Page 30 of Pick-Up
There is no longer line. No more relentless demands. No messier station. No booth more likely to attract sticky kids to “help” (a.k.a. make everything worse). And it’s all mine. The position is for two, but is so reviled that, of course, no one signed up.
Last year, the poor dad who got suckered into running the booth got so frustrated with some fourth grade “helpers” that he banished them, making them weep, and had to contend with a mob of angry parents. Rumor had it that, in the end, he too was reduced to tears. He was never quite the same.
There will be no relaxing tonight. No carefree swigs of booze or amusing chats. No stealing Twizzlers and mini Three Musketeers from the kids. There will be no rest for the weary. There will be only spun sugar.
And, forty-five minutes in, it’s more in my hair than in anyone’s mouth. Strands of pastel pink and blue crisscross my face and body like I’m headed for mummification. I am frenzied; I am sticky; I am no closer to mastering the art of wrapping a fluffy cloud of cavities-in-waiting around a stupid white paper tube.
My cotton candy creations are more abstract than cylindrical. Lopsided and lumpy in a way, I’ve decided, more closely reflects our true humanity. Sure, it might fall off the stick and onto the ground, causing multiple children to wail in torment. But a little adversity is healthy. Perfection is only a construct. I am taking a stand.
Celeste and a couple of other parent acquaintances have come to visit me. But I have no time for solidarity or chitchat. No time to help Bart put ketchup on his hot dog (an act I don’t condone anyway since mustard is clearly superior). A line of restless, hungry beasts extends past the basketball hoops and behind the fortune teller’s tent. They will not be satiated.
This year, the fourth graders are not offering help so much as heckling me from the sidelines.
“You call that cotton candy?!” they yell, laughing as it congeals on my hands like superglue.
“That one’s upside down!”
“It looks like my grandma’s wig!”
I stick my tongue out at them like a deranged maniac.
The people in line are starting to complain too. “This is taking forever,” whines one of six mermaids to a first-grade ladybug.
“Patience!” I snap. Like a Disney villain.
I am starting to descend into madness in part because I keep eating the cotton candy I mess up. Which is all of them. I am on a sugar-high bender that can only end poorly.
That’s when he comes to the head of the line. Of course. Demon Dad. With a front-row seat to my failure. Dressed in a Yankees cap and his regular immaculate casual wear: perfect gray hoodie, perfect black T-shirt, well-worn Levi’s, work boots. Here to pour Maldon salt in my wounds.
I write off my accelerated heart rate to sucrose overload.
“Hi,” I say. I hope with hostility.
“Hi?” he says. He cocks his head sideways, examining me in my state.
I refuse to let him rattle me. I swirl the cardboard stick in the machine, then hand him a wispy uneven bulb of pink cloudy poison.
“Two tickets, please.”
He examines my masterpiece. “This is terrible,” he says.
“I am aware,” I seethe from beneath a bat-ear headband that has somehow landed on my head.
“It looks like a tumor.”
“You look like a tumor.”
He opens his eyes wide at that.
“Okay. No, but seriously. This is supposed to make the kids happy. Not terrify them.” He studies the cotton candy like it might bite him.
“Well, I don’t see your kid anyway. So, hopefully you can be a big boy about this. You get what you get and you don’t get upset.”
“It’s not for me!” he protests. “I said I’d grab one and bring it back for her. Now, I’m not sure I should.”
“I think you’re being a little dramatic.”
“I think you’re going to traumatize countless small children.”
