Curly Fries and Unicorns

Getting Clean

Photo by Jamie Davies on Unsplash

58 days dry. 

Quitting booze had been a necessity, quitting weed had been a stupid dare slash bet with Harvin, and the money was good enough to warrant the pangs of loss but maybe not the going out in public with the edges sharpened and panic poking from the hole in the boxers Jeanine gave…no, Terry gave me these fucking things before that…that…

The church carnival was an accident.

Coopers was out of curly fries.

Prom time. The kids went to Coopers.

Carnival would have fries of some sort.

The beer tent smelled like his heart turning into an outboard motor and his guts retching blood that a kid would think was a cherry slush. Unless it was black, and it might be.

A little girl cried by the carousel.

She looked at Corey Lutz.

Eye contact.

Were they both lost, did he smell like lost?

“Are you looking for your parents?” Corey asked, and immediately regretted it.

One of those stupid fucking meetings Wagner talked about might help.

If he was scared to talk to a little girl maybe he did need a higher power.

Maybe the higher power was on the salt and pepper shaker. Those things always looked like they were gonna spin off the axle and you might find God.

The little girl pointed at the carousel and wailed.

“Unicore!” and dissolved into sobs that would curl wallpaper.

A fat kid was riding on the unicorn.

Corey looked around for parents, older siblings.

The little girl screamed unicore! Hitting a high note Corey wasn’t sure he ever heard before.

The ride slowed, stopped, but the attendant didn’t make the kid get off.

More kids entered the ride.

The fat kid stayed on.

Tweaker attendant didn’t care. Why should he care?

Corey stepped closer to the carousel.

He started to say something to the kid, waited another revolution. 

The beer tent started to smell like home cooking and blowjobs and a feather pillow.

He made eye contact with the kid this trip around.

Over the tinkling carousel music Corey barked “Let the little girl ride the unicorn next time.”

The fat kid scowled.

“Fuck you Huffabuttmunchcocker!”

The kid grabbed the gleaming iron post as though he was illustrating that he was never going to leave.

Then there was a fist up under Corey’s ear, not a punch, a handful of shirt, the carousel attendant saying “Don’t fuckin talk to my kid, pendejo.”

Corey bit his lip.

All the lights of the carnival became one light.

“I’m just trying–”

Corey turned to look for the little girl. She was gone, off in the crowd, somewhere.

He didn’t finish the sentence. 

He was just trying. 

The smell of the beer tent was begging him to fail. 

His bet with Harvin was strictly for weed.

But he couldn’t collect if he was dead.

He turned and got in line for the carousel. 

The attendant glared.

Corey Lutz shrugged, shook a little.

He was willing to ride any of the horseys or the swans.

***