The Carousel

by Cory Garfin

My parents install an old-fashioned carousel in their house once I move out. “We thought it would be fun,” Dad says. “Something for us to do together now that you kids are gone.” “Come by and visit some time,” Mom says. “Bring a date. We’re having a special: two tickets for the price of one when you bring a can of soup.”

I feel strange about the house I grew up in becoming an amusement ride, but I decide to see what it’s like. I bring a date. There’s a line when I show up, mostly neighbors and their kids. Grandma works the ticket booth, located where my bedroom used to be. “How many,” she asks, “two?” “Grandma, it’s me,” I say. “Oh, hello, dear. Wonderful to see you. That will be $5.” “But, Grandma, this is my house! We’re in my old room right now. Surely you’re not going to charge me to come in.” “Honey,” she says sweetly, “I’m giving you the soup discount when clearly you’ve brought no soup. Now don’t hold up the line. And wipe your face, you’ve got schmutz on it.”

Upstairs, Grandpa is in the center of the carousel manning the controls. He looks annoyed by all of the lights and canned music. Mom sells confections from the kitchen, handing hot dogs and cotton candy to kids as they spin by. I introduce my date to her and she offers us both churros. “On the house,” she says, adding, “you’re both so thin.” “Where’s Dad?” I ask. “Oh, he’s tending to the animals.” She says they’ve turned my sister’s old room into a petting zoo, and the two of them switch off between the food and the animals.

My date and I get on the carousel and ride the flying horses for a while. Grandpa points to the brass ring above the fireplace and winks, and I snag it on the next go-round and hand it shyly to my date.

We ride the carousel several times, until it gets late and the neighbors start heading home.

Mom cleans up the kitchen; Dad puts the animals to bed; Grandma counts gate receipts and soup cans; and Grandpa falls asleep on his stool, letting the carousel drift along at its own pace.

My date and I move to a two-person seat shaped like a rocketship and begin to kiss. It feels strange, making out in the middle of my own home, on my parent’s carousel and with most of my family so close at hand. But none of them is looking, and the music becomes less jaunty as the pace of our spinning slows to a soothing rhythm. The lights, bouncing off the hexagonal mirrors in the center of
the carousel, glitter in my date’s pretty eyes.

“What a lovely family you have,” she says.

“I know,” I reply, and we kiss some more.