I was never exactly a popular kid—so much so that my mom had even forgotten to find me at a carnival one summer when I wandered off. People used to hang out with me all the time, but as I grew older and year-by-year, they began to vanish. It’s probably because I stay at some rural shithole every summer in the middle of nowhere where all there was were small neighborhoods and a big empty lot to walk across. Now, when I come back home, no one there even acknowledges me—not even a single mention of my name crosses their mouths. I guess it’s not cool to hang out with me anymore—nobody appreciates my hospitality.
Whether or not people talk about me, I never try to fix myself; I’m always the same old cheap thrills. That doesn’t matter though—when I moved back to the town with the big parking lot it almost felt like I’d been reassembled again, into a new man. I felt so reinvigorated, that I decided to find a long-term job in order to occupy my free time.
I visited an event planner because I don’t exactly have real job experience. The interview was held in a building near the big parking lot. She was tough right off the bat; her first question was why I think I deserved the job of assistant event director. I gave her my experience, but couldn’t stop myself from telling her my life story. “I feel like I have some strange desire to become something in this organization to prove to people that I matter. I want to be around more people, and generate more money.” A thought then crossed my mind. “Maybe when I was popular, people were just taking advantage of me. They never really wanted to be there in the first place, but when they were there, they took advantage of my home and what it had to offer. They always threw their garbage about, indiscriminately, thinking that I wouldn’t mind—that someone else would take care of it. One person would feel for me and pay me as a condolence while all of the others would free ride, doing whatever they wanted. I was just artificial to them I guess.”
She seemed rather indifferent about my story, which in this case was understandable—she didn’t even know who I was before this interview, but that didn’t stop her from acting as if she always had to deal with me, scanning me to see if everything was in place. She then asked for my name so she could finalize the application, to which I drew a blank. For some strange reason, I couldn’t remember what my name was. I tried to explain to her my lapse of memory, but as soon as I went to open my mouth, she spoke. “A thousand balloons. Thank you.”
It didn’t make sense to me—“a thousand balloons” wasn’t my name. I attempted to clarify that to her, but she interrupted again. “A lot of popcorn. Ton’s of popcorn.” I tried to ask her where she was getting these names from, but I was interrupted yet again. “Get a generator for the fun slide.”
I then felt a strange sensation. I got out of my seat and reached out to shake her from her apparent daze, but noticed something. When I looked in the vicinity of where my right arm was supposed to be, I saw a cotton candy machine. The beads of sweat began to roll down my forehead. I went to look back at her, but when I did she was unwrapping a box that took the place of my left arm. I looked inside of it and it was filled to the brim with tickets that read “Admit One” on them. I had no arms. I was profusely sweating, but couldn’t wipe it off. I looked down, but all I saw was the asphalt—the asphalt of a parking lot. She was standing on me. “Let’s make this a good year,” she said. Then the gates opened. People—people everywhere. I looked around me and saw roller coasters, carousels, concession stands, games, and a gravitron. Why was I at a carnival?
It was then that I had a sudden realization. I wasn’t at a carnival…I was becoming a carnival. All of these people walking about, all of these rides, and all of this entertainment—it was part of me. I wasn’t looking at the roller coaster—I am the roller coaster. I am the bumper cars. I am the clowns. I am the funnel cake. It’s not that I’m becoming a carnival—I was always the carnival. When I was left here, I decided to become the very thing I refused to go to every summer. I decided to appreciate it for what it was, enjoy it, learn from it, become it. Then finally, I decided to become a carnival myself. I am the carnival—the carnival is me.
Ian Barbour