The Zipper

The one definite thing that never changes about the Fair is the smell. There is always an aromic blend of fried things - vegetables, pickles, fries, funnel cakes - all mingling with the smell of straw and animals which drifts out of the various barns. The lights and the sounds were all the same, which Jerry Logan remembered as a kid. The giant sycamore trees with the white bark, stoically standing watch along the walkways, and many of the vendor trucks parked exactly the same as they were thirty years ago when he was a kid, many in the same spots. The red Swiss Fried Cheese truck that looked like a Swiss ski lodge extracted from the Alps. At least it looked like that to Jerry, who had never seen an actual Swiss ski lodge.

Jerry came to the Fair every year on Thursday night for one purpose. To ride The Zipper. He used to come with his kids on weekends or for the demolition derby, but they got too old to go with their dad. And on the backside of 42, here he stood, watching his watch and looking at tractors as though he would someday buy that farm and have the need for one. 


He walked through the walkways of games and saw the same carnies that he saw as a kid. They don’t seem to age, he thought every year. The one with the small arms and the scar. The one with the eye patch, which he wondered for years what was beneath it. The subtly bearded woman. The profane midget in the acid-washed jeans and jacket. And the one who smoked cigarette after cigarette, who you would never see not smoking, who crowed, “Come on, dad. Win one for the pretty girl,” so raspily and lewdly it made every pore of your skin crawl. Or, “Hey! It only takes a-one, dad! Just a-one!”

They don’t age, at least, not to Jerry. He was convinced these were the same carnies that would lure he and his friends to give up what little money they had to win a small paper-framed mirror with AC/DC, or Led Zeppelin, painted on it. Or one of those black silk things that you hang on your wall, or use as a flag on a clubhouse, or drape around you like a cape with the album covers of Appetite for Destruction, or 1984, or Girls, Girls, Girls, all over it. Or maybe a sport’s team. The L.A. Raiders. The Chicago Bulls.

And there was always the tent with the headstones. Every year it was there. For whatever reason it was. It looked like a small cemetery and everyone avoided it except for the morbid old people who were obsessive-compulsive planners. People who wanted to make sure that the design on their headstone was up to their standards, though what would it matter? The old man in the tent behind the table looked out at Jerry like he was a walking corpse, and he was the Grim Reaper evaluating Jerry’s worth for death. He didn’t say anything at all. He took a few sips of coffee from a Styrofoam cup. But on the table there was an hourglass and the man’s bony-white hand grabbed it and flipped it over and the sand sifted. He smiled a yellow smile and Jerry left with a chill in his bones. “Time waits for no one,” some woman remarked to someone else, walking past him. The other person complained, “It’s always do or die with you.”

Jerry had no intention on doing anything at the Fair besides riding The Zipper, which he had done every Thursday night at 8:30 for the past 32 years since he was 10-years-old. What he would do if The Zipper was discontinued, he didn’t know. No other ride would do, that was sure and it was such a part of him that it would be like death without it. But he was here early this year, so he walked around and observed people who seemed to be the same every year, only with different hairstyles. The mullets of his youth were replaced by buzz-cuts and shaved heads and shaved sides with messy comb-overs. Girls don’t wear bangs anymore. They don’t look like poodles. Maybe he would eat something this year. Something fried that could kill someone in large enough quantities.

He had his traditional two beers at The Fairview, the little bar across the street, and those beers filled him with enough excitement that he wanted to explore a little earlier than usual. Baseball playoffs were on the TV in the bar. Two teams he didn’t care about. But after someone played the Springsteen song, he decided to relive his glory days. This year he would make it special. He didn’t pay for admission as usual. He walked around to the residential side of the fairground’s fence line, down Wilson Avenue, and he climbed the fence like he and his friends did when they were kids so to save the five bucks for games and rides. But not being as agile as he once was, he snagged his pants on the fence and tumbled down headlong into the grass, but still five dollars richer.

He stood in the area where the rides were and the lights lit up his face and still he was possessed with the enthusiasm of two beers that had yet to wane, despite the torn jeans and the scrapes, or the levity of the Grim Reaper selling headstones. Or the memory of his kids, who no longer wanted to come to the Fair with dad and who were off somewhere, creeping into adulthood, or fast approaching the maturity of life that settles such excitements as amusement park rides and games of chance, with less and less need for a dad in their life, especially since the divorce. 

The divorce, he thought glumly. He had put it out of his mind for sometime and beer was good for drowning it, but every so often, she would come back. Like the plague. Two years removed and it was time to move on. Time waits for no one, he could hear the lady say again in his ear. He wasn’t really in love with her, he knew. Nor did she really love him. It wasn’t something he was saying in retrospect only to make himself feel better. Though they were attached and bonded, there was something missing all along. Some hole in their relationship that nothing could fill. They didn’t fit and she was the wrong tree, as he had originally thought when they met, but he had been stubborn as a hound and barked up it anyway.

