JEREMIAH PETERS IS no priest. Yes, he feeds the great wheel. Fresh flesh, round and round. But he holds no belief in a greater power. Be it God or Devil. Eastern gods, Western gods. None of it matters a shit to him. Jeremiah worships Man. Or, more precisely: Woman. He’s done a little prison time, yeah, sure. Been in some nasty scrapes over the years. When he was a traveling carnie, he’d been fired twice for inappropriate behavior toward some of the clientele. Bounced around every state there was with whatever outfit would take him on.

See, here’s the thing: everyone needs a good machinist. Jeremiah can fix the gearbox of a Tilt-O-Whirl or refashion a snapped metal clasp on a chair swing, replace the wheel of a bumper car easy as spit on it. Even repair the motor of a Merry-Go-Round. If you can do all these things, then the other things about you (things that are not so helpful) get overlooked. Bad behavior is more easily forgiven.

To a point.

For example, when working a carnival, Jeremiah had the nasty habit of sneaking into haunted houses. He’d slip in through an employee maintenance entrance, wait for a couple women to come by in the dark – clutching at each other with overstated fear – then step in behind and grope one of ‘em like a monkey in heat. In the dark, they never saw him coming. Some of them took a while to react, unsure. Maybe part of the experience? Not fully understanding… and some of them would just stand there and let him do what he wanted, hell, for a minute. Sometimes more. He’d shock them, see. Surprise them into acquiescence. Of course, there were always the strong ones, the ones who would turn and attack with spitting fury from the get-go. Jeremiah just gave those women a hard shove before slipping away – disappearing via a secret door, or through a hidden opening behind one of the displays. By the time they made their way out of the house, hissing and screaming, he’d be long gone, yessir. Long gone. Having a smoke with a fellow carnie behind the hot dog stand, innocent as you please.

Not a bad system. Not, that is, until the bitch with the six-gun-quick smartphone. Flash in the dark. Profile shot. Busted. Police, charges, the whole bit. Fired. Jail time. When he got out, it just meant a different state, different carnival.

He could fix anything, after all.

More importantly, he could run a wheel. A much-desired skill. Much in demand. Most folks don’t realize how complicated it is to operate a Ferris Wheel, that it’s easily the most complex of all the rides at a carnival, despite their evolution.

The newer ones are automated, full hydraulics, but you still need to balance the tubs just right. Can’t have them tipping. More importantly, you have to keep the wheel itself balanced just so. Modern wheels are nothing like the ones from the old days. The universally-used clutch-and-brake systems created by the Big Eli Bridge Company were death traps. The cable drive systems total nightmares. An operator would need to time the brake just right so the rotating tubs would stop dead on the platform. Quick math and a certain touch, that’s what it was about. Older models relied almost purely on feel. No easy task on a long, hot day. No sir.

But now? Now the controls are just buttons and a brake override. Jeremiah would never admit to it, but any dummy could likely run the newer models. But folks still wanted someone with experience. Just in case. And Jeremiah has decades of that. He can run a Big Eli or an Aristocrat with his eyes closed, get those tubs to rest exactly where he wants them on the downturn. Knows just how much pressure to give the clutch, get everyone spinning, all the weight distro’d correctly. When you’re a wheel operator, you learn quick to shake hands with gravity and make nice, because you’re running things together. You’re partners.

Jeremiah hardly worries about such intricacies these days. Now that he runs the big white beauty at the Santa Monica Pier. This baby’s even solar powered. Only one in the world. Jeremiah was proud to operate such a fine beast. Yeah, he was living the dream. Hugging the ocean. Running the Ferris Wheel. He’s learned his lesson. Couple of times. He’s better now. Keeps to himself. Internet provides all sorts of freakish pleasures for him, he doesn’t need any more trouble, thanks very much.

Of course, sometimes… well, he just can’t help himself.

He looks at the sky, at his watch. Little on the early side, but he’s already checked in, so what the hell. He unlocks the cable securing the power switch, pushes the paint-chipped heavy metal lever up, flips the lights.

The Wheel comes to life.

Beyond the platform, a long chain holds the gathering crowd at a distance. Folks give a cheer. Jeremiah smiles, nods to a few of the little ones who look up at the massive wheel, the lights reflecting off shiny faces. It’s kinda sweet. He looks at their mothers, as well. Thinks them even sweeter.

He makes a few inspections, walks underneath the wheel, across the metal platform, to the operating panel and clutch system. He’ll send her around a few dozen times, like he always does, make sure everything is running smooth. Check each tub, confirm they close and latch proper. Then check them all again. No doubt tonight would be the night the insurance inspector would make an appearance. They like to come when it’s good and busy, when you least expect them. Jeremiah would be damned if the City of Santa Monica gets flagged on his watch. He isn’t planning on moving again. No, this is the last stop. He likes it here. Likes the ocean. The big wheel. He and the wheel have an understanding. She’ll keep on spinning, and he’ll keep feeding her fresh meat.

Apparently, Jeremiah believes in gods after all.

He just doesn’t know it.

3

FRANK SITS IN the Cessna, stares at the controls with blurry eyes. He has the plane powered on but the engines are silent. Airport chatter of other pilots and the controllers fill the cabin. White noise.

“Okay, here we go,” he says, and dons his headset, turns off the chatter, prepares to run the checklist. He does so mechanically, aviator-training kicking in despite his inebriation. He double-checks the mixture, switches, breakers. Gauges all acceptable levels.

