Can you feel it? The buzzing energy of the carnival, breathing a continuous air of vigor and motion. The heartbeat, a lithe stream of electric machinery exciting the gears and mechanisms. The voice, a muffled yet palpable roar of anxiously eager children all around you. There is a scent of heavy sweetness on the light June breeze, a mixture of freshly popped kettle corn and salty, sticky twists of pretzel dough.

Can you feel it?

It is the moment in which I am perched precariously at the peak of a plummeting roller coaster that I truly feel it. In this moment I feel not simply the energy of the carnival, but the essence of it. Its intimate truths spring to vivid life in my mind as the moment seems to freeze and hang for a second in ultimate suspension. Here, at the peak, all sound seems to fade away as the grand expanse of the park sprawls beneath me as if it were some overgrown, invasive vine stretching into every corner.

This moment fades too, and suddenly I am thrust downwards in a riveting whirlwind of screams and flailing arms. A tear rolls down my cheek as I forcefully dispense a coarse laugh, my contribution to the restless ocean of hysteria that surrounds me. I feel it is an obligation; an attempt to fit in. I struggle to keep my head above the surface.

As the ride comes to a close and the carts return to the station with a metallic grinding of gears, the passengers shuffle to remove their safety harnesses and exit the area. In the bustle, a man’s voice comes over the muffled loudspeaker above, swathed in a thick layer of static: “Thank you for riding the Thunderbolt. Please exit through the doors to your right and have an electrifying day here at Worlds of Adventure!” The pitch in his voice increases and intensifies as he recites the scripted lame pun.

As I’m stepping out of my cart and proceeding to the exit, I glance over at the operating booth. Behind a panel of glass, hovering above a landscape of rusted metal knobs and levers with the microphone in his shaking, aged hands is the speaker. His lopsided name tag boldly announces “HAROLD” with a sense of finality. As I’m exiting through the doors, I hear Harold’s voice begin again for the next batch of riders: “Welcome to the Thunderbolt! Please secure all valuables. An attendant will be around to help you fasten your safety harness. Keep all hands and feet inside the cart….”

I find a bench near the roller coaster exit and decide to sit. It is on a slightly elevated hill and thus provides a favorable vantage point to observe much of the carnival, breathing and murmuring all around me.

I briskly wipe away the salty remnants of the now dry tear that streaked down my cheek on the Thunderbolt. Everyone here is so happy, lively, excited. And I am crying.

I am crying for Harold. The frail man must have been nearly 80 years old, and yet here he is, repeating the same monotonous tasks with the same monotonous script for the same monotonous ride day after monotonous day. My mind wanders. How long has he been here? What if he has worked here since his teenage years? How many times has he pushed those buttons? How many times has he walked through the carnival? How many times has he counted the lights on the carousel? How many onion rings from the snack stand has he eaten during breaks?

And I am crying for the other employees. What about the sixteen year old running the carnival ice cream shop? He has big dreams for the future. Graduate from high school, take some entrepreneurship classes from the community college, expand his small novelty graphic T-shirt business, set up an online store, sell world-wide, and earn millions. It’s all mapped out, carefully orchestrated. But his teenage spending habits defeat the plan. He has charged too much to credit cards and is unable to get a loan for college courses. He works more to pay off debts. But he’s still just a child; he can’t stop spending his earnings. Before he knows it, twenty years have passed and he’s progressed several feet – from the ice cream shop to the snack stand. Harold will visit him for some onion rings.

I am crying for what could have been. The vacancy left from scattered dreams is a gaping chasm that cannot be filled. And so Harold will continue to press the levers and recite the script to keep himself occupied, to keep thoughts of past hopes at bay. There is such a relentless energy of life coursing through the carnival, but its essence is stagnant and empty.

People do not cry at carnivals because they can stay for a day, scream their hearts out with joy, and leave. I do cry at carnivals – for the people who must keep coming back.