Anneke Buskes Mrs. Witt Pre-AP English October 5, 2015
Double Decker Elvis
Around and round the whirly-gigs spun, dancing lazily in the stagnant air, only moved by fans set up behind them and the occasional measly breeze. Their mesmerizing patterns and colors filled the skies, larger than life, even when their movement was in slow jerks and circles, a mere reflection of their true abilities. Their dances, inspired by mechanical breezes, were hypnotic, and to a small child, seemed bigger than the entire world. After reluctantly prying my gaze from the Elvis whirly-gig, strumming on his little wooden guitar, I looked around to ask my mother if we could buy him.
“Momma? I like this one—can we buy him?”
I pointed a chubby finger up at Elvis, looking back expectantly, upon which I noticed several things. First off, there was no response to my call. I looked up at the towering, sun-beat giants above me, ears straining desperately for some sort of reply. Secondly, after glancing around more, there were no familiar faces at all. I didn’t see my mother’s casual backpack and baby-carrier, or her familiar, worn purse, or even my little sister, tottering besides her, too small to walk long distances. Third, somebody would probably buy that Elvis before I did if I couldn’t find my mom soon.
1
Spinning in a circle, I walked out of the push of the usual Double Decker crowds and over to the shade of the whirly-gig tent, surveying from the shade the sea of faces. I tried to ignore the
Double Decker Elvis
Around and round the whirly-gigs spun, dancing lazily in the stagnant air, only moved by fans set up behind them and the occasional measly breeze. Their mesmerizing patterns and colors filled the skies, larger than life, even when their movement was in slow jerks and circles, a mere reflection of their true abilities. Their dances, inspired by mechanical breezes, were hypnotic, and to a small child, seemed bigger than the entire world. After reluctantly prying my gaze from the Elvis whirly-gig, strumming on his little wooden guitar, I looked around to ask my mother if we could buy him.
“Momma? I like this one—can we buy him?”
I pointed a chubby finger up at Elvis, looking back expectantly, upon which I noticed several things. First off, there was no response to my call. I looked up at the towering, sun-beat giants above me, ears straining desperately for some sort of reply. Secondly, after glancing around more, there were no familiar faces at all. I didn’t see my mother’s casual backpack and baby-carrier, or her familiar, worn purse, or even my little sister, tottering besides her, too small to walk long distances. Third, somebody would probably buy that Elvis before I did if I couldn’t find my mom soon.
1
Spinning in a circle, I walked out of the push of the usual Double Decker crowds and over to the shade of the whirly-gig tent, surveying from the shade the sea of faces. I tried to ignore the
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