On the Time I Got Vomited On at the Orange Fireman's Carnival

I am not sure how many years ago this happened, but let it be known that I hated carnivals before this event and still continue to hate them to this day.

The town where I am from, Orange, CT, has two events annually that the entire town shows up for: the first is a lackluster fireworks display for the Fourth of July and the second is the annual Orange Volunteer Fireman's Carnival. Both events are strewn with mediocre-at-best entertainment and a continual volley of high school acquaintances, the sightings of which carry with them the constant inner dilemma of "do I say hi to him/her or not?" This post is about the latter of these events.

While still in high school, though I am not sure which year it was exactly, I attended the fireman's carnival. Like all carnivals, the one in Orange is adorned with inescapable cigarette smoke, disgusting ride operators, and those similarly clad folks running the games berating those ambling by to pay $30 for an attempt to win a prize worth about 50 cents. As my groups of friends and I drifted through the second-hand smoke and avoided making eye-contact with the carnies, we made it in line to ride the king of the carnival rides, the Zipper. Having sold a kidney to afford the tickets to enter such a mechanism, it made sense to give it a whirl (pun intended).

A gentleman with less teeth than fingers opened the creeky and rusted door and allowed me and my friend Ari to board. The door shut and the carnie locked it with what seemed to be a safety pin. Seriously, there is no way those rides are safe.

Now, if you have yet to ride the Zipper in your life (and after this story, you will probably never ride it), the seating is arranged so you are facing the members of another car immediately across from you. Across from Ari and me sat a group of three 12 or 13 year old girls. The mechanical engineer carnie locked them in as well, and after all the cars were likewise filled, the ride began.

The cars move so that the one we were facing, filled with the 12/13 year old girls, shifted to the position stacked on top of us. The Zipper spins and flips the cars around and, if your car carries enough momentum, it can flip upside down. After 45 seconds of spinning around on the brink of death 50 feet in the air, the ride ended and the carnies began to release the locks on the doors and release the passengers. Ari and I were at the top of the ride and opposite us was the car with the 7th graders.

We both hear one of them utter "I think I am going to be sick" and then we laugh to each other. The ride really isn't that intense and would barely warrant any nausea.

We thought.

The ride shifts so that the 13 year olds' car is positioned directly above us. One more quick rotation and both of us would be released from the spinning metal death trap. Despite the tiny amount of time between disembarkation of the rotation before us and our own escape, the sick-to-her-stomach girl above us could not hold it in anymore.

Ari and I heard a splash on the top of our car. Actually, it was more of a splat than a splash. It doesn't matter what sound it made because soon the other senses would take over. Oh, I forgot to mention, it landed solely on my half of the car.

The trickle of vomit seeped slowly but surely into our car. Because of the restraint system inside the car, my mobility was impaired. I had to sit and watch the recently lost lunch slowly drip through the roof of our car onto my shirt, shorts, arm, and leg. I could smell the bile; I could feel the warmth. The slow, dripping stream of barf onto my body, combined with the ear-piercing laughter of my car-mate, as well as the occasional chunk-of-something that feel through the cracks lead to a feeling I would never wish on anyone: a feeling of disgusting, impending doom - a fate that one must watch unfold and that, under no circumstances, can be avoided, no matter how hard one tried or how loud one yelled.

Covered in a stranger's recycled meal of the day and too shocked and appalled to feel anything but utter disgust and misery, I was released from the ride car. The sick girl and her friends were also let out, but said no words of apology to me and instead ran away. Ari, still laughing, attempted to explain what had happened on the ride to our friends but to no avail; he could not muster the strength to speak through the hilarity.

Drenched in humiliation and dotted with chunks of what I believe was bread and some part of a hot dog, I left the carnival for home to shower for hours and burn my clothing. I have ridden the Zipper since, but only with Ari and only for the sake of reliving this story together, because, despite how disgusting the event was, it was still hilarious.

I just wish it had happened to someone else.