Carousel

Fiction

Photo by Sally K on Unsplash

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“Uncle Steve!”

His niece, Maisy, was calling to him from outside the carousel, her arm draped around the shoulders of her younger brother, who was crying.

He flicked down his half-smoked cigarette and stamped it out beneath his boot. He wanted to finish it, but he tried not to smoke in front of his niece and nephew if he could help it. He coughed once into his hand. It was a junky, phlegmy cough that burned his throat a little. He stood from the bench where he had waited while the kids were on the ride.

Maisy steered her brother towards him, weaving through the throngs of people on the pier.

“What happened?” he asked, when they reached him.

Maisy answered for her brother. “We were riding the carousel, and Timothy couldn’t reach the rings.”

From behind his hands, Timothy mumbled something. He looked down at his nephew. “What was that?”

“It was going too fast,” said Timothy between sobs. “And the rings were too high.”

“I told him that he just had to time it right,” Maisy said. She talked in a fast, shrill way that rankled him. “You just have to do it like this.” She mimed grabbing rings out of the air.

“Yeah, but it’s not fair,” said Timothy. “Your arms are so much longer than mine. And now you get a free ride and I don’t.”

He sighed, could feel the slight wheeze in his chest as he did. This was the problem right here with boys these days. No spine. No backbone. Crying openly in front of everybody. But he was used to this. Every time his sister pushed her kids on him for the day while she and her big shot husband, Brad, went to get pampered somewhere, there would be some ridiculous crisis, and it would fall on him, Uncle Steve, to figure it out.

“You can have my rings if you want,” said Maisy. “I don’t really want them anyways. Look! A caterpillar!” She flung herself down onto the grass and stared at the tiny bug inching its way across a leaf, ignoring the intensified sobs of her younger brother.

He glared at his niece, but she was oblivious, already distracted. Maisy - funny, smart, charismatic Maisy, so much like her mother. The classic precocious older child. The apple of her father’s eye. He turned back to his nephew, undersized, whiny, pitiable. His sobs had begun to peter out, and he was now just standing there, snot running from both nostrils, his arms dangling pathetically at his sides.

“How about some ice cream?” he said. “That’ll cheer you up.”

At this, Maisy popped up. “Yay!” she screamed. “Ice cream! Ice cream!” And ran off towards the ice cream stand.

Timothy’s chest was still rising and falling. His eyes were red. He watched his sister run off. He sniffled once. “Okay,” he said.

Timothy dragged his feet as they caught up to Maisy, who was skipping figure-eights around the picnic tables outside the ice cream stand.

“I’m gonna get strawberry,” sang Maisy. “What are you going to get Uncle Steve?”

“None for me,” he replied. He had no interest in ice cream. Or sweets at all really. He had when he was younger, but he’d lost the taste for it. Sure, he’d accept a piece of pie at Thanksgiving or cake at a birthday party so as to not piss off his sister, but ice cream was too much.

“What about you, Timothy?”

“I dunno,” he said, his voice slow and low. “Maybe just chocolate.”

Of course there was a line at the stand. There’d always been a line here, even when he came here as a kid. Apparently no process improvement had been done at ice cream stands in the past thirty years. Bent over the freezers, those poor, sweaty teenagers were scooping as fast as they could, trying to keep up with the line, which just seemed to be getting longer as the day got hotter. It was a good job for the young though, he thought, a good job to teach you how shitty manual labor was. His sister and her law degree were proof of that. Although there were plenty of others who never figured it out.

Eventually, they got their ice cream. The family in front of them sampled about twenty flavors before deciding. “C’mon lady,” he muttered when the mom went back for her second sample of Moose Tracks. She shot him a dirty look, but it softened when she noticed Maisy’s antsy feet and Timothy’s bleary eyes. “Alright let’s decide, let’s decide,” she said to her brood. On her way out, she gave him a little knowing smile, as if to say, “been there.”

He ordered them “kiddies,” but the kiddies were still multiple scoops. Maisy danced as she ate hers. To what music, he had no idea - whatever the music was that bounced around in a nine-year-old’s head. But Timothy was still pouting. He sat on the bench seat of the picnic table, his eyes downward. He took a few licks of his cone, but they were uninspired, unenjoyed.