He had lost years to her, given them away, and now she was somewhere else, playing house, and here he was, alone with this lasting tradition to honor.  Bankrupt. Being consoled by the thrill of the lights and the electric of the atmosphere. The voices and screams of children zipping around on rides, the happy faces of kids on the Tilt-A-Whirl and The Spider. Rocking back and forth on the Viking Ship whose heavily greased gears groaned against the night and their subsiding cries, or circling the Rock-And-Roll Express, or crashing in Bumper Cars, banging against other cars and laughing wildly. So much ahead of them. Kids with painted faces. Spiderman and elephants. And for a while, Jerry was a kid again, too. And he thought to have his face painted like a tiger, but what a strange thing that would be for a 42-year-old man to do.

He had nothing to lose. It was night, but it was warm and there was still two hours before they would shut down. So rather than buying three tickets for the one ride at 8:30, he bought a wristband and decided to ride as many rides as he could, despite what anyone might think of a man riding rides by himself. And he made the rounds and rode the Ferris Wheel, and the Whiplash, and all the others. But when it was 8:30, he headed for The Zipper. His yearly tradition that he had honored since he was ten.

He stood in the long line and looked up at the moon. The ride was a two-person-per-cage ride and he would either have to be matched with someone or he would be alone, which wasn’t a big deal to him. He had been alone on it for a few years now. But as he stood there, he looked over and there was a woman who was standing alone looking up at the ride with the same kind of marvel in her eyes that was in his. She was smiling looking up at the whipping machine, watching the cages being jerked about and spun upside down and flopped over and back. And with the lights of the ride gleaming off her pretty face, he couldn’t recall seeing anyone or anything more beautiful besides for when he saw her last, several years ago. He was staring at her when she noticed him. And as she looked over at him, she had her face painted like a cat, subtle-like, not one of those all-over deals. Then she approached directly.

“Hello, Jerry.”

“Hi, Kim.”   

“You still come?” she smiled. “That makes me happy.”

“I haven’t missed a year.”

“I’ve missed a few.”

“I know.”

She couldn’t help but to smile though she felt a little sadness in her for not coming for the past few years. “I was sick,” she explained. “I, well, I...”

“You don’t need to explain,” Jerry replied. “You’re here now.”

“No, I do. I was sick in body and in the heart. My ex-husband crushed my spirit.”

“I know the feeling.”

She smiled at him and he realized he was staring so he looked away. Then with the thought of those blank headstones, he turned back to her and asked her if she wanted to ride with him. If she wanted to relive their yearly tradition.

“Remember when we were ten, Jerry, and rode it for the first time?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“I promised you I would meet you here every year for the rest of my life. Every Thursday of the Fair at 8:30, like the first time. At this ride. On this spot.”

“I know. I promised you, too.”

“It was a promise we lived up to for 30 years, until...”

“You’re here now, Kim. You don’t need to say anything else.”

“How is your wife, Jerry? And the kids?”

“I’m divorced. And my kids are grown to the point where they don’t need me like they used to. They don’t need someone to put them on rides anymore. Or to buy their ticket, or to hold their hand. That is a sad thing, you know.”

“Yes, I do. And I’m, well, I’m sorry about your wife.”

“Don’t be. She wasn’t for me. I shouldn’t have ever married her.”

Kim nodded her head. “Well, I was wondering if you still came.”

“Every year. It’s bigger than both of us, Kim.”

She walked over to him and got a dirty look from a pimply-faced hostile teenager who was impatiently standing behind them. Ditching is sacrilege to a teen. One of the ten teen commandments, thou shall not ditch, violated right before his googly eyes. The kid said something under his bad breath about “grandma and grandpa,” and Kim giggled and looked at Jerry who smiled back at her like he did when they were ten.

“You have no idea how badly I wanted to get my face painted,” he said. “I look upon you with envy!”

“Well, why didn’t you?” she giggled.

“A 42-year-old man getting his face painted?”

“Jerry, we are kids. We never aged, don’t you know? We are not forty. Not here. We decided when we were ten that we would never get old. Our Peter Pan promise.”

“I know.”

“But you got old?”

“I think so.”

She reached out and grabbed his hand. “Well, time to get young again. I’m glad you’re still here.”

“Me too. I’m glad you came back.”

“We are a couple singles in a paired-kind-of-much-too-conventional world, Jerry. Kids that were forced to grow up,” she remarked as they inched up closer to the gate. The carny was ushering people forward in the angry indifferent way that they do. A cigarette dangled from his lips and the ashes fell on his soiled chest whenever he had to say something. To yell at a hormonal kid for doing something dumb to impress some other hormonal kid.

