Lame Pony Rides
Outside the Feast of Santa Rosalia (I think that’s what it was called) on 18th Ave. in Brooklyn, a father watched as his daughter rode one of those coin operated mechanical horses. It whirred and shook and rocked in the most unimpressive manner imaginable. The father watched glumly. The daughter looked like she was having a remarkable time.
I remembered a time I rode a similar contraption. It was parked outside of a Shop Rite, as is often the case, but instead of a horse, it was fashioned in the shape of a dragon, which is my second favorite creature—real or imagined—ranked just behind narwhals. I begged for a quarter to ride the thing and ignored my parents’ warnings that I’d be disappointed. Eventually they cracked, and I got a quarter.
The ride was brief and unsatisfying. It shook and shimmied, and I think a warped soundtrack accompanied its gimpy movements. Nevertheless, I convinced myself that the experience was an enjoyable one. I sat with the dragon long after the ride was over, because it looked so cool, and was so brightly painted. It was designed to amuse, and I couldn’t blame it for not having much to work with.
