The Gravitron.
Every time that shitty parking lot carnival showed up in the summer, I begged to go on the Gravitron because looked so cool. It was bright, it was loud, it was fast without going up and down on a track and triggering my fear of heights and speed. I had no idea what happened inside that spinning steel bowl of neon and Motley Crue, but I needed to go on it like I needed air.
Finally, when I was probably 13 or 14, my mom agreed my sister was big enough to go on it with us.
The three of us ended up being the only people in it for that run. My sister started screaming halfway through the ride. At this point, my mother’s frantically trying to motion to the carnie running the thing to stop it and let us off, but her arms can barely move off the sliding wall. Now my sister and Mom are both screaming, while I’m keeping my mouth closed because I know if I try to scream I’m going to hurl.
Eventually we’re let off the ride, and just go back to our car in silent agreement that trip to the carnival is over. We lived five minutes away, and I think the three of us used that drive plotting ways to get to the bathroom before the others. My sister made it up the stairs and into the bathroom before my mother could even get to the front door, and I just ran to the side of the house and let loose behind a shrub.
I don’t think I’ve been to a parking lot carnival since.
