The Hot Air Balloon Intake Process

Absurd Geometry Field Notes No. 110

We found the offer on one of those coupon websites that specialize in optimism.

The kind where the photos show golden sunsets, smiling couples, and a balloon drifting peacefully over a valley that does not appear to exist anywhere in Texas. The original price had been crossed out△ △ △  aggressively △ △ △ and replaced with something that felt less like a discount and more like a clerical error.

Two-for-one hot air balloon ride.

There are certain phrases that should be approached with caution. “Unlimited refills.” “No closing costs.” “Two-for-one aviation experiences.”

We purchased immediately.

This was our first mistake.

To reach the hot-air balloon launch site, we first had to meet in a parking lot.

From there, we were told there would be a “short scenic walk,” which turned out to mean half a mile through a deserted area where several people began quietly calling their insurance companies to make sure they were covered.

Eventually, we reached a narrow bridge leading into what appeared to be no man’s land.

That was when the ringmaster stopped.

He tilted his head.

“What is that noise?”

The assistant looked around. “What noise?”

“That clacking sound,” he said. “It sounds like a horse is walking with us.”

Everyone turned.

I was standing near the back of the group in real horse hooves.

The ringmaster stared at my feet.

“What are you wearing?”

“Footwear.”

“You look ridiculous,” he said.

I looked him up and down.

“Not as ridiculous as you look with those veneers.”

The group went silent.

“You’re so tall and your teeth are so bright you look like a lighthouse,” I said. “I think evil extraterrestrials discovered life on Earth because of you. You’re probably the one who gave us away.”

The ringmaster stepped closer and bent down.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I need to see if they’re real.”

He pinched the front of one hoof boot.

I kicked him.

“What the hell was that?”

“Sorry,” I said. “That must be a reflex. I guess it came attached with the dead horse hooves.”

He crouched again, horrified and fascinated.

“So these are real?”

“Yes.”

“Real horse hooves?”

“Yes.”

“From a horse?”

“No, from a NASA engineer. Yes, from a horse.”

The group went silent again.

“The horse was already gone,” I explained. “They were putting him down, and they were going to throw the hooves away. I just thought they could make good all-terrain boots.”

No one said anything after that.

We kept walking.

Eventually, we arrived at the hot-air balloon location, where men in orange jumpsuits were unloading tray after tray of donuts from the back of a truck and arranging them inside the facility.

Across their backs, in large block letters, were the words: PRISON VOLUNTEER.

The donuts were included, though not listed.

Trays circulated continuously, and the ringmaster encouraged participation in carbohydrate intake.

“Take as many as you can hold,” he said. “In some countries, donuts are considered a luxury.”

This introduced a moral dimension to the experience.

People began eating with a sense of global responsibility.

He encouraged participation.

“Eat,” he said. “Don’t leave anything behind. You only die once.”

Then, as if sugar required a moral framework, he expanded his arms △ △ △ wide, theatrical △ △ △ like a ringmaster addressing an audience that had already paid.

One leg slightly forward, the other trailing behind, as if even his stance required staging.

“Think about the children in developing countries,” he said. “Some of them don’t even know what a real donut looks like. They only know donut holes. That’s where the donut holes get exported.”

And as someone from one of those countries, I regret to say that it resonated.

He had accessed a memory.

Possibly several.

So I nodded.

This was my second mistake.

He saw me nodding.

This was his cue.

He gestured toward a small podium that I had not previously noticed.

“Would you like to share your experience?” he asked, already certain that I would.

At this point, refusal would have disrupted the performance.

So I stepped forward.

I confirmed that, yes, growing up, a filled donut was a luxury. Not everyone had access to that level of abundance. Donut holes were the closest they can get to the real experience

The crowd listened.

Some nodded.

Some reached for another donut.

I did not yet understand what I had done.

The ringmaster stepped forward again, reclaiming the space with a sweep of his arm.

“Any questions?” he asked.

There were questions.

A man in the back raised his hand.

“What about the donut holes we see at local shops?”

“Right,” the ringmaster said. “But those are domestic-grade donut holes. Those are the ones that didn’t pass inspection for export. The germ count was too high for international shipping, and obviously they’re not going to risk killing their largest overseas consumer base.”

There was a pause.

He continued.

“They’ve likely exceeded the five-second rule at some point in the supply chain.”

No one challenged this.

But several people looked visibly disturbed by the idea that the germ-covered donut holes had been left behind in the United States.

The ringmaster appeared satisfied.

The session had concluded.

After approximately thirty minutes, we were instructed to form a line. This was framed as a courtesy to ensure timely boarding. In practice, it functioned as the first stage of reduction.

About ten individuals did not make it past this phase due to donut-related complications.

The remaining participants were transported by the prison volunteers to a secondary facility. The vehicle resembled a theme park train, which created a false sense of whimsy.

Upon arrival, we were introduced to the scale.

A sign indicated that, per the agreement signed during coupon redemption (section 13, subsection unclear), individuals exceeding 180 pounds would not be permitted to board due to safety concerns. This was the first time anyone had encountered this information.

The weigh-in began.

Those who exceeded the limit △ △ △ even by one or two ounces △ △ △ were immediately removed from the process.

