Here's a letter to the folks from 20
years back. Ruth was 9, Hannah was 4 when a carnival came to town...
Dear Folks,
Sorry you couldn't be here to go to the
carnival with us. Carla had to work so it was my responsibility as a
caring Dad to take the kids by myself. For two nights before our
visit, I let them do dishes and housecleaning chores to earn the
money they would need to buy stuff. I lectured them on the concept of
“work for pay”. They already knew about “pay for cotton candy”
but at issue was
whose pay...
My office partner, Jon, had said that
Wednesday was the last day that the carnival would be in town so even
though it was wet and cold, we went. Once we got there, once the
commitment was made, we found out that the carnival would stay
through what was expected to be a warm, balmy weekend.
Anyway, the first thing the kids pulled
me to was the center of attraction. There stood a ride featuring two
six-person cockpits at opposite ends of a 100 foot propeller. You can
guess how much fun humans can have when they're locked in and the fan
is turned on. The teenage operator, all self-inflicted tattoos and
cigarettes, demonstrated his professional skills by stopping the fan
blade so that one car hung upside down 100 feet in the air. Staring
at the girls whose dresses had flipped up (down) over their heads, he
was rewarded for his cleverness by the small change that rained down
from inverted pockets and purses. With his body twitching as he
stumbled around picking up the change, his eyes seemed to rotate in
their sockets like the big fan itself. Apparently there was an
ongoing power struggle in his body as drugs and alcohol each fought
for dominance. I thought it best to let Ruth and Hannah pass on that
particular ride.
The “Kiddie Kars” were just OK;
baby cars that circle endlessly on steel rails. The working horns
made Hannah smile for the first few revolutions, waving, honking,
waving...but by pass number 52, Hannah was nodding only slightly less
than the ride operator himself.
As we walked around taking in the
sights, I realized that the crowd was not local. Apparently we had
managed to slip in on a night set aside for a group bussed in from a
halfway house work release program. Examples of the down side of a
severely limited gene pool were everywhere. Plus, it seemed that many
of the crowd had been in serious accidents at some point in their
lives and had never received proper medical care. A fault line ran
through a face here, a chest there...accentuating mismatched parts
like a zipper out of alignment. And much like the professionals who
ran the concessions, the people in the crowd apparently all went to
one guy's Uncle Bubba to have tattoos scratched into their skin.
Bubba's trade is in hogs and cars but he'll do tattoos if you bring
the Jack Daniels.
Having not eaten all day, I stopped at
a little wooden trailer made to look like an “Old Florida” fish
camp shack. They advertized conch and crab fritters. Two large black
ladies toured the carnival circuit in this grease van, living for
opportunities to demonstrate their undying loyalty to the teachings
of Malcolm X. I thought: “Oh good! Here are some large black ladies
who know how to cook a great seafood fritter, even if it is a little
pricy.” They thought: “Oh good! Here's a milk toast white boy
stupid enough to pay $4.00 for a fritter. We'll break out the rotting
batter we haul from site to site, throw a scoop into lard hot enough
to kill the maggots and serve it up with some rancid tarter sauce!”
Fortunately I didn't give the kids any so I was the only one who got
the explosive diarrhea. Ruth and Hannah spent their food money on the
$2.00 cotton candy... four cents worth of spun sugar. No wonder the
vendor was wearing a huge diamond pinkie ring.
By this time Hannah was grabbing her
crotch constantly so we headed off to find a porta-potty. One look
inside made me tell Hannah that we would leave after the next ride
and stop at a gas station for her on the way home. But Ruth just had
to peek inside one of those hot, stinking closets from hell. She was
wearing sandals with socks that wicked up the black goo seeping out
from under the base of the toilets so her feet became encased in
carnival souvenirs that she would have preferred not to have to take
home.
From there we sloshed over to “The
Spider”, our last ride of the night. This beast consisted of eight
cars on arms linked to a central hub. The hub spun around as the arms
lifted the cars up and down. Then the cars spun and looped in erratic
circles independently. My friend Jon said that his little girl loved
it. We had to try it he said. “save it for last, it's the best”
he said. So all three of us got into one car and braced for launch.
Thirty seconds into the ride, Hannah was screaming in true terror.
Ruth was swooning, turning green, threatening to faint and vomit at
the same time. I was wondering just
what had been in that damn
fritter anyway, afraid we were going to see it again, very soon. I
braced myself waiting for our car to break free in mid spin and fly
into the carnival trucks parked nearby. I tucked my head and hoped
that the car itself would absorb most of the impact. Several
lifetimes later the Spider slowed and stopped. We declined the
generous offer to ride a second time at half price.
Walking back to our car, dazed and
shaken, I looked up at the top platform of the “Giant Slide”. A
toothless, alcoholic, professional “Giant Slide” operator was
carefully laying down a burlap bag for someone's 3 year old to ride
down on. He took great care to prepare the bag just so. He was very
gentle with the child too. But the platform was high and crowded and
he was unaware that his large butt was squashing little kids up
against the fragile railing behind him. I fumbled for my car keys as
one child was pushed backward against the railing, arms extended,
flapping and circling in a desperate attempt to maintain his balance
150 feet up on that platform.
I hope the kid made it.
As I said, sorry you couldn't be here
to share the fun...or the fritters.
Love,
Hugh
