A small town in Oregon, early 1970s…

     The carnival is in town, and I am jazzed. As far as I am concerned, this is one of the highlights of the year.

     Gravel crunches under my boots as I approach the fair grounds. The sweet smell of cotton candy and caramel apples mingles with the earthy odor of sawdust and manure from the pony ride. I have a destination in mind, but I don’t go there right away. A tour of the grounds is called for first.

     I cruise around at a leisurely pace, past the ring toss, the baseball throw, the duck shooting range, the balloon popping dart game, and the magnetic fishing pond. The sounds of machinery blend with the calls of the carney hucksters and the murmured conversations of the customers, punctuated by high-pitched shrieks from the rides. The rides are where I am headed.

     I bypass the food vendors, the house of mirrors and the haunted mansion. My first stop is the Octopus, a ride with eight arms that move up and down as they rotate around a central axis. On the end of each arm is a single car that is large enough to hold three adults, and that spins as it moves through its trajectory.

     After waiting in one line for tickets, and another line to get on the ride, the operator brings a car down to ground level. He opens the door to the car, which folds forwards and down to form a step for the passengers. The people inside climb down, and the car is ready.

     I get in the car by myself, and the operator’s assistant slams the door up and shut, sliding the mechanism to lock the door in place. There is a handrail along the top edge of the door in front of me, and I grab and hold it tightly. The car moves a short distance to get the last car loaded. I have a great view of the carnival from on high.

     Then the ride takes off, and I am rotating, revolving and moving up and down in complex arcs and parabolas. Centrifugal force stretches the multicolored lights below me into undulating glow worms. I would rattle around inside the car if not for my grip on the handrail on the door.

     Suddenly, I think, “what if this door slams open?” It is an urgent but rhetorical question. I know exactly what would happen. With my grip on the handrail, I would be pulled forward out of the car and dashed to the ground.

     I immediately look around for other places to hold on. My options are very limited. The only other place I can grab is a rail along the top edge of the seat back behind me. It feels very risky, but while the ride is still moving full force, I transfer first one hand and then the other hand to the rail along the seat back, with my arms fully extended out on either side of me. It is harder to resist the forces of momentum in this posture, but I don’t move my hands back to the door.

     About thirty seconds later, the door to my car slams open with a loud bang. I tighten my grip, but remain in the car.

     The operator slows the ride, and brings my car down to the ground. The operator slams the door shut again, and tells his assistant in a loud voice that he has to make sure that the door is properly closed and latched. He starts the ride up again, but of course I do not trust the door. A minute into the ride, the door slams open again. The car is returned to earth, and my ride is at a premature end. For the rest of the night, that car remains empty, twirling through the sky with its door open.

     This is a true story. It actually happened to me. I have told it to a number of people, and they have different interpretations about why I thought about the door opening and changed my grip. Some people think it was prescience. Some people think it was coincidence. I’ll share my own interpretation with you in next week’s column.

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