“Well, you’re awful brave,” said the man next to me sluggishly, perhaps even drunkenly, as I pondered what in the world my problem was. My hands did not shake. My respiration was regular. The only evidence that I was not cool as a cucumber were my eyes, owlishly large and flitting back and forth in a peculiar state of panic. I swallowed convulsively and gave a throaty, half-hearted chuckle.

“It was sort of a split-second decision.” The words were out of my mouth before I’d had a chance to process them, and the air seemed to be escaping from my lungs before it had even safely arrived in them. Jerkily, my hands snapped out to clutch the bar in front of me.

“I’ve never ridden this before, have you?” I didn’t know why I was asking him. It was as if my mouth was on turbo-drive. Not that I’ve ever seen anything in turbo-drive before, my brain quipped. I told it to shut up. The man didn’t seem to have heard me, in any case, and a few moments passed in which neither of us said anythhing. Then the buzzer sounded.

“Awww… this’s gonna be the one that gets me sick!” the man groaned, and I experienced a pang of regret at my rather hasty decision to ride this horrible contraption. When had I become so reckless? All coherent thought deserted me, however, the next instant, when our little metal compartment went hurtling forward toward the ground.

“We’ve gotta scream now, come on!” he said as I found myself completely vertical and relying on the thin steel rail beneath me to prevent me from crashing into the plastic-spork-and-Fritos-bag-infested grass below. “Wooooooohooo! We gotta make ‘em think you’re crazy! Come on, now!” he urged, and my mind, frantic by this point, saw no reason not to comply.

“Aaaiieeeeeeh!” came my shrill cry in response. I caught glimpses of my friends’ laughing faces below, and it occurred to me to turn came and I screamed once more, wondering at my surprising lung capacity, but no longer caring who saw me.

“Yeah… this’s the one that’s gonna make me sick,” the man stated grimly for the second time, seemingly oblivious to the fact that this was not a pleasing concept for me. The ride sped up and I decided I’d better hold on tightly if I was to avoid crashing into the guy and testing his apparently squirming insides. This soon proved impossible, however, as the ride sped up once more and my hands slid along with the rest of me.

“Sorry!” I told him hoarsely as I silently cursed carnies everywhere and vowed never again to ride anything after 10:00 p.m. He neglected to respond yet again, which I took to mean he either hadn’t heard me, didn’t think it was okay at all, or was going to keep his mouth shut for the rest of the ride in an attempt to keep his dinner to himself. The latter possibility was rejected a moment later, though, when he screamed once more.

“I don’t hear you screamin’!” This time I was a little more in control of my response, but still felt it was best to do as he said. My mind wandered to the gigantic Budweiser truck over by the festival entrance, and I once more that night found myself lamenting its presence.

Then, abruptly, we stopped, backs parallel to the ground and far higher in the air than I cared to think about. “Whoa,” the man grunted, “I thought for sure that one was gonna make me sick.” I clenched my teeth and said nothing, but I gave another little nervous laugh, and found myself spinning at a reasonably slow pace toward the ground again. The ride squealed to a halt and I forced myself to relax.

“Well,” said the man, whose name I realized I did not know, “thanks again for ridin’ with me.” I opened my mouth to reassure him that it was my pleasure, but was cut off as he announced loudly, “Now I think I’m gonna be sick.”

And with that lovely parting note, he tore off the seat belt, shoved his way through the door, and tore after the nearest trash can.