Page 176 of The Single Dad

The carny sighs in the corner, interrupting our conversation. “You get a big stuffed giraffe,” he says, gesturing to the prize rack. Sure enough, there is a plush giraffe there that’s nearly as tall as I am. It looks ridiculous. “Whichever one of you wins gets a stuffed giraffe. You don’t even have to hit all three rings. You just have to promise to leave me alone.”

“That sounds like a pretty good deal to me,” Reed says, a winning smile spreading across his face. “What do you say?”

I inhale through my nose, then nod. “Okay. Deal.”

Reed pats his pockets, then glances over at me. “You got a dollar?”

“Are you kidding me? Reed Eastwood is asking me for a dollar? Why don’t you dip into your trust fund? Is your hotel chain really doing that bad?”

To my endless exasperation, not one of my barbed comments seems to make a dent in Reed’s confidence. He holds out an open hand, gesturing.

“Well, I’d mosey on down to the big, cartoon vault where we keep all of our dollar bills stacked,” he says, “but it’s a little bit of a haul, and it also doesn’t exist. So unless this ring toss booth takes credit—”

“We do not take credit,” the carny intones, sounding bored out of his mind.

“They don’t take credit,” Reed sighs, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “You wanna loan me a dollar, or are you too scared I’ll show you up at ring toss?”

My teeth are clenched together as I reach into my wallet and produce a wrinkled dollar bill. I hand it to Reed.

“Thank you,” he says. “I’ll pay you back, I swear.” He winks at me, then waves the dollar at the carny and says, “Let’s do this thing!”

The carny brings each of us three rings. Reed gathers his up with great ceremony, an expression of mock seriousness coming over his face. He takes a deep breath, like a runner at the starting line of an Olympic race.

He tosses the first one, and misses. Then he turns to me with an elaborate bow.

“Your throw.”

I huff, narrowing my eyes in concentration. If I can beat Reed, then maybe I can walk away with my pride intact. I throw my ring, and it skates over several bottles before hitting the floor.

Reed faces the counter again, holding his next ring between two hands as if he’s a pitcher on the mound. “Eastwood lines up for his second shot,” he says, adopting the effect of a sports announcer. “Can he do it? Here’s the throw—”

He lets the ring fly, and it bounces off the center bottle.

“Ah, that’s a shame,” I say with a smirk. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

I toss my second ring, and miss once more.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Reed says, his voice intense, “it all comes down to this.” He takes a theatrical breath, then winds up and tosses his final ring.

It whizzes straight over all of the bottles, and Reed steps back with a sheepish grin.

“You weren’t kidding,” he marvels. “They do rig these.”

“We’ll see about that,” I say, lifting my last ring.

Reed leans on the counter, staring with bated breath as I ready myself for the throw. I’ve been tossing the rings like frisbees, but that hasn’t gotten me anywhere. It might be time to try a new strategy.

This time, instead of throwing the ring horizontally, I toss it in a high arc, nearly straight up in the air. It flies into the center of the bottles and lands neatly on the center bottle, catching on the neck.

Reed lets out a whoop, his hands flying into the air in excitement. “Unbelievable, folks!” He turns to me with a sudden, exaggerated expression of solemn defeat. “I acknowledge your victory.”

“You were a worthy opponent,” I respond, lifting my chin.

He grins. “Glad to hear it.”

As the carny goes to get my massive stuffed giraffe, Reed says, “Hey, now that our friends are together, we’ll probably be seeing a lot more of each other, right?”

“Yeah,” I agree cautiously.

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