DIZZYING HEIGHTS

It’s fun time, extra busy fun time. The gypsies are here with their wagons, tents, colorful costumes. Just about everybody in our town of Baysford, forty miles north of Boston, is out to have a good time for the next two days and nights. Some of our regular shops open late, close early as residents spend their time and money on booths, rides and greasy Italian food.

At noon the Gypsy wagons ride down Maine’s main street. Horses, goats, dogs leave unwanted gifts on the cobblestones. Two tall, handsome young men follow the animals using their shovels, brooms and rolling trash cans.

A huge net filled with pink and purple balloons, tied with pink ribbons and long streamers, waits at the end of the street where the cobblestones and concrete meet. The paved road leads to Massachusetts. Children circle the field of balloons, wonder what they are for. Gypsy women in bright colors, beaded necklaces, long ornate earrings dance wildly around the enclosed balloons. Excitement swells.
A loud clanking noise fills the air as the net begins to slide away. The inflated balloons push against each other trying to escape, be free. Many burst, die in the popping explosive noise. The survivors rise fast as children jump, try to grab the ribbons. It doesn’t take long before the net lies in a heap, empty, sad. The balloons polka dot the sky.

A blood curdling scream escapes from the crowd. ‘Look! Look!,’ a woman yells. She points up to a little boy holding tightly to a pink streamer. He is floating up, higher and higher he goes. The crowd stands almost motionless unable to fathom what they see. There is a hook and ladder fire engine parked near the entrance to the field. It goes into immediate action. The ladder rises, rises to its height of 8 stories and is far, far too short to reach the little boy. No firefighters even tried to scale the ladder. The child clings to the ribbon but disappears in a few minutes. If he has fallen, nobody knows where. Frightened parents pop all the balloons their children still hold. It is bedlam.
Several gypsies try to console the mother and father of the floating child, offer them Schnaps. That does not help. Ambulances, police cars, cameras cover the commotion. Night nears. No one is left ion the empty space where the balloons, the children with their happy faces, had been a short while ago.

The crying, overwrought parents of Jimmy Cole, hold onto each other and walk towards home. Close relatives follow. ‘Look! LooK!’, Aunt Gloria screams. ‘The lights are on in your house, Miriam.’ Nobody pays attention,  cares about the damn lights. As the family gets closer they see a gypsy come out on the front porch. Holding her hand is the little boy who had disappeared into the sky. He runs to his Mommy and Daddy, crying and laughing at the same time. ‘Mommy, where did you go? You should have come with me on my balloon ride. It really was great fun. Maybe, he adds, ‘Ninatchka, my new best friend, will let us go balloon riding again tomorrow.’

Jimmy looks around to ask his friend if they can float again. She has disappeared. All that is left is Jimmy still holding the ribbon on his flat balloon.