9:23 am:

I had never been a fan of wearing a watch. In part, it was because I had an embarrassing difficultly telling the time with hands and those digital watches are extremely tacky. However, I found it necessary to wear one when I was working, so I “borrowed” my brother’s. Now, I can’t help but look at it constantly.

I’m not a patient person. It says so in my sign description: Sagittarians are naturally impatient and hasty. Which is exactly why I’m standing here, glancing at my watch every moment. The bus is late.

I despise public transportation. Usually, I avoid it, but unfortunately due to parking lot limitations, employees have to park their cars in the college faculty lot across from the fairgrounds. We then have to take the unreliable CAT buses to the C Gate entrance. I have to plan arriving at the parking lot early enough to accommodate the lateness of the bus.

Other employees arrive at the bus stop, not yet wearing their tacky Hawaiian-print tomato shirts. I already have mine on, as well as my ID badge clipped to my pocket. I’m glad the supervisors are not that demanding in keeping a proper uniform, seeing that the customer can’t even see anything below the chest. Good thing.

“How late were you here last night?”

I turn around to see a young woman smiling at me. We worked in a booth for a few hours last Saturday’s rush. I return the smile, though I have to put effort into it.

“Midnight.”

“Lucky. John and I were here until 1:30. 1:30! And on top of that, we still had to count down our drawers!”

“That’s terrible.”

“I know!” She shades her eyes and looks over my shoulder. “The bus is here.”

“Finally.”

She drifts away from me to join an animated conversation with our other co-workers. I climb onto the bus and immediately head to the back row of seats.

Just as the bus doors are about to close, Jason emerges through the doorway and takes the first available seat. Seeing me, he waves. I don’t wave back.

10:17 am:

They don’t need me right away. Perfect. I get here nice and early and I have to sit in the office until another booth needs to be opened up.

The early workers have already left the trailer and the small room is quiet, save for the occasional walkie-talkie crackling to life. I slowly count my money drawer to make sure it is balanced. Having done so, I sit in one of the folding chairs, drawer positioned carefully on my lap.

My supervisor Mike pokes his head from the far office. “You ready?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“Good. You’re going in the Cuckoo House.”

Oh God. Not the Cuckoo House.

10:31 am:

I walk behind Mike, clutching my backpack to my chest as he leads me through the crowds of people. I know my way to the Cuckoo House already. I was there the other day. First, he stops at his assigned booths along the way to check up on my fellow ticket sellers. Two have already sold out their wristbands and request more.

Finally, we arrive to the Cuckoo House booth. It is stuck between the aptly named maze and the Tilt-A-Whirl. Mike unlocks the back, turns on the power and air conditioner and allows me to step in.

“Need anything?” he asks.

I shake my head. He locks me in, and before he leaves, he knocks on the front window.
“If you need a bathroom break or food or whatever, give me a call on the phone.”

“Alright.”

11:42 am:

I requested specifically not to be placed in this booth anymore. I decided last time I was here that the Cuckoo is the worse ticket booth to be assigned to. It’s not really needed. No one buys tickets from here. There is another booth just up the road strategically placed by the Zipper to bring in the hordes of customers. It also doesn’t help my headache that the Tilt-A-Whirl attracts its customers by blasting the same hour of horrible pop music continuously.

However, the worse part is it will get boring in this booth. Very quickly.

2:31 pm:

Today is Tuesday: Unlimited Ride Wristband Day. I spread out the red plastic bands on the counter in front of me and position my cash drawer to the right so no one can see it. Doesn’t really matter. Only one person has come to see me since I’ve been in this booth.

These wristbands are a rip-off. For twenty dollars, the customer can purchase this wristband that will allow them to go on most rides as many times they want. The catch for this is the wristband’s time usage is limited. In my spare time, I have compared the different fair specials to see how someone could save money. The best day to come is on Wednesday for the 10 Dollars for 10 Rides Wristband. Even though the person would only ride ten attractions, it’d still be cheaper. Most of the rides cost at least five tickets (75 cents per ticket, equaling $3.75 per ride), so at this rate, the person would only pay a dollar for each ride.

I’m glad that my time spent in Calculus has been well spent.

A little boy approaches me. “Where’s the petting zoo?” he asks.

“It’s over in Kiddie Land.”

“Where’s Kiddie Land?”

I point behind him. “It’s that way. On the other side of the park.”

He looks to where I’m pointing. “What animals are there?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Are there kangaroos in there?”

“Maybe. Is your mom around?”

“She’s in the bathroom. Are there are llamas?”

“I don’t know. Probably.”

A woman appears behind the boy. “Timothy! I thought I told you to stay by Mommy!” She turns to me. “I’m sorry, miss.”

“It’s alright. I was just helping him out with directions to Kiddie Land.”

Timothy tugs on his mother’s shorts. “C’mon, Mommy. I wanna see the llamas!”

