Flash fiction by Kendra Cardin

Wish You Were Here

Sam surrenders a few more uncrumpled dollar bills to the kid behind the counter at the fish bowl toss booth. Third time’s a charm, right? Tongue bitten between their teeth, unruly bangs brushed clear of their coal-lined eyes, Sam casts one plastic ping-pong ball after another toward the game table. Ping, ping, each bounces, hopscotching along the rims of the little glass bowls. Ping, ping — plop, onto the ground, while the goldfish continue to swim their cramped laps.

Final go. The winking mermaid inked on Sam’s forearm swishes when they flex their wrist. A slight pang of arthritis before the toss, then ping, ping — bloop. Sam punches their fist into the air, glossy black painted fingernails reflecting the razzle-dazzle of the fairground lights. The carnival kid scoops the floating ball out of the bowl, brings Sam their prize. Round and round swims the orange fish.

Sam’s been working the festival circuit for years, cramming amps and boxes full of band merch into the back of their clunky van, delivering their one-hit wonder to corn dog munchers and Ferris wheel enthusiasts up and down the sunshine state.

Sam doesn’t resent The Song anymore. Not when sweaty clusters of fans smile widely, dance wildly, when Sam starts to play. Especially during the evening set. Sun low, heat breaking. Kids and grandparents, taffy-spun teens, all shoulder to shoulder as they bop, twirl like tilt-a-whirls. This weekend’s appearance, a bevy of beach babes. Flip-flopped feet strolling the boardwalk. A sweet slice of paradise, just a hop away from the town where Sam grew up.

Sam lifts the bowl to their eyes, grins at the gaping fish, feels a twinge of guilt. If they weren’t on the road all the time, they could get a proper home for the finned critter. Maybe one of those fancy aquariums. The kind with the multi-colored pebbles lining the bottom, miniature castles, and treasure chests whose lids open with an eruption of bubbles. Then goldie could get as big as it wanted. Sam would feed it flakes, scrub its tank, make sure it had everything its swimming heart needed to thrive.

Yeah.

And if they settled down, maybe they could look up Susie. She loved carnivals. Sam scans the crowd of bobbing heads and neon-hued balloons, half expecting to see her. Shaggy blonde hair, sea-blue eyes glittered by the midway bulb light, crunching on a gooey caramel apple as she pirouettes around the cakewalk. Of course, she’s not there. Sam wonders if they’d even recognize her now. It’d been decades since that night at the drive-in. Forty was coming fast for both of them. And they weren’t minnows anymore.

It’s a sherbet twilight, sky a swirl of pink and orange, when Sam takes the stage again at six. Still thinking of Susie. Kicking themselves for never finishing that song they started writing for her in high school. Sam plucks a string on their guitar, slides smooth and cool as snow cone syrup into the first notes of The Song. Out in the audience, disciples raise their arms high, roller-coastered, ready to catch the melody. Novices shuffle, nod along, ears attuning to something new, paper plates of half-eaten funnel cake cradled in their hands.

If Sam were to walk away from all of this tomorrow, that fish might stand a chance. The thought bounces around — ping,ping — before falling away, quick as it came, when Sam begins to sing. Balanced atop a spare amp backstage, the goldfish darts back and forth, dizzying itself in its small bowl, blissfully unaware of all the potential it has to grow.