“fUNNEL CAKE” 

The fair was quiet this time of year. Ray sat and thought as to why that was. Spring was an odd time for the fair. Summers tend to do well, the weather's to thank for that. In the Fall, they sought after local pumpkin patches and farmers to collaborate with, share the land, split some profits. Winters are slow, but that's more to do with time. More time on the road, having to travel as far down toward the equator as possible, taking a break from the cold up North. That along with not wanting the machinery to rust. They traveled from place to place, lugging the fair behind them. 

Spring was slow. Why that is, Ray didn’t quite know. March wasn’t far off from the new year, kids still had the weekends to take a break from school, adults got off work at five, and the weekends. There's always the weekends. Although it was a possibility that the leisureness had to do with location, maybe this one in specific. They hadn’t been on this stop before. 

Fortuna, California seemed to be one of those towns that naturally urged young folks to head out once they hit eighteen years old. It seemed that there had been more kids grown up, then growing up. Although it was next to the redwoods, tall trees seemingly weren’t enough of an accommodation for the bareness of what surrounded those trees. You know what they say about the inability to teach an old dog new tricks, maybe that has to do with accustomization. Getting accustomed to something seems to be the goal when entering a new environment. But when does that become weathered? Repetitive? Injurious? The ones who remained in Fortuna seemed to either work in town at a job that yielded only a small batch of customers per day, sometimes per week. Or put their time and body into the logging business, as there was enough bark to go around in the area. Sawdust in the ears, sap on the palms. There surely were kids running around, but not enough for the stop to be that profitable. Ray didn’t know any of this for certain, but would bet his half pack of cigarettes that at least 50% of this would be accurate. Hell, make it 65%, he spent enough time looking around, doing just about nothing but observing. Which he often did everywhere they stopped for the fair, one week at a time. Enough to call his job title “observer” rather than “ride mechanic”. 

They set up shop in an old RV parking area just outside of the downtown area. If you could call it that. The trees surrounded the circumference of the land, looking down upon the small gap where rides and tents were filled. Beginning at sunset the lights from the rides bounced off the tall trees, reaching about half way up. The crowns blended in the night sky once it hit 8 O'clock. Similar to Ray's vision after the fair closed at nine o'clock, heading to the nearest bar as soon as he did his lights down sweep of the rides. Roaming the joints and knuckles of metal, making sure they were void of any problems that may have happened during the day. Ray was just under thirty years old, but looked as if he was pushing forty. He had a limp, but that never affected his work. To blame was the left front tire of an M35 in Vietnam. He served two consecutive tours as a mechanic in the Army, thrown the job when they found out his dad had him doing oil changes and fixing exhausts in his shop since the age of thirteen. Where he was from in upper Wisconsin, a mechanic was a well respected profession. Not in a sense of hierarchy, as most professions seemed to be judged, but the cold brought rusted metal, weathered engines and worn down tires. The community respected an ability that would allow them to get to work in the mornings. Ray got discharged after his second tour and chose to head home. But home left a bad taste in his mouth. Stuck in the gums. The night after his twenty-second birthday, he left in the middle of the night with nothing but what he had packed in the same bag he brought when he first got deployed. Same bag, same belongings, hopping on a bus to Canada. He went up as far as he could until he ran out of pocket change and was forced to head down past the border, finding himself in Montana. Hasn't been back home since. Hasn't written. Hasn’t thought much of it. He picked up the job at the fair after meeting his now boss in a bar just outside of a town near Mount Baker, Washington. They got to talking and one thing led to another. Been up and down the West more times than he could count now. Seen people filter in and out. Exchanged fists and black eyes. Had discussions here and there. Ray didn’t speak often. As a kid he had a lot to say. Mechanic in the war, now mechanic at the fair. 

This particular day he woke up a little earlier than usual. It was the last day before they packed up and continued on. They ran out of coffee and he didn't get to his second cup. It was slow. It was just past 8 o’clock and the sun had just gone down. The lack of a crowded day made Ray observe a little more in detail. His eyes were used to the movement of the rides and there weren't enough bodies walking around to let him daze. He sat on a picnic table near the travel RVs, feet on the bench, ass on the table. Processing the spring. He felt a sudden sting on his finger, to find his cigarette had burned down to the filter. He threw it to the side and grabbed the pack from his inner coat pocket, struck a match and lit another. He set the pack on the table beside him and began to turn the match box between his fingers. His eyes wandered over to the food stand, the one that traveled with them everywhere they went. There was no one there but one. An older man. Thin, normal height, looked about seventy years old. He was dressed up, sporting a malty brown homburg hat and a charcoal sweater. His cane seemed to carry more weight than needed. He shook a bit as he grabbed a funnel cake from the young girl working the stand. He smiled and nodded his head as he walked off. He headed toward Ray, looking about the area. Seemingly not knowing that anyone was in his vision ahead of him. He made his way up to the picnic table and looked up, surprised that Ray was there. 

“Oh,” the man laughed. “I didn't see you there.”

Ray threw a smile and nodded. The man sat slowly on the bench, placing the funnel cake on his lap and his cane to the side. He looked around, then down at the funnel cake.

