The first sounds you hear are horse hooves on a cracked road and Creed’s “Higher” blaring from a speaker as someone stuffs a quarter-pound of fried cheese down their gullet. Is this paradise? Close—it’s the Big E, a 17-day-long fair in West Springfield, Massachusetts.
Located at 1305 Memorial Ave., West Springfield, the Big E is “the largest event on the East Coast and the [fourth-largest] fair in North America,” according to its website. Along with free shows and attractions, it’s a cacophony of cackling infants in tiny carts, teenagers who travel in packs, exasperated parents wheeling aforementioned carts, and wide-eyed elders ambling through the madness. From Sept. 12 through 28, five highway routes converge in a land where horses always have the right of way and rows of food booths with their bubble letter signs stretch as far as the eye can see.
“I put my baseball skills to use and I won my girlfriend a giant burrito,” says Kevin Sinatra from East Boston. Certain phrases cannot be uttered anywhere but a state fair—this is one of them.
Likewise, certain captivating people cannot be imagined existing beyond the limits of the Big E. Ross Wheeler is from Hudson, Massachusetts, or as he puts it, “more in Central Mass, rather than the Western part; a little less hypodermic needles where I live.” He stands taller than anyone in sight and wears a wide-brimmed black cowboy hat.
“I like the people watching,” Ross says, “I’m looking for future influencers. I told my wife when I got here, ‘I’m gonna spot some influencers today, get ‘em on their journey.’” When questioned why he’s interested in “future influencers,” he casually replies, “‘Cause I like young, hot chicks.”
In a nearly empty stadium, a child gallops on a majestic white horse to the occasional smattering of applause. A baby lunges for his mother’s cheeseburger. Three teenagers sit in the top row, vaping directly underneath a “No Smoking In Coliseum” sign.
Once a week’s worth of food has been eaten in the span of an hour and deep-fried Oreo powder is spilled on a brand-new black shirt, the amusement rides are up. Starship Area 51 Abduction Site, a ride whose name could be shortened a few words, whirls its riders to the point of hurling everything they’ve eaten.
Next is the Farm-A-Rama, advertised with a banner that reads: “Live Animals/Local Produce/Landscaping/Interactive Exhibits”—a slogan that may frustrate lovers of alliteration and textual consistency. It can be found in the Stroh Building, a vast warehouse sprawling over five miles.
Swarms of people are huddled in every direction around cramped enclosures of various farm animals. The only exhibit with no crowd is the one labeled “Ducks,” consisting of a small pool with plastic duck toys floating inside.
Above the sheep enclosure, there’s a sign saying, “There are over 1 billion sheep in the world,” making the three breathing in this warehouse seem oddly special.
Fairgoers congregate in front of the hatching chicks born beneath bright golden lights. Perhaps this is what Wheeler meant by “young, hot chicks.” Regardless, the scene is moving to many spectators, who take pictures and clap when a new chick ruptures its eggshell.
As the day ends, everyone appears sluggish and complete; a man in dangerously tight jeans sways with his eyes closed and half a boot of beer in hand; two boys throw light jabs at each other as their father stares off at a lukewarm sunset.
Attendees leave the fair satisfied and ready to return to a world of quiet, salads, and music that isn’t Creed. Yet every once in a while, in the still of night, they’ll get the itch for the Big E. And as Scott Stapp of Creed sings in his hit song “Higher”: “So let’s go there / Let’s make our escape.”