Speaking of last minute, I didn't even think I'd participate this week... I started writing at 11:30. So, if it sucks...
The last minute of the last night of the carnival always made him feel desperate. Would there be another? He couldn’t take that chance. He had to make every second count.
Should he take another ride on the Tilt-a-Whirl? What about a corn dog; should he get what could possibly be the very last jumbo corn dog of his life? Oh no… funnel cakes… or the giant slingshot ride…
Think, man, think! You don’t have a moment to lose!
Tormented by the blinking lights, tortured by the smell of fried dough, he collapsed in the middle of the Midway, tore at his hair and screamed, “Why me, God? WHY ME! Why do you torture and tempt me like this?”
The agony of his indecision tore at him like a pack of dingoes trying to open a package of Slim Jims. It was simply too much for one man to bear. He clawed at his scalp, unable to come to a decision. The other carnival-goers stepped over him, impervious to his despair. One child stuck a licked-clean cotton candy cone in his ear; a teen poured what was left of his snow cone down his pants. He noticed neither of these assaults.
The lights went out. The noise died away. The carnival workers dismantled the booths and rides, packed them onto truck beds, and hauled them away.
And, just like the previous year, and every year since 1975, his family had to pick him up from the deserted parking lot at 3 a.m., sticky and comatose, curled in a fetal position sucking his thumb.
