(LIGHTS UP)

Where I’m from the stars are so prevalent, they could be harvested like the fields. They glitter in the darkness like the fireflies that grow thick in a hot summer’s night. At twelve years old for me and my best friends, Amy & Michelle, we were so confident in the abundance, the crops of stars in the sky, we didn’t worry about the fulfillment of wishes. In Los Angeles the city’s light drowns many a wish possibility, but with no glare to drown out dreams, any night’s sky in Iowa surely offers a lifetime of wishes–for riches, and spouses, and houses, and a legacy–all promised with star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. And that’s why standing outside with the toads creaking and crickets playing their violin tails, it was never a question that one day we’d get our moment, the summer when our wish would come true, the wish between a tree house and Guess jeans, the wish for a kiss. A kiss from a boy in Ye Olde Mill. Amy, Michelle, and I stood outside, took in the sky’s offerings, and wished as hard as we could. For breasts. And for a kiss in Ye Olde Mill.

For two weeks in August, the sands of freedom quickly slipping through a preteen’s fingers, the magic of summer is held in Ye Olde Mill and the Iowa State Fair. The Mill, it’s elusive. For most of the year it’s boarded tight–through the orange autumn, the crisp football and cocoa nights, through 80 below wind chill, and through the thaw of spring. It’s not until the air has gotten thick with humidity, a mix of tenderloins and funnel cakes scenting the skies, and the Bud Tent open for business at East Side night at the fair that it comes alive. The lovers are drawn to the Mill like mosquitoes to a snapping porch lamp. They come in droves to ride this clattering tunnel of love, teetering on the boats through the darkness, and past dioramas of tee pees and stuffed bears. Of course, those who really ride Ye Olde Mill have never seen the dioramas. They are too busy with their own homemade adventures.

And so the fair opened, Des Moines had its only traffic of the year, and Michelle, Amy, and I, ripe in a summer’s tan, walked to the fair with a purpose. Amy wore a rubber band around her bangs creating a fountain. I wore my lucky Macho Man Randy Savage t-shirt. And Michelle…Michelle, Michelle, Michelle was looking quite Who’s the Boss Alyssa Milano wearing a pink scrunchie and Benetton shorts. The boys always liked Michelle. She had a flirtatious yet approachable nature and inquisitive eyes. Ever since the fourth grade she’d been effortlessly wiling her way through boys and had only recently arrived at Casey Bacan. Aren’t they always a Casey? Her boy of the month. Casey Bacan had apparently heard we’d be making our way to the fair that day, and it wasn’t long before he found us at the Hot Dog on a stick. Which is next to the Banana on the Stick, outdone only by sausage on a stick. Damn. Why do sticks make everything so much better? But I digress… Michelle and Casey had never kissed, but it was only a matter of time. Those sugary, freshly squeezed lemonades have a strong effect on a seventh graders’ desires. We made our rounds through the Hall of Flame, to the talent show and pig barn, across the ground on the sky ride, bought 10 pencils for a dollar at the flea market until all that was left was Ye Olde Mill whose time had come.

Amy and I had sadly met no boys along the way, and standing in line my chances were worsening by the minute. There was a wrinkly man in overalls running the ride. (Yes, there’s one man in Iowa who actually still does wear overalls.) Wrinkly called over to us and broke me out of my Alex P. Keaton fantasy. "You girls. You’re next!" I looked across the lines one last hopeful time. The six year old behind me, messy with whipped cream and chocolate and covered in paint from a Spin Art disaster, looked up disdainfully. Even he knew there’d be no kissing for me that day. "You’re up!" Wrinkly shouted, and Amy and I climbed in next to each other, Michelle and Casey in the back. The ride started, and amongst the cobwebs a sad, desperate feeling that things had gone terribly wrong hung in the air. We entered the darkness, and Amy and I quietly stared at the lit displays of bears and checkered red and white teepees, around each rickety turn, while attempting to ignore the sounds of sloppy first kisses from the back of the boat. This was not what I’d imagined. Maybe the stars didn’t get my message. They heard Michelle. She’d probably get the breasts too. (LOOKS SADLY AT WHERE CHEST SHOULD BE) Amy and I left without the summer’s sugary pleasure, only with the knowledge that high school would start before too long, and your chances for anything were almost always better with a cheerleading outfit.

Fifteen years have passed now, and perhaps when the day comes I ride again I’ll find that Ye Olde Mill is not the decadent wonderland my 7^th grade fantasies created. But this does not deter my desire to get fulfillment in a buck fifty and to steal a kiss on a humid August night. And so before the double ferris wheel goes up and cows become cow-bobs, I’ll throw one last wish into the place where a star must be and hope the seventh grader in me will someday be kissed on Ye Olde Mill, coming away with some personal satisfaction and a check off my list. So thanks for coming out tonight. You can catch me in Iowa August 10-21. I’ll be at the Mill from approximately 8 to 10 nightly…with lip balm. Hope to see you there.

(LIGHTS DOWN)

• June 13, 2003 - No Shame Los Angeles
  

  Performed by Cadry Nelson
  

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