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| Los Angeles County Fair arcade, c. 1958 |
Many lessons we don't remember learning, but this one I do.
Every September we rode with our parents across LA, the car windows down, to the Los Angeles County Fair in Pomona. We knew the routine. We split up in pairs with our allotted $1.50, supplemented by a few of our own quarters and we ran off to see the sights. At the appointed time, we checked back in with Dad or Mother by the Big Clock. After reporting, we took off again. I usually went with my older brother. We both liked the model train displays, and we always wandered by the animals and fruit exhibits in the big halls.
One year, we went to the carnival, the Fun Zone. It was busy and bright and noisy. We eyed the makeshift rides, the hall of mirrors, the games. It wasn't the games themselves that intrigued, but the PRIZES.
Anyone who could knock
down the fake milk bottles with a baseball could win a GIANT stuffed
animal, the man in the booth promised in a loud voice. A HUGE teddy
bear or poodle or whatever. The plush toys were crowded up overhead in
each booth, bright in the lights, so beautiful and new. Now and then a bigger boy and
his girlfriend would walk by us, awkwardly carrying their enormous prize, smiling and laughing.
It was easy, and only10 cents per game. I could toss a coin into an array of dishes or a tennis ball into muffin tins or bean bags into something. I KNEW I could win. We chose a booth. I tried once and was surprised to lose, but I was SO close. I played again more intently, more carefully. And then again, almost winning. My brother, bored, left me there, playing alone. I slowed down as I found myself with fewer coins until finally, they were gone. All of them. But I still had hope. Carried along by my passion, I hurried to meet our parents by the clock.
My hope was this: Maybe they would give me my souvenir dollar. At the end of the day, we had a custom. We each got one more dollar to spend on a souvenir as we exited the big gate to the parking lot. So as we gathered at the clock, I asked, I pleaded with my parents to give me my final dollar there and then. After all, a giant panda was going to be a much better prize than the little, celluloid kewpie doll I had planned on getting later. Finally, reluctantly my father relented. "But you are not getting another dollar when everyone buys their souvenirs!" he warned firmly.
I ran off to win my prize.
During
the long, hot ride home that evening, I refused to look over at my
sisters who were playing with their feathered kewpie dolls or my brother with his
treasure--a rubber, collapsible knife? I didn't care. I KNEW I could
have won. I KNEW it. Just a few more dimes. I COULD HAVE WON!
When was it that I realized my passion had been a lie? Was I still young? I think so, because the Fun Zone never again appealed.
Every September we rode with our parents across LA, the car windows down, to the Los Angeles County Fair in Pomona. We knew the routine. We split up in pairs with our allotted $1.50, supplemented by a few of our own quarters and we ran off to see the sights. At the appointed time, we checked back in with Dad or Mother by the Big Clock. After reporting, we took off again. I usually went with my older brother. We both liked the model train displays, and we always wandered by the animals and fruit exhibits in the big halls.
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One year, we went to the carnival, the Fun Zone. It was busy and bright and noisy. We eyed the makeshift rides, the hall of mirrors, the games. It wasn't the games themselves that intrigued, but the PRIZES.
Anyone who could knock
down the fake milk bottles with a baseball could win a GIANT stuffed
animal, the man in the booth promised in a loud voice. A HUGE teddy
bear or poodle or whatever. The plush toys were crowded up overhead in
each booth, bright in the lights, so beautiful and new. Now and then a bigger boy and
his girlfriend would walk by us, awkwardly carrying their enormous prize, smiling and laughing.
It was easy, and only10 cents per game. I could toss a coin into an array of dishes or a tennis ball into muffin tins or bean bags into something. I KNEW I could win. We chose a booth. I tried once and was surprised to lose, but I was SO close. I played again more intently, more carefully. And then again, almost winning. My brother, bored, left me there, playing alone. I slowed down as I found myself with fewer coins until finally, they were gone. All of them. But I still had hope. Carried along by my passion, I hurried to meet our parents by the clock.
My hope was this: Maybe they would give me my souvenir dollar. At the end of the day, we had a custom. We each got one more dollar to spend on a souvenir as we exited the big gate to the parking lot. So as we gathered at the clock, I asked, I pleaded with my parents to give me my final dollar there and then. After all, a giant panda was going to be a much better prize than the little, celluloid kewpie doll I had planned on getting later. Finally, reluctantly my father relented. "But you are not getting another dollar when everyone buys their souvenirs!" he warned firmly.
I ran off to win my prize.
During
the long, hot ride home that evening, I refused to look over at my
sisters who were playing with their feathered kewpie dolls or my brother with his
treasure--a rubber, collapsible knife? I didn't care. I KNEW I could
have won. I KNEW it. Just a few more dimes. I COULD HAVE WON!When was it that I realized my passion had been a lie? Was I still young? I think so, because the Fun Zone never again appealed.