He watched his nephew mope. What the hell to do with a kid like this? “C’mon now,” he said. “Cheer up, huh? What about the arcade over there? I’ll buy you some extra tokens. I’m sure there are some games in there you can win at.” Timothy didn’t respond, but just sat there despondently. “How about the gazebo? There are some other kids over there. Maybe they’ll play with you?” He was grasping at straws.

“No thanks,” said Timothy.

He could feel himself getting frustrated. Why couldn’t this kid just get over it and cheer up? It was just some fucking rings at a ride at this run-down, trashy pier. It had been their mom’s idea to come here. Go to the pier! She’d suggested enthusiastically over the phone. The kids will love it. But that was his sister and her ever-rosy glasses. True, this place had been fun when he and his sister had been kids, back when it was just ice cream and pizza and fries with vinegar and picnics and parents leaving their troubles at home. Back when the grass wasn’t covered with litter, when empty fifths weren’t shattered on the rocks near the beach, when vagrants weren’t raiding the trash bins for discarded cans and bottles. But at least when he and sister used to come they’d been excited about it. They’d argue in the car about what to do first. He’d always wanted ice cream, while his sister always voted for the carousel. He wasn’t unlike his nephew when he was younger - a little scrawny, a little wimpy. He didn’t grow into his body until high school forced him to. And of course they’d end up doing what his sister wanted, but he’d tag along and wouldn’t complain. It was better than being at home.

And here was his snotty, spoiled nephew, crying because he couldn’t reach a ring. He took off his hat, scratched a spot on the back of his scalp where the mesh had been rubbing. He needed a cigarette, a drink, some sleep, a good lay.

The anger burst out of him suddenly, like it so often did. “So, what, are you just gonna sit here and pout the rest of the day? You got ice cream. You did the rides. And I paid for it all. I guess you’re just used to getting everything you want in life and getting it easy, huh? I guess nothing’s good enough for you?”

Timothy’s eyes welled up again, and then the tears came in a downpour. He edged away from his uncle down the bench, wailing the whole way.

Shit.

Maisy was looking at them, her expression wary. She was eating the final bites of her cone, her hands pink and sticky. This wasn’t the first time he’d gotten frustrated with his niece and nephew. He took a deep breath.

“C’mere,” he said to his nephew. But Timothy just turned his back further, still crying into his hands.

He sighed. The wheeze was getting worse. He stood, walked over, and knelt in front of his nephew, his hat in his hands, his bum knee cracking as got down. “I’m sorry, Timothy,” he said, trying to make his voice sound as earnest as he felt. “I shouldn’t have said those things.”

Timothy sobbed once. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “It’s okay, Uncle Steve.” He said it meekly, submissively, as if he was deserving of his uncle’s frustration and scorn. And this made him feel even worse.

He stood and put his hat back on. “Alright,” he said, with forced enthusiasm, “what should we do, then?”

Timothy sniffled. He swung his feet back and forth, the tips of his red Crocs just scraping the dirt. Then, in a quiet voice, he said, “I just want to be able to grab the rings.”

A surge of pity rushed through him, pity, and some other, new, emotion that he wasn’t used to feeling. It was that simple for this kid – he really did just want to grab the rings. But he was too small, too short. He’d always been scrawny. He’d been a wreck at T-ball. Was one of those poor kids that just stood there as the ball rolled by him, not even bothering to bend down to try to field it. At soccer games, he’d daydream and pick his nose. He gets bullied in school, his sister had told him. He was that kid.

He put his hand on his nephew’s shoulder. He could feel the brittle collarbone underneath. “Listen, I don’t know if I ever told you this, but I didn’t always work in construction.” He wondered if the kids caught the sarcasm in his voice.

“What did you do before?” asked Maisy, who was back to skipping around the picnic table, her wariness gone.

“Well, the truth is” - he paused, he’d never told anyone this before - “the truth is that I always wanted to open my own restaurant.”

Timothy looked up. Maisy stopped skipping. She began to laugh. “Your own restaurant? You?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“But you don’t cook good,” said Timothy, with a small smile.

