The carnival lights buzzed like drunk fireflies, casting a garish glow over the midway. Jim, 25, in his signature “I Paused My Game For This” black T-shirt and jeans, shuffled past the games. His stomach still grumbled from the questionable corn dog he’d wolfed down. That’s when he saw it: a rickety dunking chair, its target a bulls-eye of peeling red and white paint. Perched above the pool like a disgruntled mermaid was a woman in a navy floral one-piece swimsuit, taupe pantyhose, and a scowl that could curdle milk. She was 57 if she was a day, her silver-streaked hair in a perm tight enough to double as a life preserver.

“Whaddya lookin’ at, tough guy?” she barked, wiggling her pantyhose-clad legs. The water beneath her sloshed. “Afraid you’ll miss? Bet your aim’s as weak as your fashion sense.”

Jim halted. Did she just…? He turned, squinting. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she sneered. “All hat, no cattle. Bet you couldn’t hit a barn if it was wearin’ a neon sign.”

Heat crawled up Jim’s neck. He’d been called many things---underemployed, undercooked, underdressed for Thanksgiving---but never un-masculine. “Oh yeah? How much for a ball?”

“Five bucks. Cash only. No refunds for crybabies.”

Jim slapped a crumpled five on the counter. The carny running the game---a man whose mustache looked like it belonged on a walrus---tossed him a softball. Jim weighed it, eyeing the target. “You’re goin’ in, lady.”