“Oh, don’t you worry about a thing,” Memaw says, joining Esther and Mabel. “We’ve been cooking since long before you three were twinkles in your mamas’ eyes. We’re an asset.”
The booth feels increasingly hot and crowded.
“Can you move to the left?” Laura asks the three interlopers.
“For goodness’ sakes,” Esther says. “I still can’t hear you.”
She steps over to the machine and presses the large red button on the bottom of the popper.
The whirring slows and comes to a halt.
The occasional pop pop pop fills the air.
“That’s better,” Esther says, brushing her hands together with a look of satisfaction on her face.
“Esther!” Laura says. “You can’t …”
Mabel interrupts. “I think you stopped the poppin’.” She briskly walks over to the popper and lifts the lid. A veritable snowstorm of kernels flies out of the machine.
The booth is a still-life. Laura, Shannon and I stand with our mouths agape, a collective stunned silence stealing our words.
A beat later, Laura snaps into action, shouting, “Catch it! Bag it!”
I grab a paper bag and start running around like a child with her mouth open and tongue out, catching the first fluffy flakes in winter, only I’m holding the bag and catching less than one out of every thirty popped kernels. The booth is crammed chaos.
People outside the booth are grabbing at stray kernels midair.
Esther shouts, “I didn’t mean to turn it off!”
And before anyone can stop her, she’s pressing the red button again, sending the sweeping arm inside the kettle whirring, only this time the lid is open, so kernels fly at twice the speed.
“I’ve got this,” Mr. Silvers says, stepping past the table and walking down the side of the booth. “We just need to unplug the machine.”
He bends toward the electrical outlet that sits at a little distance behind several of the booths. Large, industrial plugs are all attached to one main power source.
He’s got the tone of a man opening a some-assembly-required box from IKEA. Calm authority before all the parts spill out with a thin paper of directions in Swedish.
He looks over his shoulder, seeming to track the extensioncord from our popper to the outlet. Then he puts his hand on one cord and gives it a firm pull.
Everything stops. Everything: Cookers, rides, lights.
The kettle falls silent.
So does the whirring of the frozen lemonade machine in the booth next to us. And the funnel cake deep fryer. And all the string lights on the front of the booths.
The Ferris wheel lights blink once and then the ride stops moving. Someone shouts from the top, “Help! We’re stuck up here!”
Someone shouts back, “Hang tight!”
An eerie quiet fills the street and the park behind us.
I stand there holding my barely filled paper bag of popcorn, staring around the booth, my eyes landing on Laura.
“Well,” Mr. Duggins says from his spot at the front of our line. “That can’t be good.”
There’s a light crackling from the main stage toward the center of the park, like static through a microphone. And then, echoing through the sound system, a noise I don’t recognize at first.
It’s low and rumbly and throaty. Almost like a growl, but more … airy and vibrating.
