The park, after dark.
A five-chapter evening at a seaside amusement park that does not exist — from the minute before the lights come on to the last ride of the night. The whole place to yourself. Walk down when ready.
admit one
First light.
It begins at the far end of the midway — one strand, then the next, gold chasing gold up the boardwalk until the dark runs out of places to stand. The carousel wakes mid-turn. High over the gate the sign sputters twice, thinks about it, and holds. Eighty-one thousand bulbs. One breath.
admit one
The only way out is up.
The Comet’s chain catches with a sound like a promise being kept. Tick by tick the midway lets you go — the tents shrink to lanterns, the crowd to a murmur, the sea to a sheet of black glass. Near the top there is a moment, one tie from the crest, when the whole park fits in your two hands.
admit one
Hold. Now fall.
The scroll is the throttle — you own the plunge. The rails pour off the hill and the night tears past in gold streaks; the sea swings up, the lights blur to ribbons, and for four seconds Meridian Pier is a place you are falling through rather than standing in. Breathe at the bottom.
admit one
The slow wheel home.
The wheel makes its final turn with you at the top of it. Below, the midway exhales — strand by strand the gold goes out, the carousel slows to a music-box drift, and past the breakwater the first firework opens over the water like a struck match held up to the dark. Stay as long as the ride lets you.