Giant Octopus Ride:
When my real dad came for my tenth birthday
he put the blue bulb in the porch light
then told my mother we would be out late but safe.
Each year we walked at dusk
when we could slither under the side fence
to save admission.
On the inside I was a colonel
who knew every funhouse shortcut
and every haunted castle scare.
I knew how to spot my house from the top of the ferris wheel;
I knew why the men stood by the carousel platform looking up;
and this year I wanted to join them.
I knew where the air would smell like cotton candy,
where it would smell like deep fried crab,
where it would smell like piss,
but this year
I didn’t know where the giant octopus ride came from.
Its green metallic paint
made familiar rides seem pale and sun bleached;
its blazing eyes and tentacles outshined midway;
its rock and roll soundtrack echoed at the expense
of the folk and country songs I had memorized.
My dad’s whisky breath bellowed,
You’re tall enough aren’t cha?
Got a sawbuck if you don’t cry or throw up.
Hell, you ride that thing and I’ll let you drink half a beer.
I shook his hand hard like I was supposed to
and marched toward the ride.
In line I waited 20 minutes,
kicking up dirt, spitting,
tightening and retightening
my belt and shoe laces.
At ride entrance I barely reached the stick.
Not tall enough,
gotta be above the line.
I cry;
girls behind me giggle,
I slump aside.
I see dad in the distance,
leaning back hard on a plastic bench,
cowboy hat cocked down,
sharing a cigarette
with a teenage girl.
Dad! Dad! Daaaaaaaad!
When I came back he shrugged,
downed my half of the beer,
then discreetly motioned me away.
At the ferris wheel
a girl my age
unwilling to ride alone
waited for a spare seat.
For a while we rode in silence;
I kept focus on my dad,
counting how many times
they shared drink and smoke.
I imagined what would of happened if he had
heard me yell.
I pictured it rough,
dad pushing the Carney,
bottle smashing the control panel,
the dying cough of dynamos,
the octopus seizing blackness,
midway regaining glory,
country music once again echoing proudly.
I became self aware and present
near the ferris wheel peak;
my voice cracks as I tell the girl
the blue porch light is my house;
I try to point to it but it’s gone,
the lights from the giant octopus ride
have swallowed it.
The girl smiles,
offering me a piece funnel cake
while the lights continue to blaze around us
like a million birthday candles.
