One brief fortune might become, say, ten fortunes of what to do and not do. It felt, suddenly, almost like a revelation. “Unless -” the thought came to me, “-that is my past and future.” A long journey in the past. The arrival is uncertain.” What’s that supposed to do for me? How annoying. But this fortune from the machine only vaguely claimed that I don’t know where I’m going. I disliked the fortune not because of its cardpaper stock but because of the format of its sentences.Ī real fortune, I believed, should first prove its psychic provenance by telling me something I already know about my past, and then, once it has gained my confidence, it should tell me something I don’t know yet about my future. My shorts were thin fabric, and the cardpaper fortune in my pocket poked its itchy corners into my thigh. But the moment you pause at the top-that’s when the fear of God takes hold of you. This is what I know of rollercoasters: The ascent is slow, the machine works hard, and, while you climb, you haven’t yet let go of the world. So I got strapped into the little car alone. Of course she couldn’t join me on the rollercoaster she had to watch over that inanimate bovine and treat it as though it were a thing of value. Mir was watching me and I couldn’t back out. By the time I realized I was queued up for the rollercoaster, it was too late for me to change my decision.

I stood in the first line I found, huffy, just to look as though I had somewhere more important to be. “Mo,” she said, fidgeting with the multiple cow legs wrapped absurdly around her neck, trying to get me to wait up. A bell went off, a cowbell, I guess, and the barker handed over the stuffed cow to her. Your arrival is uncertain.” The card was still in my pocket.Īnd then, at the beanbag throw, I’d barely hit the lever, but Mir positively smashed it. A moving mannequin behind the glass-bald, unisex-had wagged its waxy finger at me, and the machine spit out a little card. They only give you two throws, and neither of mine had been strong enough.īefore the beanbag throw, I’d had my fortune told from a coin-operated machine. I was mad because I’d tried to win the cow, too, but my beanbag hadn’t plopped against the lever hard enough.

It had giant plastic eyes, half-lidded, as though it were surprised yet not at all enthused to find itself at the fair. The toy was almost as big as she was, and she had draped it over her body and was parading it over the fairground. Mir had actually won the cow, the stuffed yellow monstrosity, all floppy shoulders and hips.

Painting Dragons by Tucker Lieberman