The Dragon Wagon

Angela Kelly

It is called The Dragon Wagon, a peculiar contraption of scales, blinking lights and belches of fake fire that some ha-ha inventor thought to taint sulfur. A mini-roller coaster, medieval in theme and everyone wants a ride. This town shows up for anything. Seasons and side-shows. Early May but sweltering, sweat-down-the-spine and fry-eggs-on-the- pavement, not exactly what the town founders pictured for the annual festival and even now, they still persist in squeezing too much into the parking lots between the two banks, the furniture store and the Dollar Donut. The tire store has run out of hand fans advertising $20 oil change and those who are fluttering fans and those who are not are glaring eyeball-to-eyeball, toe-to-toe under the scrawny crepe myrtles.

And still the children scream for more rides and we put them into the scaly green box cars and we trust the carnie standing there, though he is tattooed, dread-locked, and far too happy for this occasion as he pulls the switch and the children batter up, down, around rickety rails and baby hill plunges, yes, most are disappointed, but some do cry, that normal fear of falling, panic at the unknown, yet a few hard-as-nail parents glare at us, the parents of the weak, the cry-babies. But the carnie, moving county-to-county, day-to-day, has no opinion on who rides, who doesn’t, who fears or cries and who doesn’t. He sees their bodies bright, delicate as marzipan and not long for keeps. Gently, he snaps thin safety leashes around little bodies, securing them, somewhat, into hard comma seats, then he shoots forward the red lever, ejecting them into the clatter, the bangity-bangity of life.

Rush and roar. Parents squeaking like magpies, how many years left to them to squeak or shout or By God rage! The carnie waves them back, fear is the worst thing, he is thinking how maybe in the next town he can put The Dragon Wagon in the shade but there never is shade and he grows blacker as the summer drags on, but a nip of gin, a nip of gin and he plasters on his grin and he thinks this town is hell and the next town more hell, but he knows enough of God to slow down the rail when the smallest shortcake girl is shrieking like a banshee and she is such a beauty, even strawberry faced, snot-cheeked and God knows how many hearts she’ll notch on her rhinestone Snow White belt.

And so his dark hand pulls back the red knob – stop — and The Dragon huffs some fake fire, a cough like an old man, and we are there, the parents of the bleating ones, the bored jaded ones, and soon enough they are leading us to the next carousel, to cherry sno-cones, cotton candy, the clown with balloon animals, the fat lady who will face paint them in daisies and peace signs and we are trembling slightly, perhaps from the heat, perhaps from the giving over of our children to strangers and the general mechanics of the world we cannot control. And the little shortcake girl, now dry-eyed, is pointing — Mommy, Daddy, teacups next — and life is spinning by in bright saucers, shiny plexiglass orbs of rose and teal, the Alice in Wonderland songs are playing — tinkle-tinkle, dream-dream, and we will not refuse her. Her hair, a small flame flicking in a teacup so grand and yet so tiny.