One last trip through before the bulldozers come. I bend back the rusted chain link, step over the faded Clown Town sign, and head toward the tilt-a-whirl. The mess of broken hydraulics and a graffiti-tagged gearbox has left the mechanical octopus in its final tilt. I circle around to the backside and believe it. The Cotton Candy King—the sign is still intact.

My dad had dreams of franchising the name, but he ended up pushing spun sugar for twenty years until his heart gave out. I climb into the booth and rest my elbows on the peeling Formica counter where my father looked out over the crowd while magically whipping up purple and pink cyclones, putting more smiles on kids' faces than Santa Claus. I remember him coming home, washing his hands, and still being able feel the sticky sweetness on his fingers. Ma said it was my dad who made the cotton candy so sweet. He'd put a wad of bills on the kitchen table and let me count them. Learn mathematics and you'll rule the world, he used to say. We never did get that big house.

I leave the booth and walk pass the cracked carnage of giant teacups and pass the rusted behemoth of the Zipper where we used to look for change falling out of pockets, ever wary of the other byproduct—vomit. The row of skee-ball lanes is nothing but peeling paint and warped wood. The stuffed animals are long extinct, and three balls for a dollar was always a rip off. I stop at the strongman hammer and bell. It took a whole summer for me to hit that bell and to get my first kiss from Lucy Cardelli. The thought makes me chuckle as I rear back and toss a rock at the old corroded bell. The rock flies past and lands on the roof of the House of Mirrors. Years ago, the summer dad died, vandals broke in and smashed all the mirrors. That was enough bad luck for half the county, but mother says it was dad's penchant for loaded hot sausage sandwiches that did him in.

I head back toward the rip in the fence and past the dilapidated structure that used to house Strange Beasts and Oddities of Nature. Still visible, just barely from all the weathering, is their famous disclaimer. Persons with weak stomachs are advised not to enter. Dad said that one sign was a money-making dynamo.

When the carnival was on its last leg, the lone oddity of nature on display was a three-legged German Shepard. Irony aside, the only thing more inexcusable was how the city council let the whole thing go down the tubes. I stand for a second and hear the screams of laughter, the calliope, and my father barking out, Get your cotton candy. The Cotton Candy King here, get your cotton candy. I can't help my tongue from probing the recesses of my gums for that sugar.

I slip through the fence and head to the car. Mother is barely visible in the front seat. Osteoporosis is a cruel companion.

"Ma, do you want me to drive you around to the front?"

"Nah, just take me home."

"You sure?"

"Yea, I'm sure. I'm fine. I just hope you don't lose your shirt in this deal."

"Don't worry ma, I got the numbers all worked out."