Grandpa worked the tollgate for years. Steady job, but he’s narrow and short with the memory of it. All those lives. Always moving on. Nothing but sun and rain off of windshields, day after day. Now he takes money on the carousel. (Shitty pay, they’re taking advantage.) I go visit him, with some capsicum for his gout. He pushes the gift away, tapping his foot to the gaudy organ music. I like it here, he says, look! I look, and say – Sure – but all I see is a bunch of kids in Disney shirts, going round and round and round.