His mouth is full of stale, dusty earth.
The boys are silent as Garrison slowly blinks the stars from his eyes, and becomes aware that the balloon, hovering above him, is tethered firmly to his hand by the pink ribbon.
The silence grows, as Garrison carefully pulls the balloon towards him, hand over hand.
Wrapping his arms around the large red balloon, Garrison grunts slightly as he rolls over on top of the balloon with all his weight.
The pop resonates with great force throughout the fair grounds.
Almost immediately a great cheer erupts, with much joyful laughing among both the children and adults.
The boys surround Garrison, hoist him to their shoulders and tussle his hair.
They parade him about with shouts of “Way to go Garrison!
Atta Boy!” and “You’re the prince of the fair, Garrision!”
Garrison never returns to his imaginary job, after that imaginary lunch-break at the state fair. He begins to elongate his vowels and measure his breathing. He does not write scathing letters to the Saturday Evening Post, or Newsweek; instead he pens wistful little essays for his teachers, extolling the playground games the other boys play, inbued with magic and wonder. In his ears, to this day, the sound still rings: you're the prince of the fair.
End
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