Shelby Wilson

Shelby Wilson

An Addictive Personality’s Trip to the Tri-State Fair

I’m not really supposed to be here.

For starters, eight overpriced clear plastic cups of stale domestic beer melt away inhibitions—shame has no place in what’s to come.

Carnival games, their flashing lights hypnotize me into a necessity for a beta fish. I shell out dollar after dollar, crescendoing cursing follows each time my tossed ping pong ball ricochets off the narrow openings of plexiglass fish bowls. Finally, the vested worker hands me a thin sandwich-bag of water with the most lethargic, pathetic pet fish I’ ve ever seen. It’s fine, I’ll accidentally puncture the bag and have to trash it later anyway.

Hunger hits and I head to the midway. Two turkey legs serve as an appetizer. No seven-course meal is complete without the deep-fried main smorgasbord— traditional footlong corndogs, three different cheeses-on-sticks, before proceeding to the avantgarde culinary experimentation that is battered butter, bubblegum, and beer. A bag of cotton candy as a palate cleanser before I finish with a few fried oreos and twinkies.

The roaring rides, spinning and dropping, siren-call to me, the fat fishkiller. The tilt-a-whirl’s centrifugal effects thrill me. I ride repeatedly, pausing between only to shove my head into the overflowing, acrid aluminium trash can, right outside the restrooms.

The lights begin to dim and the cacophony dimuendos as the crown thins— a “last call” that, as always, I ignore.

I am graciously escorted by a pair of pissed-off security guards flanking me, their elbows linked with mine, aiding me to the front gate.

Next morning, a hangover permeates my body.

By noon, I’m back on the midway.