When I was a kid, say about 9 years old or so, I was begrudgingly taken to a extremely rural country fair by my best friend’s dad. The Conklin ones, where the ride operators seem like the movie “Carnival of Souls” was a documentary about them.

I say “begrudgingly” because the man was never really a “dad” let alone a competent parent. On our way there I was sitting behind him in the back seat, driver side, with all the windows open. Without comment, he dug his finger into his nose, two knuckles deep and removed a nugget that would have made Zha Zha Gabor drool. That is, if boogers were diamonds, of course.

He flung said nugget out the window.

Said nugget then landed on my arm. I gag. I pinch back a girly scream. I flick it out the window. And I will never forget seeing his eyes in the rear view mirror – blazing with “Yeah. I did that!” kind of response. He knew it landed on me and yet didn’t apologize.

Flash forward to the park itself. I think my parents might have given him some money for my rides and food, but fine fairground dining never materialized. However, he did manage to snag some beers somewhere later that day…

My friend insisted that we go into the haunted house. You know the fun house kind of trailer, decked out with garish gargoyles painted on the outside, while inside is a maze so dark that if anyone were to turn the lights on full, would show nothing but greasy face prints all over the walls. At the time, not ever been on one of these rides, I had no clue what to expect. I was scared and needed about 10 minutes of encouragement to just step up the stairs. My best friend bailed on me well into the 7th minute of his father berating me in front of the ever expanding crowd around the entrance to the ride.

Eventually I found the courage and wandered into the dark hallway. Ahead of me, two teenage girls slowly walked, engulfed into the dark. Suddenly they screamed such a scream that I stopped stalk still. Fear gripped me so hard that I was unable to move which resulted in people piling up behind me, blocking the flow into the fun house.

I stood there crying. It was all I could do.

After a time, getting shoved around by strangers in the dark cramped hallway, a meaty hand grabbed me from behind and led me out through the entrance. My best friend’s dad had “rescued” me and I spent the rest of the day by the entrance of the fair until my “best” friend and his dad were done at the fair.

I realize after typing all this out that it sounds a bit like a downer, and yes it was at the time, but now I look back and laugh, like a good scary carnival ride is meant to do. Only it’s 37 years late.

I’ve only been in one fun house since then – at Universal Studios, where there was a guy in a werewolf mask who took a shining to SharkBoy after scaring the pants off us. Twice. I’ll stick with rollercoasters for now.