“My kids aged-out of mom taking them to the fair. They don’t need me to hold their hand anymore, as you said. My husband aged-out of marriage, I suppose. I’ve been divorced for a year. We were never right for each other. Not like you and I were right on this ride. I wanted to come for the past few years. To see you again, but I...”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“No. I got to. That promise is important. This is the first social thing I’ve done since then. If I am not home with my kids, I am at work. Or church. Occasionally, I will have a glass of wine with some girlfriends, but this is real rebellion,” she grinned proudly. “This is taking back something that was lost or stolen from me. This is shutting myself down and defaulting to my factory reset.”

Jerry smiled looking at her and was about to say something when the carny called out to him, “Come on, pops,” and ushered them forward. They stepped into the cage and the carny shut them in and locked the cage door like he worked at a prison.

“I’m glad you came back,” Jerry smiled.

“My name is Kim,” she needlessly introduced herself as she had the first time they met. She grinned at him and held out her hand just as she did thirty-two years ago, replaying her long lost role as she did every year.

“Jerry,” he said back, much less nervous than he said it back then, but no less enamored. He extended his hand and hers slipped inside of it and felt so small and cold to him. He reluctantly let go as the clang of other cage doors brought them back to reality.

The ride jerked into gear and Kim laughed, rocking back and forth in the cage. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, with or without cat face, young or older, healthy or sick, and he smiled at her as she giddily rocked the cage like she was ten again, or twelve, or thirteen, or fourteen. All those years they had met across time every year on Thursday at 8:30 sharp. Even when they went to college out of state, they had come back. Even when they were married to people they never should have been married to, they had come back. All but the past two years.

They laughed and halfway through she reached for his hand and they held hands and the ride spun and jerked and they felt as much of ten as they did of forty-two. And Jerry looked over and saw Kim as a ten-year-old, and he remembered the carny pairing them up because they had come to the Fair with friends who didn’t want to ride The Zipper.

The ride ended and the carny opened the cage door and everyone shuffled to the exit. This is where they normally would part to go back to their lives until next year. But Jerry took her hand and instead of letting go, he held on. And Kim didn’t try to pull away and she smiled with the firmness of his grip.

“How did you tear your jeans?” she asked looking down at the hole.

“Don’t ask,” he smiled.

“I already did.”

He laughed. “Trying to save five bucks.”

She smiled. “How about we go get that tiger face paint?”

“You read my mind.”

Jerry sat in the chair and the old lady grinned as she painted his face. “There’s nothing more important in this world,” she said, “than to stay young at heart. It does me good to see young folks like you so happy and in love.”

Kim caught Jerry’s eye and there was a moment then that could not be suppressed, as they had suppressed it over thirty-two years. In all the years past, they rode the ride and immediately parted after renewing their promise with a handshake to return the following year. But this year, Jerry held on. “Have a drink with me, Kim.”

She lost a breath. “My kids are going to be getting home...”

“They’re grown, Kim. Have one drink with me.”

She smiled and agreed. She sent a text to her son and they walked across the street to The Fairview and had a round. Then another. The ceiling was blood-red and the lights were dim. 

“I had cancer,” she blurted. “I still do. That’s why I didn’t come, Jerry. I didn’t feel like I was ten again - until tonight. Then my husband and I divorced and, well, I gave up.”

“I never gave up on you. I never will,” Jerry replied taking a drink.

“I know. Why were we never together?”

“We were always together, Kim. Even when we were not. But we were always ten, I guess. Even when we were thirty. And 10-year-olds don’t think about forever, or happily ever afters, or marriage.”

“No, they don’t,” she smiled having a drink. “But they don’t drink Vodka and cranberries, either,” she said jingling her glass.

“No, they certainly do not,” he smiled. He disappeared around the corner and she figured he went to the restroom. But when he came back, a song played on the jukebox. “You Make Me Feel So Young” by Frank. Jerry popped around the corner in that blood-red barroom with that ridiculous tiger make-up on his face and Kim laughed. And he extended his hand to her to invite her to dance and she acquiesced. And there in the crowded barroom they danced between all the drunks and broken dreams, as though they were the only two in the place. And Kim cried over his shoulder, doing her best to hide it from him. And over her shoulder, Jerry smiled madly in love as he had always been from the first time they met. And as the song ended, and “Cheek to Cheek” by Ella and Louis began, she asked him softly if she didn’t make it back next year, if he would still come.

“I’ll come until I am 99, and I’ll ride until the carnies forbid me to ride because I am too old.”

She held him tight as Louis’ crackling voice reverberated in the small barroom and everyone looked at the timeless couple who danced as though no one else in the world existed. And everyone figured they were drunk or crazy, having no idea of the love story between them that revolved around one Fair ride and that spanned thirty-two years.

“There’s only one thing,” Jerry said softly into her ear. “There are 364 days until next year. I want to be with you for every one of them.”

Kim pulled away for a moment and looked up at him and smiled. “Well, it only took you thirty-two years to ask me.”

“I was waiting for you to make the first move,” he laughed.

“I thought I did by coming back every year,” she replied. She closed her eyes and there in the bar they kissed, which was better than a handshake. And it truly was a kiss to build a dream on.