m sure that I probably looked like a tooth being extracted during most of the rides. Still, disappointing.

Finally, after a particularly hellacious journey on a skinned log, my body had just about had enough. It was at this point that Brase had the serendipitously asked me, “Are you SURE you’re all right? When’s the last time you’ve eaten? You’ve been hiking all day.”

I could have bear-hugged him.

Brent, who was already plotting the group’s next equilibrium distortion, jerked his head up, and spun to face me. “Oh my god!” he said, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think about that.” Then, to the group, “Dinner break. Sorry, folks, I’m STARVING.” No one cheered, exactly, but the sudden swell of enthusiasm suggested mine wasn’t the only digestive system begging for a cease fire.

Like hungover locusts, we descended upon the food trucks.

~~~

French fries; so many glorious french fries. Every food vendor had them, even those focused on desserts. Fries are just ubiquitous in the fair environment, like golden, deep-fried weeds.

It’s amazing how abruptly my stomach shifted from “Mayday, mayday” to “Hung-ray, hung-ray!” Still, I pledged to ease into the night’s feast. I could settle my grease debate a different night.

Except that I already told Cal about the experiment, and I didn’t want to let him down. Twist my arm. The scientific community might frown upon our sample size, but our findings did ratify my hypothesis : grease = delicious. Call it law.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

We didn’t only eat fries, of course. With our base coat in place we moved on to detailing : dessert. The food vendors fried EVERYTHING. The staples, Oreos, Twinkies and the like were all present, but there was also a strong fried cake presence. Cheesecake, red velvet, and even angel food were available, skewered and steaming.

The Mexican cuisine truck had fried ice cream, that reality-bending concoction that exists in two states at once. But they also had deep-fried re-fried beans. Plant one of the those in the ground, young Jack, and marvel at the stalk that sprouts.

Strangest of all was the “Veg Hedge.” They sold healthier options like carrot slivers and “virgin taters.” Yet, even they were morally obligated to include a fried option. This came in the form of “bear fists,” which we learned are deep-fried turnips soaked in honey. Intrigued as we were, we left that delicacy for next time.

In all, I did exercise a modicum of self-control, or tried to. Cal helped with that. Every Frankenfood we assembled (you haven’t lived until you’ve tried an Elephant Cake – that’s an elephant ear with a funnel cake on top, whipped cream slathered over it all, open-face style), Cal assigned a value in trail miles (unaltered morsels hold no caloric value, apparently). I.E. : Elephant Cake? 10 T.M.’s. I don’t remember where it ended up, exactly, but the total accumulation was well beyond any distance my legs could carry me in a week, let alone a day. Completely worth it.

At first, my feasting was tempered by apprehension. “Amusement” had been paused for refueling, yes, but were we expected to do MORE riding after the meal? But the moment Cal set a tray of -- well, I’m pretty sure the entire porcine anatomy was represented on there somewhere – I was confident our riding was done for the night.

As he absorbed that steaming mess into his face, I shared some cheese sticks with Brooke. I’ve learned they are one of her favorite foods, though she adds hot sauce and extra cheese to the marinara. While dubious at first, I am now a convert. This concoction has been allocated a slot in my mental folder. Just in case; no expectations.

She refers to them as “cheese fingers,” though. Dean responded to this adorable colloquialism with, “Wait a minute; you think that cheese has… hands?”

Brent immediately came to her defense. “CHEESE FINGERS,” he said ardently, “that’s what everybody calls them. They look like breaded fingers made of cheese. What’s so complicated.”

Brase raised his hands declaring, “I don’t know these two; they came with the wallet.” For good measure, he added, “To be clear, I KNOW that cheese doesn’t have hands.”

Others joined in. It was a brutal response, but short-lived. Brent and Brooke took in stride. Brooke’s counterpoint, “They call them ‘chicken fingers.’ Do chickens have hands?” promptly ended the argument.

A short time later, Brent revisited the discussion to take his victory lap. Waving a half-eaten corn dog like a conductor’s baton, he said, “Am I chewing on a doberman right now? A poodle?” He took another bite. “Gee, this spaniel really tastes amazing.”

“It’s a hot dog, Brent,” Laurel said, “you actually have no idea WHAT you’re eating.”

“True,” he admitted, “but I’m confident that it isn’t canine. It’s probably a part of the pig that I--”

“Heads-up,” Brooke warned, “Maddie’s coming.”

Brent’s body sagged as he looked up. A man and woman of roughly the same age as my companions neared our table. It was the same pair that Brase and Brooke had gone off to speak with earlier.

“Brent not a big fan?” I asked quietly.

“It’s...complicated.” Brase said. “Family friends.”

The proceeding interaction was brief. Most of the group were familiar with Maddie and… uh… Roman? But those of us who weren’t were quickly introduced. Maddie seemed perfectly fine to me and Roman didn’t say a word.

When they left, Brooke said, “See, Brent, that was painless.”

In response, Brent angled the now barren corn dog stick toward his throat, and pantomimed three jabs. Brooke sighed.

~~~

Cal remained my co-conspirator throughout the feast. While I had the excuse of depleted stores after two days of hiking, I can’t tell you where he put it all. He’s a big, muscly guy, sure, but I’m pretty sure biceps aren’t fueled by fried batter and grease.

While most of the group was slowing down, Cal and I were conceiving of the Elephant Cake. By the time we stood in line, making our vision into reality, we were the only ones still eating.

“But, like, a LOT of whipped cream,” Cal was saying. “A flowing mane of it – all the way down to the ‘ear.”

Cal’s arms get flutter when he’s excited, like a baby bird practicing for its first flight from the nest. Unfortunately, in his excitement, one of his arm-pendulums made contact.

I don’t know if his victim was waiting in line or just passing by, but Cal landed a direct hit. Immediately, Cal whirled, already beginning an apology. It promptly ended, though, when Cal saw the man.

Without saying a word, the man glared at us and reached into his jacket.

My first response was panic. He’s going for a weapon, I thought. Cal has inadvertently assaulted some trigger-happy maniac.

Cal retreated, not watching the man’s hand – which was still inside his jacket, as if indecisive as to the threat we posed – but his face. That caused me to take a closer look as well. What I saw triggered my second response.

Fear.

It had to be a trick of the light, because what I saw didn’t make any sense. The man’s face, half-shadowed by the hood covering it, appeared unfinished. Whichever divine engineer pours in the blood and guts that fill out the human form hit a snag. Half-way up this guy’s neck, the architect ran out of raw material and improvised. He completed the design using whichever substitute material he could find. Wax? Molding? Silicone? The tissue appeared misshapen and moist, like sloppily-applied grout that never dried. Maybe it was a convincing mask, but either way, his features were contorted and stiff, like a rigid caricature. It just appeared wrong, unnatural. A doll head affixed to a human skeleton.

I froze. I could not take my eyes off the man’s face.

Mercifully, he must have realized Cal and I weren’t a genuine threat, because his hand was empty when he retrieved it from inside the jacket. Without saying a word, he turned and hurried away.

Cal and I didn’t move until he disappeared into the crowd. Then we faced one another, wide-eyed and wordless.

Finally, Cal said, “Welcome to Kittaning.”

The tension broke and so did we, erupting into laughter. The clerk was less impressed and barked at us for holding up the line.

“No offense,” I told Cal, wiping tears out of my eyes that owed as much to relief as humor, “but I don’t think I’ll be moving here any time soon.”

He nodded. “Best decision of your life.”