“Thank you, miss.” She picks Timothy up.

“No problem, ma’am.”

3.13 pm:

I really need to use the bathroom. I call Mike. He says he’ll be here in a minute.

3.14 pm:

Where is Mike? I’m going to explode.

3.15 pm:

Could he have taken any longer? I look like an idiot, racing across the fair for the nearest restroom. When I get back, I will strangle Mike.

3:57 pm:

I have set up a game. I place my cash drawer on the opposite side of the booth. I then try flicking rubber bands into each of the money slots in the drawer by bouncing it off the wall. Getting it into the tens’ slot is the hardest.

Anne showed me how to flick rubber bands without hurting myself and with better accuracy. We were in the Hercules the Giant Horse booth yesterday, hiding in the corners so that outside viewers couldn’t see us. The way these ticket booths are set up are actually quite helpful. There is a sign pasted onto the window outside that tells ticket information, but makes it difficult for anyone to see if there is a seller inside. It helps if those sellers lean back and into the corners of the booth as well. This position makes an excellent way of people watching, one of the high points of fair working.

“Here, you have to wrap it around your thumb and curl it around your pinky,” Anne says as she does so on herself. “Then, when you want to shoot, let go of it with your pinky.” Sticking our hands through the barred window, I practice this new technique by aiming at the information booth. Occasionally, an unsuspecting customer would get hit in the leg but we’d withdraw our hands quickly and hide in our corners before they would notice.

Anne has worked at the fair for thirteen years now, ever since she was of working age. She has never been promoted to anything higher than ticket seller, but she rather likes it this way. She finds pleasure in working these three weeks out of the summer and hopes to do so for many years to come.

“Why are you here?” she had asked. “You’re so much better than all this.”

“Nobody else was hiring,” I replied. “It’s hard for a college student to get a job during the summer. And I need money.”

“Hopefully, you’ll be able to grab a better job next summer, right?”

Yeah, next summer. I hadn’t even begun to think that far in advance. I should, though.

“Right.”

“Do you have a plan for what you’re going to do after you graduate college?”

I had a plan. It was a good one. I was going to graduate and leave this community behind once and for all. Now, I’m not sure when I’ll be graduating, or if I’ll be graduating.

4:57 pm:

A man approaches my booth. I recognize him as the carnie from the bumper cars.

“Can I buy some ones off you?” he asks.

“How many?” I ask, knowing quite well that I shouldn’t be doing this.

“A hundred.”

I give him the money and he walks off. On days when I was in a busy ticket booth, I counted down my drawer and discovered there was more money in it than in my combined paycheck for all three weeks. I often wonder if I should just stuff my bag with my drawer’s contents and split.

It saddens me that I finished my worn-out copy of Don Quixote and I don’t have an extra book to read.

5:12 pm:

“What the hell do you mean these things don’t work anymore?” A man surrounded by his brood of children is shaking his wristbanded arm at me.

“It’s past five o’clock, sir,” I reply. “The red wristbands are only good up until five.”

“What? It doesn’t say that anywhere!”

“If you’ll look, sir, it says on the second to last line on the window sign.”

He looks at the sign on my window and grows even angrier. “So what? There’s another session of wristbands at seven?”

“Yes sir. Those work until the park closes at midnight.”

“I want a refund. We bought these at four! If I had known about the different sessions, I would have waited!” One of the small girls tugs at his shorts, whining about wanting to go on the elephant.

“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t give you a refund.”

“Why not?”

“First of all, you did not purchase your wristbands from me. And secondly, we’re not allowed to. Now, if you’d like to head on over to Customer Service, they might be able to help you.”

He snatches two of the kids’ hands and hauls them away, muttering something about ‘goddamn carnies’. Typical. I’ve been stereotyped. I’m not a carnie. I don’t travel around with the fair in trailers. I’m a fairy, a person who only works at the fair for the length of time it is in town.

Mike comes around to collect my remaining wristbands, to give me the next session and to sit in for me so I can take my hour break. I hand him the manila folder of my extras. I have sold four out of a hundred wristbands.

6:31 pm:

I swallow the final bite of my sandwich when I see Jason enter the trailer. He sees me and immediately comes over, setting his backpack with his cash drawer inside next to mine and takes a seat.

“Where are you at?” he asks me.

“Cuckoo House,” I reply.

“Ugh,” he groans. “At least you’re not in the Mega Drop booth. I sold out three packs of wristbands.”

“YMCA kids?”

“No, Girl Scouts.”

I take out my bag of chips and open them as Jason leans over and pulls out his brown paper bag out of the fridge.

“How are you feeling?” He stuffs cold chicken into his mouth.

“Fine.”

He looks at me. “You sure? You could probably talk to Mike about letting you out early. I mean, it’s not like anyone actually goes to the Cuckoo House...”

“I’m fine, Jason.”

