Free Wanda Hickey's Night of Golden Memories by Jean Shepherd

about the next day.
    Now we were deep in the heart of the thrill-ride section of the fair. The Ferris wheel reached high up into the dark sky, its spokes outlined in colored light bulbs, jerking upward and stopping and jerking and jerking upward again. It loomed over us like a huge illuminated snowflake.
    â€œI wanna go on the Ferris wheel!” Randy whined for the 317th time. This time, he was not to be denied.
    My father bought a ticket from the man in the little booth. Off my brother went through the turnstile and into a wobbly car the color of a grape. A minute later, he was laughing down at us and sticking his tongue out as he swept up ecstatically into the night Every few seconds, the wheel would stop and unload a car. We stood around and waved every time he went past.
    Finally, the grape car stopped at the bottom. We could see the attendant in blue coveralls swing the gateopen. He seemed to be arguing with the occupant. The attendant finally hollered out to the guy in the box office:
    â€œHEY, JAKE! THIS KID WON’T GET OUT!”
    â€œOh, fer Chrissake, what now?” the old man muttered.
    â€œNOW, YOU GET OUT. YOU HAD ENOUGH,” said the attendant.
    â€œWHAAAAAAAA!”
    The attendant reached in and wrenched him out, fighting and kicking every inch of the way. My father took over the battle, dragging him out into the midway.
    â€œI WANNA GO ON AGAIN!!” he screamed, but to no avail.
    The big wheel started up without him as we moved on to the next attraction, Randy struggling at every step.
    We tried to hurry past a merry-go-round swarming with little kids and mothers, but it was no use. Randy threatened to throw himself under it if he didn’t get to ride on it. I stood with my father as he whirled round and round beside my mother, sitting on a black swan with a yellow beak. He tried to do a headstand as
The Man on the Flying Trapeze
played over and over and over and over. After the sixth ride, we managed to pull him off. He emerged slightly pale but still game. We ate a red candy cane apiece, thus setting the stage for total disaster.
    My father never went on rides unless they were real gut busters. He had ventured unflinchingly onto roller coasters so violent as to turn away strong men, quaking in fear. He spotted one of his old favorites, an evil contraption known as the Whirligig Rocket Whip. Wehad been warned of its presence long before we arrived on the scene. Screams of horror and the flashing light of the emergency ambulance led us to the killer ride of them all.
    At every fair or amusement park, there is one ride that is the yokel equivalent of the main bull ring in Madrid. This is where callow-faced youths and gorilla-armed icemen prove their virility to their admiring women. The Rocket Whip was a classic of its kind. It consisted of two bullet-shaped cars, one yellow, one red, attached to the ends of rotating arms. It revolved simultaneously clockwise and up and down. At the same time, the individual cars rotated in their own orbits. The old man, spotting the Rocket Whip, strained forward like a fire horse smelling smoke.
    â€œAre you sure you should go on that?” My mother held back.
    â€œAw, come on. It’ll do the kids good. Blow the stink off W She didn’t answer, just gazed up in fear at the mechanical devil that was now about to take on passengers. The yellow car rested near the ground, it’s wire-mesh door invitingly open.
    He bought three tickets from the operator, who sat near the turnstile in a rocking chair, the control lever at his side.
    â€œLet’s go, kids.”
    We piled into the car. It was simplicity itself; two hard metal seats and a bar that clamped down over the laps of the occupants, so that their bodies didn’t become actually dismembered. We sat stationary for along moment. High above us, the occupants of the red car gazed down at us—upside down—waiting for Thor’s hammer to descend.
    The man yanked the lever