It was the autumn carnival. I still remember the warm aroma of funnel cakes beckoning us to the tiny stand in the midway, manned by an equally tiny Italian dressed all in white and capped with a proper chef's hat. Engulfed in sugary redolence and warmth, the tiny man poured batter gently on to the oil's surface in the deep fryer. Beneath the awning of his hut the other kids and I watched with rapt anticipation as the nascent funnel cakes took form.
When it was my turn, I pressed my finger to the batter stained glass. I had been eyeing a particular funnel cake since it had first touched the hot oil. With an almost fatalistic sense of purpose, I made my selection. As a topping I requested powdered sugar and whipped cream. The tiny man looked at me with gentle eyes as he handed me the confection.
"That'll be $5.50, please."
I was dumbstruck. My parents had only given me a five dollar bill. I held the five dollar bill aloft, as if to indicate that that was all I had. I recall looking directly at the man with the gentle eyes. Time seemed to stop. He understood.
Without hesitation he lifted the warm funnel cake from my hands and tossed it like a Frisbee into a garbage pail behind me. It sailed over my head, and I turned around in time to watch the delicious pastry, whose history I followed from inception, meet its demise in the fly-ridden steel garbage can.
"Next!" The tiny man said.
I remember walking away despondently with my hands deep in my pockets. Then I noticed that there were a couple of quarters in there. But it was too late. I never ate funnel cake again.
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