“Candy Apple”
There’s always a bittersweet sadness when Wilkinson’s ummer carnival comes to a close. Timed to run through those last few weeks of August right up until Labor Day, it’s the perfect summer sendoff. The breeze from the tilt-a-whirl against the hot summer sun, the taste of fresh corn on the cob, riding down the big slide at twilight then capping off the night with freshly-made hot zeppoles. It’s all of childhood summer memories distilled into something tangible. It’s as close as humanly possible as you can get to perfection.
Just don’t go to the candy apple stand.
It seems innocuous enough—what’s a carnival without candy or caramel apples? But trust me when I say this: avoid that stand and the awful woman who works there at all costs. Ignore the perfect red liquid glazed over each impossibly round apple. Hold your nose so you won’t fall a victim to its juicy aroma. Keep a safe distance to better avoid temptation. And never, ever make eye contact with her.
Here’s the thing about that stand: it’s not actually a part of the carnival. No one knows where it comes from or who she works for, but the stand appears just before the carnival opens, and stays long after it closes—offering her treats to any passersby well into the cool October nights. And, likewise, no one knows how she stays in business—all her offerings are, as I’ve been told, for free. Nothing good comes for free.
I’ve never tried them. No one I know has—that’s part of what makes it all the more baffling. Word of her evil machinations is so integral to the fabric of our community that, for as long as I’ve been alive and attending Wlkinson’s summer carnival, I’ve never once in my life seen anyone procure in one of the sticky delights, yet year after year she returns. Word has it that the only people who have ever dared to partake in her sweet temptations are rogue travelers who find themselves in the place where the carnival usually sets up, tired and hungry in the dead of night after hours of driving. The stand appears to them like a mirage, surely there couldn’t be something to satisfy their appetites, a seemingly friendly face to offer some kind words before they return to their travels, and a spot to stretch their legs, all for free.
And that’s when she gets them. That’s when they take a bite of the forbidden candied fruit. That’s when the poor suckers succumb to her evil schemes.
That’s when they learn…
The candy apples are actually oranges.