Robbed by the Zipper

I knew I was upside down only because shimmering twoonies were suspended in space around my ears. A surreal fraction of an instant of utter stillness, as if captured in a painting by Salvador Dali, with those new toonies glistening pristinely, an unforgettable burst of startling wonder before I was slammed forward, my face and eyeglasses crashing against the white

steel screening of the cage we were strapped into. 

The Zipper swirled and dipped, our cage spinning madly on the big wheel that revolved at killer speed. Then we stopped, were level again, swaying only slightly. I knew I was right-side up only because the twoonies all hit the floor of my cage like a slot machine letting go- 

K-SHING.

It was terrifying, the sight of twenty dollars in twoonies at my feet, my family's supper money for our fun day out at the FREX. I tugged against the belts that held me strapped in, my arm stretching down, unable to reach the last of our money, before we were thrust away again, swirling upside down. Face banging ahead, neck snapping back as my son and I screamed with terrified laughter. 

I tried-- against the tyrannical push of gravity-- to search the pockets of my shorts, hoping for a few stray coins. 

Nothing. Empty. 

Once level, I hopelessly cast my eyes down toward my feet to see that the twoonies were gone, flung out into space. We spun again at punishing, whiplash-inducing speed. My neck muscles straining as I turned to peek at my nine-year old son, his face panic-stricken, his skin and hair sucked back by vicious momentum. 

"I want to get off now," he said, his voice quavering. 

Finally, the exquisite torture slowed. We giggled with relief, terror shifting to euphoria. We were survivors. As yet fully unzipped. The machine decelerated even more and the cages- one by one- were unloaded until we were let off by Snakey, the carnival ride operator, onto the platform. 

Immediately, I began searching for the dropped coins. We had already paid twenty-six dollars to enter the FREX and I couldn't afford to lose our last twenty dollars. What would we eat for supper! The day would be shot. Our masochistic fun soured. 

A boy standing by the fence of the adjacent ride- The Octopus- said,  "You lose money?" 

"Yeah." 

"That guy over there." He gently pointed at Snakey. "He picked up a few twoonies, and one rolled in there." The boy indicated the asphalt within the compound of the Octopus. 

I approached the ride operator, "Did you pick up some coins. I just lost twenty dollars in twoonies." I pointed skyward, indicating the imaginary rain of coins he must be familiar with. 

He frowned and shook his head, loading a cage with new unsuspecting riders, soon to be stripped of loose change. 

"That kid over there says you picked up twoonies."

"I pick up money here all the time," he said, frowning reasonably, his tattooed arms slamming shut the door on a cage. 

"Yes," I protested, "but it was my money." No one else had approached him requesting lost coins. The day was winding down. We were here for a good time. And we were hungry, having already endured blissful hours of pressure-sped swirling-nausea.

I paced around the space surrounding The Zipper, my searching eyes fixed on the ground.

"You can't go in there," Snakey called out. I ignored him, strode toward the low steel fence at the rear of the ride. It was blistering hot. I was sweating. I was hungry. I leapt over the fence like a super-stud crime-fighter, only to have the fence collapse under me. 

I struggled to my feet, and roamed the grounds with Snakey calling out warnings to me. I found a loonie. Not even mine, but no sign of my ten twoonies.

My wife stared at me with that expression of strained patience. Hands on the handles of the stroller, she looked hot, tired, hungry. She wanted to go home. She was willing to toss in the towel, give it all up. Not I. I was having a good time. I wanted my money back. I wanted a fat hot dog and grease-soaked fries. I had been robbed. 

After twenty minutes of sweaty searching, I found the show office. When the manager, John Drummy, finally showed up I cordially introduced myself, offered my hand and he hesitantly shook it.

I explained my case. Having been to LaRonde in Montreal and Canada'a Wonderland in Toronto, I had seen large signs on certain rides informing the prospective torturee that if there was a chance of losing change then the rider should: REMOVE LOOSE CHANGE FROM YOUR POCKETS.  

"It would've been a courteous gesture to post a sign like that," I suggested. Naively, I expected my money returned to me. I also- foolishly- expected courtesy. John Drummy sat his short robust body on the metal stairs of the candy-apple red office trailer and shook his head at me. 

"You mean to tell me you've been to these other fairs and you didn't know you were going to lose your change on this ride?" he asked, his jaw slack, his short orange hair catching the sun. He was dumbfounded by my ignorance. 