“Clear prop!” he yells, then realizes the windows are closed. He opens the vent windows on both sides of the cabin. “Clear prop!” he yells again, starts the engine. The propeller roars to life, a monstrous mosquito. “SMO tower, this is Cessna 172 Tango Charlie,” he pauses, belches wetly. Continues. “Requesting taxi to runway two.”

Static. Prays he sounds sober. He waits, continues the after-start checklist.

“Cessna 172 Tango Charlie… are your lights on? We’re not seeing you.”

“Fuck,” he mumbles, and reaches under the control wheel to flip the white switches, turning on navigation, beacon, strobe and taxi lights. “Fuck fuck.” If they gave him shit he’d have to feign sickness. “Uh, roger that. Lights on. Sorry, tower, distracted by a passenger having seatbelt issues. Checks are all clear. Request taxi to runway two.”

For a few seconds, the only reply is hissing static. The propeller roars in front of him, eager to chew air. “Okay, Cessna 172 Tango Charlie… we see you now. Proceed to runway two. Slight delay there, so standby for takeoff. Busy night tonight. We’ll give you clearance momentarily.”

“Copy that tower.”

Frank releases the brake and throttles gently. The plane rolls forward.

ROB AND MARY at Buddy Tub’s. Splitting the breaded shrimp and a basket of fries. Sipping Corona. Grease stains on the paper lining of the fried shrimp basket. Mary thinks Rob is acting strange. Distant. He isn’t talking much, eyes everywhere. She’s worried, then afraid. Is it her? Is something wrong?

They’ve been together three years. Oddly, although they’d both gone to the same college, it wasn’t until after graduation that they started dating. Throughout their tenure at Cal State they’d been merely acquaintances. He a friend of a friend. Occasional parties. A few words in passing once. A baseball game when the Titans were in the playoffs. A few months after graduation, she’d been invited to a dinner party. Her old roommate’s new apartment. A housewarming. Rob was there and when they saw each other that night it was like they knew. They’d had their flings, their experiences. And now. Now was the time for that next level. The real relationship. A night out minus the handle of cheap vodka, the drugs she was always too nervous to try. Sure, she’d pop the occasional tab of ecstasy, maybe a small line of coke. But she wasn’t into it like the others. She supposed she was boring for a college girl. Only two boyfriends. Very little experimenting, sexual or otherwise. At the party, they talked about their mutual college experience, and she could tell he’d led a similar path. Over the course of that evening, they’d separate, as if not stuck to the other, but she’d find herself searching the room while everyone mingled, music played too loudly. A wistful homage to dorm life. With increasing tension, she’d try to find him. At one point, she’d thought he’d left, was caught off guard by how hurt she’d been. Panicked in search for a trace of him. She found him on the small balcony, chatting with another girl she didn’t know. Relief mingled with new hurt.

Then his eyes found her. He smiled, and she knew it was private. For her. The hurt went away, and she relaxed, knowing – at that moment – things would be fine.

They shyly exchanged numbers. Words bumped awkwardly in the air between them. He called her later that night, and she floated. Adrenaline capsized rationale. Her words forgotten the second they left her lips.

They dated voraciously, fed off each other like starved cannibals. It was obvious from the first date it was going to be forever. The realization was a shock, both frightening and luxurious. Together.

Three years later. She wondered if he knew it was the anniversary of their first date. A bad horror movie and drinks at a tucked-away speakeasy in Culver City, where the bartenders wore suspenders, grew beards and waxed their hair. She’d been snapped at by the bartender for stirring her newly-prepared drink too vigorously, and she and Rob had rolled their eyes, laughed, enjoyed the pride of the mixologist. It was strange to think it was only three years in the past. It seemed to her a lifetime with him had already been lived.

ROB ACHES. THE fried food sits in his belly like lead. His nerves are rattled. He’s anxious for the moment to arrive. He glances out a window, sees people beginning to climb aboard the Ferris Wheel, feels a new surge of delicious panic. He’s decided they’d skip the arcade, go straight to the wheel. He wants to get through it, then they’d have all night to revel, to celebrate. He looks at Mary, tries to smile, but she looks wary. She knows something’s up. He was always been terrible at secrets. He nearly laughs out loud at his own tension. It’s time to go.

“You done?” he blurts. Mary nibbles a lone French fry survivor.

She pops the fry into her mouth, sips her Corona, eyes darting up and left as she does so. She’s annoyed. He knows. That’s her tell. If she had locked eyes with him while drinking, they were good. If she looked down, or absently away, no problem. Up and to the left? Danger Will Robinson. He almost laughs again at his nerves, relishing the fact she’s pissed at him. He imagines her relief, her joy, when she discovers the reason he’s acting like a distracted, pushy idiot.

“Sure,” she says, curt. “Didn’t know you were in a hurry.”

“I’m not,” he lies. “Just done eating.”

She softens, worry filtering her features like a black-and-white movie star. “Are you okay?”

He smiles and can tell it relaxes her. She’d know if the smile was a lie. “Totally. Just a little antsy tonight. Sorry.”

She shrugs. Apology accepted, but he knows she’s waiting for him to mention the anniversary. Maybe he’ll mention it after. Part of him enjoys playing the lout. Like the friend forced to lie to pull off a surprise party. It only feels gross until the shouting starts.

He drops a twenty on the table. “Let’s go.”