A collective strategy emerged.

Someone mentioned that swimmers remove body hair before competitions to reduce drag. This was immediately misinterpreted as evidence that hair had significant monetary and aviation-related weight.

“I don’t think that’s true,” I said. “I think it makes them faster. I don’t think it makes them lighter.”

No one responded directly, which is how I knew the group had already accepted the premise.

“You lose nothing by trying,” someone said.

“Yes, you do,” I said. “Your hair.”

There was a pause.

“And Samson lost all his power when a woman cut his.”

The room grew quiet.

This was apparently considered a compelling counterargument.

By that point, however, the order had already been placed.

The clippers arrived within ten minutes.

Someone had added a heroic tip to the DoorDash order, which apparently moved the delivery from “reasonable” to “emergency shaving response.”

No one questioned this.

People brushed crumbs from their clothes, sucked in their stomachs, and stood sideways on the scale as if gravity could be deceived by angles.

As though we had accidentally wandered onto a reality television survival show, contestants were eliminated one by one and escorted into another room to be presented with alternative opportunities.

Approximately half of the group was eliminated during this phase.

Thirteen of us remained.

We were then escorted into a dark room that resembled a small movie theater. This marked the beginning of the final stage.

The final stage was a safety presentation.

It began with ordinary warnings.

According to the presenter, we were more likely to die in a hot air balloon accident than while jaywalking or riding in a plane.

Then it escalated into footage of hot air balloon accidents, failed landings, emergency rescues, and grieving pets left behind by owners who had only wanted to see the sunrise from above.

Then they explained that even survival had consequences.

“If you fall and survive,” the presenter said, “you may still find yourself stranded in the desert.”

A video appeared of a rat giving birth to a litter.

“Is that what you want?” he asked. “To become a midwife to a desert rat?”

No one answered.

“That,” he said, pointing to the screen, “may become your Wilson. The movies have conditioned you to expect a volleyball. This is not guaranteed.”

That was when people began tapping out.

One by one, participants withdrew their consent to pursue aviation.

The presenter nodded with understanding, then informed them that last-minute cancellation would result in a penalty equal to three times the original ticket price.

Unless, of course, they agreed to attend a timeshare presentation at a secondary facility.

The transition was immediate.

The prison volunteers escorted the newly cautious toward another vehicle. Most of the group accepted the timeshare option with the visible relief of people who had chosen financial entrapment over desert rats.

When the room cleared, only two of us remained.

My friend and me.

“Hold it right there, both of you Rapunzels.”

We stopped.

He pointed at our hair.

“You think I’m letting both of you Rapunzels climb into my balloon with all that hair near an open flame?”

“Nobody gets in the basket until the hair is tied up.”

“I’m not letting either one of you commit arson with your hair in my balloon.”

“With our hair?”

“Yes. Hair. Hairspray. Frizz tamer. Cow spit. Whatever else you country people put in there. Wind. Open flame. That’s how civilizations fall.”

“Fine,” I said. “We’ll tie it up.”

My friend started digging through her purse.

“I found one!” she said, holding up a hair tie like she had discovered the cure for cancer.

“Great,” the ringmaster said. “Use it.”

She paused.

“But if you give me twenty more minutes, I can take my purse apart. I think there might be another one in one of the hidden compartments.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. They’re hidden.”

“There is no time for purse excavation,” he said. “This isn’t a bar entrance.”

She looked at me, then lowered her gaze.

“Damn it,” she said. “You know what? Just go.”

“What do you mean, just go?”

She sighed, like she had already accepted my fate.

“Knowing how you live your life, you’re probably going to die before I do anyway.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re the one who went into a cavern to get sketched by some stranger while bats played instruments for ambient music.”

“That was art.”

“That was Craigslist behavior with better lighting.”

“It was not Craigslist behavior.”

“You went there so he could stare at your fat deposits under dramatic lighting. Alone. You’re lucky he didn’t cut you into pieces and arrange you by bone type.”

The ringmaster shook his head in disappointment.

My friend pointed at the balloon.

“So yes. Between the two of us, I feel like you have already made peace with danger. Go enjoy your little murder balloon.”

“It’s not a murder balloon.”

The ringmaster cleared his throat.

“It was misused by Nazis during World War II.”

I tied my hair with the scrunchie.

Then I prepared to board.

Because I was wearing real horse hooves as boots, I charged toward the basket with the confidence of a horse entering the final stretch.

I jumped.

It was not graceful, but it was committed.

The ringmaster watched me land inside the basket.

“You could have used the ladder on the other side,” he said. “But thank you for the performance.”

I rose into the air and reached into my purse to retrieve the donuts I had stashed earlier.

I expected to feel something.

Fear. Wonder. Butterflies. A sense that the dream had survived the process.

But once I was up there, it was not what I thought it would be.

Below me were the whimsical little trains transporting the disappointed, the prison volunteers in orange jumpsuits driving carts between facilities, and what appeared to be the real-life incident that inspired Cujo: a group of people running toward their car while a large black dog chased them with unusual commitment.

Beyond that, because this was Texas, there was only dead grass and flat land.

That was the view.

That was the dream.

Only disappointment.