"At other fairs, if you're going to lose change, they post a sign. There was no sign, so I assumed- "

"There's a sign."

"Where."

"A big sign. Remove loose change, knives," He counted the items off on his thick fingers. 

"Really?"

"Yeah, really." His tone was turning nasty now. He'd had enough. A busy man. He stood, turned on the stairs and headed up, back into his trailer.

"So that's it?" I called after him. 

"Yeah." He smirked at me in a dismissive way. "Have a good day."

Flabbergasted, I turned to look at my son. He too was puzzled. 

"There was no sign," he said. 

"Let's go see."

   

Approaching my wife, I saw that she was hotter, hungrier, and newly bothered by my statement that I had to work my way through the crowds to check the sign. My four year old was crying, hungry, her shoes rubbing the backs of her heels. My one-year old, strapped into her stroller, was sweating, irritable, squirming to get out.

But, me, I was having fun. The time of my life. After all, we were at the FREX, what everyone in Fredericton was talking about, the rollicking place to be.

My wife followed far behind as my devoted son and I weaved our way through the crowds of people, the colours a blur through the steady purposeful cast of my gaze.

We arrived at the Zipper, searched out the sign. I took my time. 

"There's no sign," my son puffed out an incredulous breath. 

I read the big NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR LOST OR DAMAGED ARTICLES. 

"I'm going back," I said to my wife.

She shoved her hand out for the car keys. I knew better than to withhold them. Handing over the ring, I nodded at her instructions that she'd meet us by the main gate. I took a concerned moment of pause to watch her wheel away with our two crying daughters before I spun around and took off on my mission. 

Back at the trailer, I walked up the steps and tapped on the glass. When John Drummy saw me, he ducked into the back. A burly man, wearing shorts, a t-shirt and wide sunglasses stepped up to the window. He was the bouncer. His image implied this. 

"Is John Drummy there?"

"He's busy right now."

"Tell him that I was down at the Zipper and there's no such sign. He was lying. There's no sign that says remove change, knives-"

John Drummy came ripping out from back in the shadows, pushing the big bouncer to one side. 

"I didn't say that," he indicated angrily. 

"You just did. And you said it because that's the sign that's supposed to be there."

"No, no, no." He grabbed one of his fingers, "I said, there was a sign-"

"I know what you said. Any credible carnival would have a sign up as a courtesy to the people."

He stepped back, waved his hand dismissively at me. 

"Any credible carnival," I called into the hole in the glass,

"But I guess you wouldn't know about that. Who owns this company."

Drummy turned on me, "The man's dead."

"But, who owns the Fair?"

"HE'S DEAD," Drummy screamed. 

"No, but who owns it now."

"The Estate of Clarence Reid. Lawyers in Charlotettown. Go talk to them."

"You're a sleezebag." The words were out of my mouth before I knew it. 

Drummy wheeled back at me, plunging toward the glass. "Why don't you leave now before I call the police and have you removed.'

I laughed daringly, "Go ahead, That'd be great PR. I'll wait right here."

Drummy's face reddened. His body jerked. He wheeled away again, "Get fu*king out of here," he shouted. 

"Are you cursing on me in front of my son at a family exhibition?"

"You're acting like a jerk," he said, waving his unsteady hand as if pushing me away. No time for such nonsense. He disappeared into the shadows of the trailer, a handful of papers in his hands. I looked to my left. The big bouncer was standing at the bottom of the steps, his body solid with a threat, his wide sunglasses hiding his eyes. 

"You going to throw me off the premises," I snickered.

"No," he said, sniffing in containment. "I just don't want you talking to my father like that."

For some reason, the sound of his voice cut me down a level, shut me up. I don't know why. The man's voice was caring, hurt. Through all my rage, I understood that I had offended someone's father.

I took my son's hand and wandered back into the crowd, making our way toward the park entrance, past the white ticket booths where we waited for my wife. She pulled up in the car and we got in. 

"No luck," I said. 

"What'd you expect," she said. 

I glanced over my shoulder, the two girls already sound asleep.

"Good time?' I asked my son. 

"Yeah." He smiled. "It was great."

"Good."

"How about you?' he asked. 

"Oh, yeah. I had sackloads of fun."

"They must fight over that job on The Zipper," my son said. "All that money they get to keep for free."

An earlier version of this article appeared in The Telegraph-Journal 

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