Kids
After going on his first rollercoaster, Aaron throws up. Soggy yellow bits of his Egg McMuffin spill over the sidewalk. After dry heaving, he looks down at his vomit and starts grinning. Then he’s back to zooming around his mom and shooting his imaginary Tommy-gun at costumed park employees.
Heat rises in waves from the concrete. Children play in a tent next to the rollercoaster entrance, running through clouds of cooling mist that drift from black sprayers lining the roof. A vendor in a maroon button-up stands, arms crossed, next to a large bundle of balloons, each tethered down by small, animal shaped bits of plastic. The balloons shake and quiver in the breeze, bouncing and sliding against each other beneath the cloudless blue sky.
Inside the tent, Aaron collides with a tiny blond girl. She sits down hard on the ground and starts crying. Her mother and father rush under the sprinklers to console their child. Aaron rubs his injured head, wincing. The girl’s dad softly pats her braided head as the mother wipes the tears and the mist from her face. Emily walks briskly to her son. She kneels down and places a hand on his shoulder.
“What’ve I told you about looking where you’re going. Say you’re sorry,” she says, smiling apologetically at the parents of the blond girl.
“I’m sorry,” Aaron says, shifting back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back. The dad picks her up, large hands alternately patting and rubbing her back. They walk out of the tent, shooting venomous glances at Emily and her son.
Emily and Aaron sit down on a green metal bench. Emily listens to the ebb and flow of laughter and screams as the rollercoaster snakes across the tracks. Aaron runs his fingers through the diamond patterned holes in the bench. He pounds his feet rhythmically to buoyant carnival music playing through pole-mounted loudspeakers that line the street. Bored, he starts picking at white and black splotches of bird poop crusting the bench. After a while Emily notices and tells him to stop.
“Where did you go?” the mom asks when the Tim comes back with Stephen.
“Someone had to change the baby.”
“You could have told me.”
“You weren’t back yet,” he says,
“What do you think phones are for.”
“Sorry.” Giving the baby to his wife, he returns the baby powder to the backpack. He places it in the large pocket with the diapers, baby food, pacifier, bottle, stuffed animal, granola bars, fruit roll-ups, bottles of water, books for the mom, other books for him, jackets, sunglasses, and hats.
“Stephen, I threw up,” Aaron says. “It was really gross. You could see the egg.” He pokes his baby brother who cries. “Stephen, did you see that guy in the bear suit?”
“Stop poking your brother.”
Tim tries to win Emily the giant stuffed elephant at the ring toss but all the rings fall between the tightly crowded glass bottles. One time he won a giant stuffed Koala for Emily. She walked around with it the rest of the day, slight body dwarfed by the large toy, thin arms wrapped about the animal’s soft white and grey stomach. They walk away from the game stands back towards the rollercoasters.
“They have storage lockers, a dollar an hour. We could just put the kids in there and have some time alone in a bathroom if you know what I mean.”
“You shouldn’t joke about that,” she says, trying and failing to suppress a smile.
“I like you. I think we should go out.”
“I don’t know. I just got out of a serious relationship, I’m not ready.”
“It’s just dinner and some drinks. You can leave at any time,” Tim says, ruffling his unruly brown hair and rubbing the patchy facial hair on his cheeks.
“I just don’t know. I’m not over him yet,” Emily says, gesturing to the small child sucking from her breast. “He’s really cute.”
“That’s what you’ve said the last four times I asked. I’m kind of worried,” Tim says, lips pressed together, tapping his foot rapidly against the white tiled floor. The two parents stand around the counter of their small kitchen. Tim watches the spaghetti while stirring a large pot of peppery tomato sauce. Aaron stirs on the living room couch in the next room, turning over and stretching. After a long, leonine yawn, he rolls off his makeshift bed onto the carpeted floor. Rubbing rheum from his eyes, he stumbles over to the kitchen.
“How long is it gonna be?” Aaron asks, pulling at his mom’s long, ruffled white skirt.
“Stop that Aaron, I’m feeding your brother,” she says, brushing him off. She runs a hand down her wavy brown hair.
“Just a couple more minutes, buddy,” Tim says, digging at the pasta with a pair of chopsticks.
