Meet Me at the Rocket and Other Stories

MEET ME AT THE ROCKET The crowd swarms in past me, drawn by some invisible force that I have not yet felt. Each click of the turnstiles speaks of dollars accumulating in the ticket booths. The public address system speaks of more important things. “Jo-nelle Washingstone, meet your steady boyfriend at the rocket”. There it sits, a sleek shape pointing skyward. Streaks of rust on the nose cone and milling mass of humanity gathering at the base causes me to discard the idea that a launch is imminent. But excitement is here, nonetheless. I pay my money and follow the crowd. The South Carolina State Fair is again in session. This time I’m to go it alone. My children have reached the age where to be seen with Daddy would permanently impair their social life. And my wife has forfeited her chance for funnel cakes and a ride on the Astroliner to attend the Irmo Middle School PTO. So here I am, wearing a pair of boots so old that I don't mind their traversing the cow barns and my Charlie Daniels that pulled low enough to avoid recognition by fellow suburbanites. I move with the crowd now -- out of the shadow of the rocket -- past Slide and Super slide; Super slide is a good two feet higher than Slide -- both are backed up to the rocket as if designed to provide emergency egress for some long-forgotten astronaut. Into the land of kiddie rides I go, deaf to the speakers’ pleas to try fried dough and freshly squeezed lemonade. “Rabbit Lareau, go to the rocket!” I glance back over my shoulder. No Rabbit Lareau in sight. But that must be Jo-nelle Washingstone. Her left arm has a strangle hold on a three-foot-tall stuffed panda. As she hugs her steady boyfriend, the melting, dipped-in-chocolate, rolled-in-nuts ice cream cone in her right-hand drips down the back of his clean, blue, corduroy FFA jacket. It’s easy to see what brought on the melting. Nobody can eat ice cream and keep that much Double-Bubble going at the same times. “No! No! Don’t make me ride. I’m scared of those cars. I don’t like this fair. I wanna go home!” Alexander throws down the red cowboy hat with his name stitched into the crown. Scared of the Turn-Tyke? The mildest ride in the small-fry midway. What is wrong with that boy? The two eager young parents swinging him between them will have none of it. He’s gonna enjoy this fair if it kills them. “Will all members of the Whitmill FHA please meet your teacher at the rocket?” Making a sharp right, I head up to the midway. Booths as far as the eye can see offer what appear to be outstanding opportunities. Speed Ball, Sitting Ducks, Pro-Ball, Ring toss, Guess Your Weight. I figure if One-in-the-Can Win, I’ll surely score with three chances. I lay down my dollar and commence to throw. The sign is right. One in the can wins. It wins a green eight-inch pod of velour okra, with stick-on paper eyes and a cute little mouth. Must be worth twelve, maybe fifteen cents. I pass up the offer to compound my winnings through further investment. After all, a person can use just so many stuffed vegetables. “Will all Democratic candidates for Lt. Governor meet Dick Riley at the rocket!” The blended smell of Kurley-Fried Chicken, sizzling onions and meatball sandwiches begins to direct my steps. Can’t board the Jules Verne Spacecraft with an empty stomach. I buy me a roll stuffed with polish sausage and smothered in those sweet-smelling onions. The sausage has shrunk a lot since I saw it cooked but the loss is partially compensated for by a generous helping of onions. They ooze onto my face and hands. “Will all members of Whitmill FHA report to the rocket!” I chase the last remnants of the onions with a big orange drink, wipe my face on my shirt sleeve and survey the territory. Is that really a jewelry store? What is such a class joint doing here in the middle of Las Vegas Southeast? Selling jewelry! Engraved bracelets, genuine 12 carat gold filled necklaces, and who is to say those diamonds aren’t for real? Surely not Jo-nelle Washingstone. There she stands, oohing and aahing and about to relieve her steady boyfriend of some of his hard-earned bus driving money.