When the Ferris Wheel Breaks Down - a prose poem

 

A view from up on top is preferable. If the Ferris Wheel breaks down, that is. Middling pods give little in way of refreshing vantage points. But if the pod gets to tip-tip top can scan horizon, palm to forehead in faux salute, and a squint will grant you a fuzzy far off look-see at a hazy light show of skyscraper lights and festival blinking. There’s much to see there, when the Ferris Wheel breaks down, that you can distract yourself from the chaos and misery that infects those lined up to ride the Ferris Wheel. Like you they waited for hours, but unlike you they’ll never get to get stuck at the top, when the Ferris Wheel breaks down.

Still on earth, they fuss and kick, watching in disastrous dissatisfaction as once spinning Ferris Wheel comes to a completely, and abrupt halt. Stopping as it were, some near the top, some middling, and some just off the ground, but those in line will never get to know. Departing the ride just moments ago, those that got the whole show. Children laughing with cotton candy grins, sugary highs, filled to the brim with life, and those in the line will never get to know how it felt to be on the Ferris Wheel, before the Ferris Wheel broke down.

When the Ferris Wheel broke down there was some careful contemplation, some minor hoping as the fixers took to fixing, and repairmen repaired. There was a twist of a ratchet, the cursing of frustrated man, but eventually they had to call it. And as the chain went in the way of the entrance ramp to announce: Ferris Wheel Closed, a hundred or more people, what seemed like millions bitched and they moaned for they had waited all day to take their turn in a pod, to see the hazy skyline, to view like gods down on mortal men, but now, the Ferris Wheel had broken down. They would have wasted a better part of the afternoon staring at the backsides of strangers, or friends, or family who were as good as strangers. Having ached and pained their way from lesser attractions, and wasted their money away on gimmicky games, for shittier prizes, they would feel rageful, justifiably rageful that they never got the chance to know what it was like.

Carnival men, are tired though, worked for days, set the whole thing up, kept it oiled and going. Kept the gears turning, the pods bobbing as the Ferris Wheel circled around. Opened up the gate for next batch of ticket carrying consumers, and never intended to squander on their promise, that everyone would get a chance to ride on the Ferris Wheel, as long as the Ferris Wheel didn’t break down. And for a moment, when it did, when the Ferris Wheel broke down, they wanted very much to keep good on what they said. For years their reputation was staked on the promise of that view. Their modern machine was built on the back of other failed models, that were looked at and conjugated with other designs, for years, since way back when, when there was a rope and pulley system, and the Ferris Wheel was harder to operate, but now it should have been spinning slow, smooth like buttered silk, but it was halted and jammed, and for all that they could figure, it was an act of God that brought it to heel, and for all their intents and all their purposes the Ferris Wheel was broken down, the Ferris Wheel was closed.

You don’t see most of this. You don’t hear the promises broken down below. Your view is pure, your company beautiful, you are feeling serene. When you peek over the side you do not gather up psychically the internal machinations of the people below. You were once them, waiting in line, but you now have your view. And though getting down is on your mind, to get on with your life, you do not fret too much, for you are filled fully with roasted peanuts, and elephant ears. The taste of cinnamon and sugar clinging to your teeth like memory treats of the bigger meal. So, when you look down at the raging voices, you do not hear the anger, only the whispered shouts as though your miles away.

Those in line begin to play telephone, ear to ear, saying the breakage is a scandal, a lie. That the operator is tired, the repairmen careless, the owner of the show is ignorant. Bastards, they think, as the stamp their feet, the ground abused and imprinted from hours of waiting, of walking. That same line, marching forward in baby steps as the Ferris Wheel line whittled forward, but continued to grow, never ending.

The carnival workers are dismayed. It was almost time for their shifts to end, it was almost time for the end of the day, but the red eyed anger sinks teeth into them, and their fears feel the bite, their anxiety is realized as a hundred, seems like millions of angry men, women and children scream on at them. The come at them with torches, and clubs, pitchforks brought by those nearby who heard that the damn commies were taking over the community. It isn’t long before those on the bottom ring of the ride, in those pods closest to the ground, are forcibly removed, even though they never got even a little higher. They are bludgeoned.

You don’t see this. The sweet air, free up there, that sweet air tastes like blissful ignorance. You don’t see the mob scaling the side, you don’t see the Ferris Wheel covered in blood, the broken Ferris Wheel drip dropping red crimson tears down onto foundations of that machine. And as the Ferris Wheel tips over, only then do you feel the rush of wind meet you as your head collides with rock, and Ferris Wheel collides with the rest of you. It happens so fast, and you wonder just as it ends, as your brain spills on community grass, if it was worth it  to sabotage contraptions for the benefit of you and yours, unaware of anarchy stewing among the masses below.