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The ferris wheel and other rides are in the parking lot behind the
Adams Mark Hotel. This is about the third or fourth chain hotel to remodel
the place and the construction crew's fence is still in place. I tell
you they should have a permanent fence. You tell me you would rather
not see any more barriers. I wonder if we are talking about the
same thing.
The ferris wheel is at the other end of the parking lot. It
is hard to reach.
We have to pass the snakey lines reaching up to the funhouse--a teenaged
girl in purple-streaked hair jumps in front of us, holds out a sticky
wand of cotton candy and says "gimme ten dollars and I'll let you pass."
Her boyfriend next to her pulls her back on a copper-studded collar.
She turns toward him, her head strained from the collar, and sticks
her tongue out. We wonder that she doesn't choke, but neither of us
says anything. They both turn away to study the funhouse's peeling paint
image of a fat lady dancing with a sword swallower on top of an elephant.
He holds her close.
We go around them and see the sign at the ferris
wheel--tickets only. No cash. We dodge a unicycle and
juggling pins, skirt a family dressed alike in white tee
shirts and khaki army pants, and find the line for the
tickets.
You reach for my hand as we get to the end of the line. I
press into your fingers.
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