In early September, they come by train along tracks that once transported coal to the region, along rails that hum in the heat, a low metallic sound that gradually ascends into a rumble as the train passes, metal hitting metal, the wheels flattening pennies left by children who wait to collect the thin copper and then wear the shiny discs around their necks, medallions for good luck, coins that transform them into kings. A whistle. Blue cars and red cars emblazoned with gold lettering, lavish wagons with carved windows and flower beds—Gypsy wagons that transport performers who swing on the trapeze, dancers who twist upon wires—as well as flatcars and boxcars painted pink with waves of peach undulating like psychedelia. On the beds sit massive chunks of machinery, pieces of the carousel and Ferris wheel, the tilt-a-whirl and whip, the spider and bumper cars, the maze of mirrors. Tractors, too, sit idle, waiting to pull and haul equipment. Eighty beds in all, snaking down the tracks, towering against the sky.