He looks hurt. “I’m just looking out for you. You shouldn’t be doing shifts like these. It’s not healthy.”

“I need the money.” I throw my empty bag into the trash. “I should head back.” Before I can get up, he leans over and tries to kiss me. I move at the last moment so he only catches me on the cheek. I don’t respond in the way he thinks I should. Instead, I stand up and hurry out the door, backpack in hand.

“I’ll stop by later,” he calls after me.

God, I hope he doesn’t.

8.13 pm:

Second session began an hour ago and I haven’t sold one wristband. I lean back in the chair and hide myself in the corner, even though it’s not even necessary. I stare out of the window at the people passing by.

Pre-teen girls dressed in short skirts and halter tops giggle as a troupe of boys chase after them. Other tickets sellers stand out in their tacky fair shirts as they wander around the fairgrounds on their break. A man and woman with matching mullets hold hands, trying to decide what fun house to enter. A morbidly obese woman tends to her sobbing child. An elderly couple sits on a bench and shares a funnel cake. A young man pulls another man into a gap between two game booths.

The fair brings out the oddest characters of this county. It’s hard to imagine such people exist, but apparently they do and congregate in one place only.

Living in a community so small allows for gossip to travel much faster. My mother and her circle of friends spread the juiciest tidbit they’d hear about a celebrity or a fellow resident of the area. I’m debating whether or not to tell her that I saw Mrs. Murphy, a married woman with two children, kissing Daniel Stetson, someone Jason and I knew from high school, but he was a year younger than us. I debate on what I should do with this information. I have power over them and they aren’t even aware of it. If my mother knew what I knew, she would ruin their reputations.

In the end, I decide that I’m not going to. I think about what would happen if I were stuck in a predicament like this. I wouldn’t want gossip about me spreading from household to household. Some secrets should remain secret.

8.27 pm:

The same man who had yelled at me earlier approaches the booth again. Without looking at me, he slaps down a hundred dollar bill and shoves it through the slot.

“Five wristbands,” he mutters.

I take the money and give him his wristbands without saying anything. I don’t need to.

9.34 pm:

I am about to mindlessly flick a rubber band outside of my booth again when Jason appears in front of the window. I, being startled by his sudden presence, accidentally release him and hit him in the chest.

“Bored?” he asks as he hands the rubber band back to me.

“Gee, what gave you that idea?”

“When do you get off?”

“Mike hasn’t been by in a while. I think he’s forgotten about me.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Nothing has changed since the last time you asked me. I’m fine.”

He moves closer and looks through the window. “Open up the back.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to talk to you from out here.”

I sigh and unlock the back door. He slips in, locks it, and automatically leans back into the corner.

“Why haven’t you told your mom yet?”

I don’t look at him. “Because I’ve working at this blasted fair. I don’t have the time to sit down and tell her.”

“Ask for a day off. Ask for an afternoon off.”

“It’s not that simple.”

I can feel him staring at me. “Nothing ever is.”

We sit and watch the people pass by in silence. I glance at my watch. 9:37. 9:38. 9:39. Finally, I give in and look him in the face.

“Look. This is my problem. I’ll tell her in my own way. I’m planning on doing it after the fair is over. But not now. I don’t want to have to tell her then say I’m off for work.”

He doesn’t reply, but simply gets up and exits the booth. Before he disappears down the road, he stops in front of the window.

“This is both of our problem.”

10.14 pm:

Mike knocks on the window, grinning. “Want to go home early?”

I nod and start packing up my drawer.

He peaks in closer. “Have you been crying?”

I throw away the tissue in the trashcan. “No.”

11.23 pm:

Counting down a cash drawer shouldn’t have taken as long as it did tonight. I had trouble concentrating counting the bills and had to recheck them twice. Mike counted my stacks of money and said that I came out even. He handed me a plastic tomato with my name on it.

“Here you go,” he said. “For coming out with an even balance ever since you’ve been here. Congratulations!”

Oh good. I get an award for being able to keep my drawer perfectly balanced and to give people their proper change. Go me.

I wait for the bus ride back to the parking lot. I manage to find a spot on the bench and sit down, trying not to think of anything.

That is all I do. Think. I over-think things. I don’t sleep at night because my brain refuses to shut down so I can. It doesn’t help me out being secluded in a ticket booth from morning to night. It forces me to think.

I have thought about how I’m going to tell my mom. Being the studious person that I am, I outlined my plan in my notebook of good ways to bring up the subject. Nothing seems right, though.

I still have a while though. The fair doesn’t end for another two weeks. I never see Mom because she always is in bed before I get home and leaves before I get up. So I will spend these next two weeks with my thoughts, for that is what I ever really have.

The bus arrives. In a few hours, I’ll be back here for another day’s work. I pray tomorrow will be better.

That, and hopefully I won’t be stuck in the Cuckoo House.