Wednesday, January 31, 2007

Spadina streetcar, in the middle of a serious coughing fit.

Caucasian woman, mid 40s, with close cropped bleach blonde hair, wearing a long, fluffy black and white coat and ear muffs.

Running With Scissors, Augusten Burroughs (Picador)

Page 121:

Her feet are stretched out in front of her, buried in the plush, matted fur of her dog, Zoo. When she wriggles her toes, it looks like there are animals deep inside Zoo's fur. The sofa fabric is threadbare, so smooth from wear it's slick.

“Thanks for the ride, man.”

They hopped out of the truck, cutting through a ditch behind the ferris wheel, onto the fair grounds past the long line up to get in. Ronnie took off his jean jacket, a satin vest underneath, his white sleeves rolled up to reveal toned triceps and a fresh burn. They passed the games to the snack shack and they ordered Cokes and pretzels. KISS’s “I Was Made For Lovin’ You” played on the radio. Gregg sucked the salt from pretzel, reminding himself to go slow, it gave him the hiccups, and tried to take in the flurry of activity. At night, everything felt bigger, heightened—hyper.

Strolling the grounds they passed a man with sleeves of tattoos pounding the holes of the groundhog game with an unreasonable amount of aggression. His girlfriend, or daughter, it was hard to tell, stood to the side smiling weakly.

“Best to just let him work it out.”

Gregg fiddled his camera out of his pocket and held it waist-high. After he’d taken the shot he apologized, like it had been a mistake and jogged ahead to catch up with the guys. He stopped briefly to watch a small boy with a floppy red afro struggle upside down on the Spaceball, a human gyroscope.

The attendant grew impatient.

“If I spin you any longer you’ll hemorrhage.”

“Go again!” the boy screamed.

“That’s it,” the attendant said. “You’re done.”

The camera’s flash filled the foreground, the latent rage of an aging carny developing on a frame of black and white film.

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