I went to the county fair with exactly three goals: eat something deep-fried, win an unnecessarily large stuffed animal, and leave without becoming part of an incident.
Two out of three seemed realistic.
The trouble began eleven minutes after we arrived.
My friend Rachel spotted a booth selling deep-fried pickles and immediately announced, “We should get some before the line gets long.”
This was reasonable.
What wasn’t reasonable was me turning around while walking, colliding with a garbage can, apologizing to the garbage can, and then realizing three people had witnessed the entire thing.
“Strong start,” Rachel said. I ignored her. We bought the pickles.
Approximately forty seconds later, a seagull stole one directly from my hand.
I screamed. The seagull screamed. Rachel screamed because I screamed.
A nearby toddler started crying.
The seagull flew away carrying a deep-fried pickle approximately half its body weight.
Somewhere, evolution was reconsidering its decisions.
We continued toward the midway.
That’s when I saw it.
A gigantic stuffed llama hanging above a ring-toss booth.
“I need that.”
“You absolutely do not.”
“I’ve never needed anything more.”
Twenty-seven dollars later, I had successfully won nothing.
The teenager running the booth had begun looking at me with genuine concern.
“You know,” he said gently, “you don’t have to keep playing.”
That only made me more determined.
I handed him another five dollars.
Rachel grabbed my wrist.
“We have a mortgage.”
“I’M WINNING THE LLAMA.”
I did not win the llama.
We walked away financially devastated and llama-less.
That’s when we reached the livestock barns.
Now, I like animals.
Animals usually like me.
Apparently, nobody informed a goat named Kevin.
Kevin was standing peacefully beside a little fence wearing a blue ribbon. I leaned over and said, “Who’s a handsome boy?”
Kevin looked directly into my soul.
Then he ate the corner of the fair map sticking out of my purse.
“HEY!”
I grabbed the map.
Kevin pulled.
I pulled.
Kevin pulled harder.
We were now playing tug-of-war with municipal property.
A farmer came running over.
“Don’t pull!”
Excellent information that would have been useful twelve seconds earlier.
I released the map.
Kevin stumbled backward triumphantly and swallowed half of the Ferris wheel.
Rachel was doubled over laughing.
“Your sense of direction was terrible anyway.”
We left Kevin before he could consume the parking lot.
By now, I needed emotional support in the form of funnel cake.
We found a vendor and ordered one covered in powdered sugar.
It was magnificent.
Warm.
Crispy.
Beautiful.
I lifted the plate.
A gust of wind arrived.
The powdered sugar launched directly into my face.
For approximately five seconds, I disappeared inside a cloud of confectioner’s sugar.
When visibility returned, I looked like I’d lost a fight with a bakery.
Rachel was wheezing.
A stranger walking past looked at me and said, “Festive.”
I was beginning to suspect the universe had purchased admission specifically to watch me suffer.
Then came the Ferris wheel.
I didn’t want to ride it.
Rachel did.
“It’ll be relaxing,” she promised.
This was the same woman who once described assembling IKEA furniture as “a fun little project,” so I should have known better.
We climbed aboard.
The wheel started moving.
Halfway up, it stopped.
“Why did it stop?”
“They’re probably loading people.”
Then our seat rocked slightly.
I grabbed Rachel’s arm.
“DO NOT MOVE.”
“I scratched my nose.”
“YOUR NOSE CAN WAIT.”
Below us, Kevin the goat was visible through the barn entrance.
I swear he was looking up.
Probably wondering if I had another map.
After several minutes, the Ferris wheel started again and we returned safely to the ground.
I immediately kissed a garbage can.
Possibly the same one I’d apologized to earlier.
We decided it was time to leave.
That was when an announcement came over the loudspeaker.
“Attention fair guests. A child has lost a large stuffed llama near the food pavilion. If found, please bring it to the information booth.”
Rachel slowly turned toward me.
I stared at her.
“A llama.”
“No.”
“A LARGE STUFFED LLAMA.”
“Absolutely not.”
“This is destiny.”
“This is somebody else’s llama.”
We headed toward the parking lot.
Or attempted to.
Unfortunately, Kevin had eaten the part of the map showing where we’d parked.
We wandered for forty minutes.
We passed the same corn dog stand three times.
The woman working there eventually waved.
“Still lost?”
“No,” I said confidently. “We’re exploring.”
Rachel whispered, “We’re going to die here.”
Eventually we found the car.
I collapsed into the passenger seat, covered in powdered sugar, smelling vaguely of livestock, missing approximately $40, and still without a giant stuffed llama.
Rachel started the engine.
“Well,” she said, “at least nothing else went wrong.”
There was a pause.
From somewhere underneath the car came:
“Maaaaaaa.”
We froze.
Rachel looked at me.
I looked at Rachel.
Very slowly, we opened the doors.
Standing behind the car was Kevin.
Apparently he’d escaped.
And apparently he’d followed us.
He stared at me.
I stared at him.
Then he began chewing something.
My parking receipt.
I sighed.
“Rachel?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m keeping the goat.”
We did not keep the goat.
But somewhere out there, Kevin is probably still living his best life – winning blue ribbons, escaping enclosures, eating important documents, and waiting patiently for the day I return with another map.
I still haven’t won that llama.
But next year’s fair is only eleven months away.
And I’ve been practicing ring toss. 🎡🐐😂
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