The Queen of the Carousel

Before you turn the corner, before you even see the faded sign that hangs from rusted chains, you can smell the frying oil. My father said when he moved away from home, the thing he missed most was fried seafood. He searched and searched for a replacement for his beloved clam shack, which was just as much a part of Revere Beach as its sand, and finally, finally, he came upon Lenny and Joe’s. Though nothing could truly compete with the flavor that memories seem to take on, Lenny and Joe’s would have to do. He would not raise children who couldn’t appreciate fried clams. It just couldn’t be.  

If it weren’t for the line of people that often tumbles out onto the sidewalk, you’d probably drive right by and never know it was even there. A wooden building with peeling white paint. A lonely rooster weathervane. Gravel kicked about on the front stoop. 

Once you get closer, though, you’ll be touched by the golden light that pushes out through the windows. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you may wonder how artificial light can look so warm. Walk through the door, and suddenly your senses are overwhelmed. The kitchen is clattering, boiling, frying, shouting; workers balance trays that dip and sway above your head as they navigate the crowds. Orders are being shouted and the people are more like streaks than anything else. Everyone darts past, bopping and weaving around and through, jackets pushing on sweatshirts, pushing on dresses, fabric curling and whooshing. People press by with a rush of “excuse me, excuse me, excuse me.” All the while, that frying oil smell you’d been trying to track since you pulled into your parking space has hit you full force. Now you can hear it spitting and hissing behind the counter. A million different conversations chattering about and it’s tight, and it’s dizzying, and it’s exhilarating—and it’s over in a blink. 

And then you’re at a picnic table out back, waiting for your number to be called through the crackling megaphone-shaped speaker. Surrounded by trees and breeze and a faint tinkling music you just can’t place, you’ll wonder if you imagined the whole thing. But you peek through the ever-swinging door, and are pleased to find out it was real. You see another little family, frazzled and dazed, reading the big white and red menu boards above the cashiers’ heads with no idea what to do. You just smile to yourself and walk back to your table, a spring in your step, wishing them well, and so glad you’re now the old pro, and someone else is the newbie.

My mother always made me memorize my order before we crossed into the buzzing golden restaurant. A two-way combo with shrimp and scallops, onion rings, and extra tartar sauce. The extra tartar sauce was for her, because they didn’t have a way for her to order more than one extra with her own meal. My father, on the other hand, never decided what he wanted until we were in the epicenter of the chaos. My mother would be tapping her foot, my sister tugging on her purse, and he would hem and haw over whole-bellies or strips, a lobster roll or a combo plate until finally he would order the same thing he ordered every time: a fish platter with fries. And every time, without fail, once we sat down to eat, he’d wish he’d ordered onion rings. We’d pay, my mother would rush us out, and the second we’d chosen a table, I was running around the corner of the building, calling over my shoulder that yes, I’d be back before the food was ready, and no I wouldn't go into the parking lot, and yes I’d be careful.        

For me, you see, it wasn’t the hectic restaurant that captured my attention at this place. It wasn’t the golden battered seafood, or the freeing gulps of salty air I breathed in being so close to the beach. No, the object of my love was tucked in next to the peeling white building. The Carousel. My Carousel. 

In my wide, childish eyes, it always glowed, regardless of the weather. Surrounded by black iron bars, it existed as its own little kingdom, apart from the rest of the world. Inside, eight beautiful ponies danced around the carousel, each connected to the wooden core by heavy metal poles. The panels that made up the carousel’s center were each magic portals to the ponies’ homes. There was a circus scene for the clown-nosed pony, and a Wild West mural complete with rolling tumbleweed for the one with the cowboy hat, but there was one painted slat that stood out from the rest: the one painted for my pony. Bursting in blues, violets, and greens, it was a deep seascape with fish of every color and coral rising from the base. Sometimes, as I rode around and around on my pony, I squeezed my eyes tight and imagined gliding into the mural and galloping across the dark ocean floor.  

Turning the corner, I ran the final few feet to the carousel and pressed my face between two of the bars. I leaned in, searching and searching for my pony as they all spun round and round. Finally, I breathed a sigh of relief as I found her. 

It was obvious to all that my pony belonged to the sea. She was a mermaid of sorts, complete with a shimmering, scaly tale. She was a bright turquoise, with whorls of periwinkle and lilac curling around her body. She was carved, emerging from a wooden wave painted with seafoam that seemed to bubble right up against her chest. Despite a chip of paint here, or a scuff there, she was perfect—

Thunk. A swift kick lands squarely on her teal flank. Then another and another. Now fully jolted from my daydreams, I zero in on the pink-legginged culprit seated in the pearly saddle. How dare she treat my pony like that? My anger flares. My eyes narrow. 