He grinned too. “Sure I can,” he said. “What about those grilled cheese sandwiches I made you last month?”

“You mean when you set off the smoke alarm?” giggled Maisy.

“I meant the second batch.”

“Those tasted burnt too. That’s why we had to dip them in ketchup.”

“What about the mashed potatoes I made for Thanksgiving? The ones you like to cover in gravy?”

“That’s just to cover up the taste. Mom makes us eat them - she said she doesn’t want us to be rude.”

They were all laughing now, even Timothy, whose nose was running as he did.

“Alright, alright,” he said. “So maybe I’m not the best cook. But that doesn’t mean a guy can’t have dreams. Fact is, there’s plenty of stuff in life I’ve thought about doin’, but just never got around to it.”

“Like what?” asked Timothy. His eyes were fully locked on his uncle now.

“Like be a baseball player. Had a decent arm back in high school but I didn’t practice much. Thought about buyin’ a farm once too. I like animals. They’re simple. Was never much great with people, so animals seemed like a good choice.”

“Well, why didn’t you? Asked Maisy.

“I sort of looked into it once, but it was going to be too complicated, too expensive. And I didn’t have the patience or the know-how. Or the money.”

“But couldn’t you learn?” asked Timothy

“Yeah,” said Maisy, her voice full of enthusiasm, “and couldn’t you have asked Dad for money? He makes a lot. Just look at how big our house is.”

Just then, a seagull screeched and landed on the picnic table beside them. “Ah!” shrieked Maisy. The bird picked up an unfinished hot dog bun, dropped it, picked it up again, dropped it again. Timothy began to giggle as he watched the bird struggle. Finally, it secured the scrap in its beak and flapped off, buffeted by the wind. As it flew out over the beach, the scrap fell from its mouth, but this time, the bird didn’t go after it, it just gave up and kept flying out towards the sea.

He took off his hat again and itched that same spot on his head. His knee was aching. He desperately needed a smoke. He coughed into his hand, that same junky cough that tasted of stale nicotine and bile. He wheezed another sigh. He knew he ought to quit smoking. He’d tried a few times, but it had never taken. He was just a regular old addict and had been for some time. He regretted that he’d ever started. Just like he regretted never opening up that restaurant or buying that farm or you name it – the classes he’d skipped, the books he’d started but never finished, the beer he’d brewed but never sold, the jobs he’d worked but didn’t care about, the women he’d loved who hadn’t loved him back.

Around him, the pier was still bustling. Families gathered around picnic tables, stood in line for pizza and pier fries and ice cream. The Ferris Wheel spun high above it all, stopping periodically to let the riders enjoy the view. Beneath it, the arcade was flashing, and the carousel was starting another go-round. He watched as it groaned into movement. It had seemed so fast to him when he was a kid, every trip around as quick as a summer’s day. But as he watched it now, it seemed to just clunk and drawl along, as slow as the years.

He looked back to his niece and nephew. Maisy had gone back to her cartwheels, but Timothy was looking back towards the carousel. The laughter was gone from his face and had been replaced by something like longing. He felt something inside him soften. They were sweet kids. Spoiled, maybe, but sweet, innocent. Life to them was just ice cream and arcade games and riding the carousel. Time and money, humility and pride, success and failure - they were just words to them. They didn’t know the first thing about heartbreak, or want, or regret. And sure, someday they’d learn, but maybe, he thought, that day didn’t need to be today.

“Alright, c’mon,” he said, “why don’t we go back to the carousel? Let’s try one more time.”

“Yay!” screamed Maisy and ran off ahead of them towards the ride.

Timothy, though, stayed seated on the picnic bench, his worried eyes as wide as the world.

“But what if I still can’t reach the rings?”

He knelt again and looked his nephew square in the face. “Well that’s the great thing about a carousel,” he said. “It just keeps going around and around, and each time it does, you get another chance to grab those rings. And who knows, maybe this time, you’ll be able to do it.”

“You think so?” Timothy asked.

“Of course,” he said. He squeezed his nephew’s shoulder, gave him a small, encouraging smile, and didn’t tell him that for some people, the rings would always be just out of reach.

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