by DCBentley

Created on: September 01, 2010   Last Updated: September 03, 2010

It’s a pointless indulgence.  There is no logic behind it, no sweet story of youthful longing or unfulfilled machismo.  It started simply in 2006, our first summer in our new hometown.  The sign in front of the fairgrounds touted “Demolition Derby, Sun 7PM”.

It would be the closing spectacle for the County Fair, an event none of us had any real interest in otherwise.  Someone mentioned seeing the sign, and expressed interest, perhaps as a joke.  The rest of us chimed in enthusiastically.  Sure, we’d love to see a Demolition Derby!

So we went.  We ponied up the cash to get into the fair, we got there early to walk the grounds.  Same old county fair stuff, dubious loud flashy rides that we wouldn’t be riding, tents and booths designed to take your money in exchange for the chance at a cheap stuffed duck.  The sickly yet familiar smell of fried dough and melting sugar traveled heavily with the slight breeze.  Inside the pavilion were the crops; squash, pumpkins, tomatoes on steroids.  Blue ribbons and trophies, 4H signs and seed ads.  Outside politicians smiled and waved alongside mower, spa and siding salesmen, shiny tractors and enormous combines.  The largest crowds assembled in front of small portable shacks selling funnel cakes, beer, hot dogs and cotton candy. The noise of diesel generators nearly drowned out the pathetically tinny carnival music.  The goats in the petting zoo looked worn down, weary of being fondled by sticky kids.

It only took about fifteen minutes for us to grow tired of this.  Fortunately rumbling V8’s could be heard in the distance. We drifted towards the grandstand and found uncomfortable seating on aluminum bleachers.  Adam had his root beer, I had my overpriced water, Angel had something, I don’t recall exactly.  The deep fried onion she’d bought was crispy and tasty at first but grew heavy and greasy about halfway in.

Towheaded kids jumped up and down on the springy bleachers, one of them eventually slipped, they always do.  Mom and or dad to the rescue, a little beer’d up but still in control.  Rural teen girls strutted in their too-short shorts and ridiculously tight tank tops, young men wore the tightest jeans they had, topping themselves with a crisp cowboy hat.  Pear-shaped middle age men and women dominated the crowd, from slightly heavy to industrially obese.  Sweat

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