The cafeteria is filled with rows of wooden tables and benches split into two sides by an aisle down the middle. At the back there is a long counter for food pickup. The family walks down the aisle, stopping at a table near the front. Tim, who is now wearing the baby carrier, gets in line, picking up a tray and utensils for his family. Aaron drops into the seat across his mom. Emily sets down the backpack in the aisle on her left. She looks for a while at Aaron squirming in his seat.
“Mom, you’re staring,” Aaron says.
“What? I’m fine.” She keeps staring at Aaron. He doesn’t notice. The blond girl from the mist tent is sitting a couple of tables away with her parents, howling, teary eyed, at her father for forgetting the waffle fries.
Tim returns, a red plastic tray covered with food balanced on one hand, nose upturned like a fancy waiter. A greasy turkey leg and fries for Aaron. A burger and fries for himself. A salad, dressing on the side, for the mom. A large pile of condiments for them all. He stumbles on the backpack and the salad bowl spills on the floor. The cup of dressing hits the bench, splattering drops of orange-red on the mom’s skirt. She yells and stands up, red faced.
He places the remaining food on the table. He kneels next to her and starts wiping at her skirt with a napkin. Stephen cries from the baby carrier on the dad’s back.
“It’s fine. I’ll get it,” she says, pushing him away and dabbing at the spots herself.
“I think Stephen needs to be changed,” he says. He hands her the baby carrier and starts sweeping together the bits of salad with a brown paper napkin. The mom takes the baby, gets a diaper from the backpack, and walks down the aisle to the restrooms.
Aaron helps the mom set the table. They kneel by the small black coffee table in the living room, setting down plates, paper napkins, and utensils. Stephen pounds his little fists excitedly against his plastic baby seat, laughing. Drool slowly trickles from his mouth onto his onesie.
“Your parents called,” Tim says, ladling tomato sauce onto Aaron’s plate as Emily spoons baby food into Stephen’s mouth.
“Don’t tell me you got in a fight again,” she says. Tim doesn’t answer. “I can’t believe you.”
“Your parents didn’t even come to our wedding.”
“What do you think we’ll do if they stop buying Aaron’s medicine?” she asks, pressing a spoonful of green goo against Stephen’s tightly closed mouth.
“Oh so it’s about my job again. I’ll have you know that box moving is a delicate art passed down from generation to generation in my family. My great grandfather used to—”
“You don’t have to be cute.”
Aaron, having spilled half his tomato sauce over the front of his Batman shirt, grunts. His little fingers are wrapped under the living room couch, face turning red as he tries to lift the heavy piece of furniture.
“Mom look, I’m going to lift boxes too.” Emily continues staring at Tim with her pale blue eyes, mechanically feeding the wailing baby.
Tim gets sick after going on The Screamer. They sit on a bench under a tree outside the rollercoaster entrance. Tim, bent in half, presses his skinny white arms to his stomach as Emily feeds Stephen formula from the rubber teat of the bottle. Aaron sits between the parents, leaning on his father’s shoulder.
“Let’s go dad,” Stephen says, tugging on his dad’s baggy jeans.
“I’m not feeling well Aaron,” he says. “Can you go?” he says to Emily.
“You know I hate rollercoasters.”
“You know I hate stomach cramps, dry heaving, and diarrhea.”
“C’mon Aaron,” she says, handing the baby to Tim, taking Aaron by the hand, removing his medicine from the backpack, and walking across the street to the ride entrance, silent.
He sits on another green metal bench with the baby under a tree. His face is pale and covered in sweat. When the baby starts crying Tim gets the pacifier. The baby doesn’t want it. He offers the formula bottle but the baby keeps crying. Adults by the tent turn to look. They take in his baggy jeans, his t-shirt, and his patchy brown facial hair, and his crying child. Checking the diaper, he grabs the carrier and the backpack. He heads to the men’s room, pushing through the crowds that press against him. When he gets back, Aaron is excitedly clutching a picture from the ride. Emily got some Pepto-Bismol from a store. Tim drinks half the bottle in one gulp.
“If you feel that way maybe we shouldn’t go,” Tim says quietly, carrying Aaron into the room he shares with Stephen. “We could use the money for something else.”
“You know how excited Aaron is.” After putting the kids to sleep, they sit at the coffee table quietly playing cards and watch muted cartoons on their small television. Alarm set, they brush their teeth and fall into the light sleep of newborn children and their tired parents.
