MERRY GO ROUND

There was a burst of static as he snapped off the brown plastic clock radio. He had sworn to himself that he wouldn’t go today. He was trying to break it, but he was tired of trying today, and he surrendered to the pull. It was a nasty habit, the worst really, he thought as he snatched the black hooded sweatshirt off the hook by the door. He grabbed the camera and headed out the door. He was already disgusted with himself for being so weak. Walking the twenty blocks or so to the Boardwalk, he soon broke a sweat; though the day was overcast, it was humid and much too warm for the black fleece sweat suit he was wearing.

He felt the familiar tingly feeling on the backs of his legs as he got closer and heard the bombastic bass of the dance music from the Himalayan and that other ride with the big teacups that spins you around really fast. Kids were always getting sick on that one, every once in a while puking over the side of one of the teacups. He paused on the ramp that led down to the merry-go-round and surveyed the scene. It was early in the “season,” so it wasn’t summer crowded, and it wasn’t a real nice day; still, there were enough people around.

The merry-go-round was stopped, waiting for some riders, and the horses and seahorses and zebras with their mock-energetic expressions looked stupid to him, but maybe to a kid, he thought, they’d be scary, just sitting there, still. He walked down the ramp slowly, fighting both its momentum and his own itch to run, till he was there, next to it. The guy working it yanked back on the big metal handle; it started to move at a leisurely pace, the animals beginning their deliberate bobbing motion. The calliope started up too. There was something so gentle about it, the music, he thought; familiar, like someone blowing across the top of a bottle, or the sounds that bursting bubbles might make. “East side, west side, all around the town…” He could feel the tender wind as the ride picked up speed and hit its pace. The operator locked the lever in place and leaned back looking satisfied, taking a quick puff off the cigarette that hung out of the corner of his mouth and blowing it out his nose, flaring his nostrils like the horses on the ride as he did so.

There were maybe seven, eight kids on the merry-go-round, and he didn’t pay any mind as to whether they were boys or girls, who could tell nowadays anyway? For awhile he stared straight, keeping his head in one place pretending his eyes were a movie camera and he was recording only what moved directly in front of them, allowing the dingy pastels to bounce slowly across the frame. He noticed the places on the poles that were discolored from all the little hands gripping on to them. A thought: if a kid was scared and their hands got sweaty, that the sweat might cause that kind of discoloration on the pole. Sweat from fear was stronger than sweat from heat, even for a kid. Just the thought of the tangible evidence of fear on the metal was thrilling, the idea that they were like scars of fear, and to think that he might cause something like that was almost too much for him to think, now, here. He would save it for home, and closed his eyes hard for a few seconds, burning the image into his mind.

He unfocused his eyes, and let his hands hang limp by his side. The ride became a blur. Then the urge came, undeniable and ugly. He pulled the sweatshirt up to just above his crotch. He slipped his right hand up and with two fingers slipped the waistband of his pants down over his belly. With his thumb, he slid the elastic waistband down till it created a “v” of exposure around his crotch. The cool air tickled him as it hit his skin, damp with an excited sweat. With his left hand he clutched the camera, raising it up in front of his face, but not far enough to block his vision with the viewfinder.

The camera thing had been a stroke of genius. It allowed him to pass as perhaps someone taking pictures of their kid, or maybe even a professional photographer. He liked the idea that people might think he was important on account of the camera. The hair on his bare chest stood as the pure sweet air slipped in through the opening around his hips and swirled around him inside the sweatshirt like smoke.

There were two adults on the ride, Puerto Ricans talking to their kids in Spanish. A little girl was all by herself in one of those bench seats that are supposed to be like a seat on a carriage with two horses pulling it. She was planted resolutely in the middle of it with her hands spread out to either side, taking up space. He noticed her eyes graze over him as she passed by; then she turned her head to take in the rest of the amusement park spinning around her. Bob counted, one Mississippi, two Mississippi, it took five seconds till she came around again. This time around he caught her eye, and she looked back at him with blank curiosity. The time after that Bob could see her turn her head to see him as soon as the carousel rounded over to his side. Three Mississippi, four Mississippi.

Now. His left hand held the camera tightly, his bitten-off fingernails pressing into the skin around them with such force that his fingertips looked like crescent shaped loaves of freshly baked pink bread. With his right thumb he slipped the front of the black hoodie up holding the “v” down as she passed by. She looked right at him, looked away for an instant, then back, with an expression of utter bewilderment. He wished for a second he had had film in the camera to record the look on her face. He forgot about counting now, his thoughts a stew of excitement and disgust, thick and roiling. She was coming around again, and though she tried to look through him, ignore him, she couldn’t help herself glancing back at him, and this time he could see the confused fear on her face.

Enough, enough, now, his own voice hissed at him. He snapped the waistband back around his waist with one movement of his right hand, and lowering the camera with his left hand, adjusted the jacket as he turned and started up the ramp. His face was on fire and his arms and legs felt weak and fluttery, like he was a marionette being pulled by strings. He dared not look behind him for fear there might be an angry parent, or worse, a cop after him. He pulled his shoulders up to his ears and willed his legs to pump faster, walking so quickly while trying not to look conspicuous that his hips started to swivel like those old men with the flabby stomachs and dark tans who did that race walking every morning on the boardwalk. He was at the street now, and used the changing light at the intersection as an excuse to run, the camera bouncing against his stomach.

Back at his apartment, he hurriedly pushed the black pants down to his ankles with both hands and sat on the edge of the bed. He faced out the open window. Down on the street a woman laughed, the sound high and sharp like breaking glass. The susurrations of the traffic went on like breathing; he closed his eyes and shot onto the wall, seeing her face coming around again.