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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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