The sun sets. White lights twirl and flash from the carousel. They blink red and green and blue from the rollercoasters and the Ferris wheel. The stalls light up too, flashing neon hotdogs, paper coke cups, and fries. There is a firework show so they sit down a roped off grassy area with other families. Some kids, barely even teenagers, are kissing. Aaron is dozing off next to Tim. Stephen rests on his mom’s lap, staring up at her face with his big brown eyes. Tim stares over at the young couple. So does Emily. The fireworks glide down like paper streamers, burst like confetti. Flakes of ash fall down from the sky. Smoke thickens the cold night air. The couple is still kissing. Stephen starts crying. The fireworks rumble and pop.
“I’m going to go change him,” Emily shouts over the noise.
“I’ll go with you.” Shaking Aaron awake, Tim picks up the backpack. Emily drapes Stephen, who is still crying, over his shoulder. They weave their way through the groups of families who stare at the young couple with their loudly wailing baby. They slip under the rope partition, and walk towards the ladies room.
“Dad,” Aaron says, pointing towards the store shaped like a giant cowboy hat across the street from the bathroom. The air smells of smoke. Ash floats slowly down.
“We’ll be in that shop.”
“Ok.” The mom takes a diaper from the backpack and goes into the bathroom with Stephen.
Tim and Aaron walk through the store’s swinging bar room door. Hats—striped purple chimney hats, simple brown leather hats, baseball caps, cartoon hats, wedding veils, hats with flowery patterning, wide brimmed straw hats, cheap imitation top hats, cheap imitation bowler hats—cover the walls of the store, hanging in long rows. It’s cold in the store. Aaron grabs a tall crowned brown fedora from the wall and smashes it on his head. It’s too big and tips down over his face. The shop owner, a bright eyed man with wrinkled skin, takes the hat from Aaron and returns it to the hanger on the wall. He slowly totters to the kid’s section and returns with a smaller fedora. Aaron’s eyes grow wide. He snatches the hat from the chuckling adult. Situating it on his wavy brown hair, he sticks out his jaw, tilts down his head, and limps around. He scowls dangerously at his dad then at the old shop keeper. Aaron’s breath is ragged in the heavy ashen air.
He starts coughing and then he is on the ground making dry hacking sounds and his breath is short and he keeps wheezing with his round stomach and tiny chest jerking up and down violently and the dad rifles through the backpack looking for the inhaler. He checks the front pocket, tossing out the granola bars and pacifier and the fruit roll-ups and the mom’s books. It isn’t there. He empties the backpack all over the floor next to his son. The stuffed animal, the water bottles, the hats. No inhaler. Aaron is making choking, gasping sounds, holding his throat. He grabs Aaron’s T-shirt and shakes him. Where is it. Where. He shouts at Aaron. Aaron jerks his head towards the ladies room across the street. The old man is calling someone on the telephone, beads of sweat dripping from his nose into the receiver.
The dad runs through the bathroom door, colliding with a woman standing at a hands-free air dryer. The mom is washing her hands, Stephen wearing a fresh diaper on the changing table across from the sink. She turns toward the dad, eyes wide.
“The inhaler,” He says, gasping. She pulls it out of her skirt pocket and fumbles, dropping it on the ground. He grabs it and runs out the bathroom. She grabs Stephen off the changing table, clutches the baby carrier in her other hand, and follows after the dad, hands and arms still dripping water.
Aaron is sitting up. His inhaler puffs controlled bursts of medicine into his system. His throat opens and his lungs expand. The mom is crying. The dad holds his Aaron tightly, then gets up and moves to his wife. He touches her on the shoulder. She stiffens. Her blue eyes are wide and scared. She is short and slender even after bearing two children. A steel drum band is playing over the speakers. Her husband squeezes her shoulder with one of his hands and she relaxes, releasing a long, even stream of air from her mouth. She glances at the shopkeeper, whose sweat runs down into the crevices of his wrinkled skin. Emily presses her fingers deep into his back, feeling the bones through his t-shirt. Most of the ash has cleared from the sky. A light breeze blows through the swinging doors, smelling crisp and clean like the air after a storm. Tim gathers the items strewn over the store flow, carefully replacing them one by one in the backpack. Emily places Stephen in the carrier and the family walks out the store.