I hear someone calling my name. Reluctant to leave my pony with such a rider, I don’t pry myself away immediately. My name is shouted again, this time with a little more force, so I push off from the iron bars with a huff and a silent promise to come back and comfort my pony as soon as I can.

The corners of my mother's mouth are turned down in an almost-frown. I slide into my seat and begin to eat. My sister whines about the weather, about the time, about the food. “It’s good, just try it,” my father encourages, again and again. His patience is dwindling. I only recall slivers of the conversation that ensues. He says, “Why do we even….no one….supposed to be...I never….fun.” My mother responds, “It’s fine...just tired….you’re the one who....calm down.” It continues like that back and forth, back and forth. 

I try to block it out. All I want is to get to the carousel.

Finally, finally, we get in line for the carousel. The man collecting tickets has a kind face that melts a bit at the edges. He seems blurred, like if I were to pass him on a street years later, I’d know him, but be unable to place him in my memory. The gold fillings in his teeth glint a little when he smiles. Collecting the tickets, he explains the rules of the carousel and The Game. Each time you go around, you’ll pass wood fish statues around the periphery. In their mouths are silver rings—about the size of dollar coins—which roll out one at a time. Most people think that the aim of the game is simply to collect as many as possible. Special people know that every so often, along with the silver rings, the ticket man hides a single gold ring. It blends in well as you’re whirling around, but if you look at it carefully you can see the subtle difference. If you’re the lucky rider to pluck the golden ring, you get a free ticket. 

It’s the greatest honor of the carousel. 

The line is inching up, little by little, we’re almost there, almost to the front. I begin to plan the quickest route to my pony. Depending where the carousel spins to a stop, I will go left or right. I have to get there first. I look up from my plotting and notice we are next in line. I’m prepared.  

As soon as I walk through the iron gate, I will transform. I will become the Queen of the Carousel. I am a benevolent ruler. I always say thank you to all the operators of the carousel; I never make the other ponies feel bad that they aren’t being chosen as the royal steed. I remind them that they’re all beautiful. I am a strong ruler. When an enemy dares to cheat at the game and pull two rings from the fish’s mouth at once, I am disgusted and I tell him about the unbending rules. If he laughs it off, I stand my ground and banish him from my realm. I am the Queen of the Carousel.

I barely hear the ticket collector as he takes the slip of green paper from my hand. I am watching as the gate swings inward. Then I am off to the races. Left, I have decided. My pony is within view, I’m almost there, almost there, and then—I grab onto the halter. I’ve claimed my pony. No one would dare challenge me at this point. I pet her teal mane and whisper in her pricked ear that I have missed her. 

But then to my left I hear crying. My little sister stands next to the clown-nosed pony. She’s not tall enough to pull herself up. I look to my right and see the pink-legginged girl walking toward me—toward my pony. She’s getting closer. I look over my shoulder again to see my teary-eyed sister. I glance around. I do not see my parents.  

The Queen of the Carousel has a decision to make. 

The music begins to play. The ride is about to start. Time is fast and slow all at once. I look back and forth again. My hands loosen around the halter. My heartbeat is heavy. 

The Queen of the Carousel has made her decision.

I slide my foot out of the stirrup. My shoe thunks to the ground, and the impact ripples up my leg. My once white sneakers become covered in dirt as I drag them through the wood chips and over to my little sister. I boost her up, even though my arms feel heavy, and fasten the rope seat belt around her waist. 

I don’t even need to turn back around to know that I’ve lost my pony. I trudge over to the plain brown pony. The sounds of the carousel feel far away. Shouts of joy and excitement sound more shrill.

I no longer feel like The Queen of the Carousel. 

I slump down in the tarnished saddle. As we spin around, I don’t even pluck rings. Around once, twice, three times—halfway through the ride. Four, five—I know this is the last time around. My breath tumbles heavily out of my mouth. I glance sadly at the fish statue. But wait! What’s that? I lean forward—could it be? Yes! Yes, I think it is! My eyes brighten, my spine straightens—the transformation is taking place. In the fish’s mouth, just a little ahead, is the golden ring! I stretch my arm out as far as it can go, almost there, the ride is slowing, almost there, I reach and reach and loop my finger through, and—yes, yes! I pull my hand in, cradling it against my body. 

I look down and watch as the ring glints around my finger, the ride coming to a halt. And suddenly, it sinks in, and my emotions are spilling over. My cheeks ache from the wide grin I cannot keep off my face. I throw my arms around my pony’s long neck, squeezing her tight. 

“Silly me,” I whisper to her, and only her, “I am the Queen of the Carousel. I am a kind ruler. I will always help others onto their pretty ponies. When I pull the golden ring, from now on I will offer the free ticket to another, maybe my little sister, or maybe—maybe—even the pink-legginged girl.”

And a voice seems to whisper back to me, “It does not matter which pony you ride, you will always be the Queen of the Carousel.”