“Pancake mix,” he said aloud. “I just asked the girl over there what these are made of. She said pancake mix. I never knew that.” 

Ray looked at the man, barely seeing his profile, as his brim was large and only curled up about half way. 

Ray finally let out, “They use beer in the batter for those too. Not a lot, but it's in there.” 

The man looked up toward Ray, examined him a bit then looked off. He let out, “My mother used to do that same thing when I was a boy. She would make pancakes every month for the fire house down the road from us. She’d have me go to the bar off Main street down there. Just past the theatre. It’s not there anymore. I’d get two big pitchers of Hamms for her. I had to balance them on my walk home. She’d dump them right into the mixing bowl. I'd help her stir. My father would drink the leftovers when he got home from work.” 

Ray picked up on the running theme that this was the type of man to take long pauses between his sentences. As if he was speaking moment to moment. As if that's how your mind ends up working eventually. Ray took a long drag of his cigarette, as the man looked at the pack on the table. 

He lifted his finger with the weight of a fly and pointed toward them, “Would you mind if I had one of those?”

Ray looked down at the pack, then grabbed it. He pulled one out halfway and extended the pack toward the man. He proceeded to place his funnel cake carefully beside him on the table, not a bite taken. He grabbed the cigarette, then put it to his mouth. Ray got off the table and slid onto the bench beneath him and sat next to the man. Breaking a match and lighting the cigarette for him. He saw the man's face more clearly now, as the combination of the flame and light from the tilt-a-whirl spread more evenly below. He reminded him of someone. Someone from his childhood. His friend Michael in the sixth grade had a grandfather who lived in his basement, had a room set up in the corner near the furnace. A photo of Doris Day with a crease down the middle hung above his bed. He often sat upstairs on the couch and watched television with an ash stained wool blanket the size of a car hood on his lap, chain smoking to sleep. The other kids who came around Michael's house thought of him as a dying man. But Ray never felt that way. He just seemed tired. Tired of something, Ray didn't know what. He could relate to that now. Men like that will be extinct when the time comes.

The man took a long drag of the cigarette and coughed out the smoke. He smiled and looked down at it in his hands. 

“What brand is this?” he said. 

Ray put the pack back on the table saying, “Winstons.” 

The old man looked down, “Winstons huh. Good brand. Cheap. Or at least they used to be. They used to be cheap when my wife smoked them. Real cheap. I would buy a pack for her on the way home from work every week. Up until she quit. Or at least up until she said she quit.”

Ray’s been there. The two were silent for a moment. The man looked around, letting the cigarette burn in his hand. 

The man continued, “They used to have a fair here all the time years back. Every spring. I’m talking thirty or forty years ago. Then it stopped all of a sudden. I never knew why that was. Do you know?” 

Ray shuffled then said, “I don’t. Not from here.” 

“I see. Where are you from?” the man said.

Ray looked off, ”Around.” 

The man nodded. The wrinkles on his cheeks fell low, slowly beginning to look concerned. Letting out, “I wonder why it is. The fair closing. No one ever talked about it. I stopped thinking about it myself. I spotted the lights on my way to the grocery and followed them over and here it was. It looked different back then. Less rides. More people. My wife and I would get off work around the same time and would bring our two girls over. That was a time they could run around all by themselves. No worries. Let them be kids while me and my wife could walk around ourselves. We would share one of those. It was a good treat.” 

The man pointed to the funnel cake on the table. Ray looked at it, as the man kept talking. Contiuning to say, “You know it’s different now. Parenting. You have to keep a close eye. Too much to look out for. I barely read the paper anymore. Too depressing.” 

The man shook his head and took a drag of his cigarette, this time with a little less of a cough.

“It was easier back then with no worries. Much easier. Even the games over there were easier.” The man pointed to the game huts across the way. “My kids would always go home with something. We had more goldfish than weeds in the backyard. Where's all the prizes? No kids are holding any prizes. What’s that all about?” he said.  

“Half of those are rigged. From inside and out,” Ray responded. 

“That’s a shame,” the man said. He then looked toward Ray, “Do you have kids?” 

Ray shook his head, “I don’t, no.” 

“A wife?” the man said. 

Ray shook his head. The man went silent. He looked at his cigarette as if he wanted to take another drag, but didn’t.

Finally letting out, “Once they're gone. Things don’t reset. You understand?” 

Ray stopped smoking and just listened. The man looked up.  

“That’s a good thing though. Isn’t it?” he said. 

He looked at Ray, wanting an answer. But Ray had no answer to give. The man seemed to know that.

The two sat there for about an hour longer, not many more words exchanged. Ray ended up having to get up to do his nightly sweeps, they would be packing up and heading out in the morning. Oregon was next, but Ray didn't know exactly know where in. Most likely a stop they had been to before. Maybe not. He offered to leave the man a match and cigarette, but he kindly declined. The man remained at the bench as workers and volunteers did their assigned sweeps. Still there when the ride lights went off and only the work lights remained. After Ray finished, he went over to the bench to see if the man was still there. He wasn’t. Nothing but cigarette buds in the dirt and the funnel cake on the table. Uneaten. Alone. When Ray woke up the next morning, it was still there. No one had bothered to throw it out yet. Ray never bothered either.