In the eleventh grade I went to an amusement park with a bunch of friends and, at some point toward evening, log-flume wet and already nauseous from fried dough, I was invited by my friend Nicole into the wheel with the hanging cages that tips up on its side as it spins. Being in love with her, I was happy to follow her into the tiny cage, grip the handles and share the anticipation as the thing creaked into motion. Her back was pressed against me and we laughed and referred to something we'd talked about the day before. Body warmth replaced the wet-clothes chill. It was one of the perfectly happy moments of my adolescence and I can still see it exactly.

���� Momentarily, though, we were trapped in a hellish, drawn-out oscillation: uuuuuuppppp, dooooowwwnnn, uuuuuuupppp, doooooowwwwn, uuuuupppp, doooowwwn, interminably. With the repeated upside-down, right-side-up, we were hardly even aware of each other; it was just try not to crush or be crushed.

���� We had a lot of good times together, which I miss.


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