Life is a Carnival

Garbage barrels measured the passage of time that day to a depth of
several feet in some locations.

Bees darted and hovered over the barrels, as if guarding a treasure.
Looking down they saw ketchup-and-mustard-smeared paper plates, plastic
cups laden with un-drunk beer, crusty plastic forks and unused plastic
knives, half-eaten food with identifiable teeth marks, soggy
fist-crumpled paper napkins, drowned cigarette butts, disemboweled
plastic foil wrappers, and cotton candy dissolving like a bushy-bun
hairdo in an acid bath. In short, it was the effluvia of modern
civilization.

The air over the barrels was dense and rank, a sharp distillation of
the heavy musk of mothers and dust, hot dogs and mustard, burgers and
beer that wafted through our world that day. The gently puffing breeze
was just strong enough to carry a jingle-jangle tune of children
squealing, bells binging, balls banging, metal grinding, meat sizzling,
fathers guffawing at ancient deeds of daring-do, and mothers cackling
with each other through their boredom. We were the wind chimes of
small-time suburbia that day, though the bees appeared largely
unimpressed.

The braver of the bees dove into the barrels for a quick bite of the
good life, reporting back to their squadron leaders when sated, or
perhaps when disgusted. It was hard to know which. I've often wondered
what the bees were thinking, why they were there. It must have been
something serious. They always showed up, the few, the proud, the
obsessed.

Amidst their darting and hovering and diving and dancing, the bees took
no notice of the ticket stubs, those soggy little reminders resting
quietly among the glistening smears. The ticket stubs meant nothing to
the bees, there in that barrel of gold at the end of the rainbow. But
for us it was a different story. Those ticket stubs meant something to
us, a new generation gazing with toothy anticipation at that rainbow as
it stretched a nervous grin skyward from that barrel, up, up, and
across the Eisenhower twilight. Whatever will be, will be, the song
told us.

And now it was time once again for the Annual Volunteer Fireman's
Carnival, a charity event mounted each year to earn some money for the
fire department. A traveling carnival-for-hire set up shop in the empty
lot behind the library. Towns still had empty lots in those days, you
know. We couldn't play baseball during the carnival because they took
over all the outfields and one of the infields, as well as the empty
lot.

If you were lucky, you might see the truck caravan arriving. "Morris
Bros. Carnival" it said, painted in snake-oil colors on both sides of
each truck in typeface from a previous century and a different
continent. Under the words "Morris Bros. Carnival," an artist had
painted pictures of happy children and clowns having fun together at
the carnival. Several layers of dust and road grease covered these
murals, giving them the proud patina of antiquity, like relics of a
bygone Golden Age the marvels of which we can only imagine. Someone had
optimistically used the heel of his right hand to inscribe the words
"WASH ME" in the greasy dust just above the exhaust pipe on the rear
access panel of the lead truck. Each truck was padlocked to prevent
looting.

The carnival brought games of skill and chance to entertain the whole
family. You could win a kewpie doll, a stuffed toy bear, a rabbit's
foot key chain in your choice of black, white, brown or pink, a live
goldfish in a glass bowl of water, or a bouncing red inflatable ball.
"Step right up! Take a spin on the Wheel of Fortune! Two chances for
the price of one thin dime! 'Round and 'Round She Goes and Where She
Stops, Nobody Knows!"

And the carnival brought rides. Ah yes, rides! There was a small Ferris
wheel, a twirling teacups ride, and one or two others. They weren't
very impressive. I'd seen better. Each ride came equipped with a
slack-faced old man sulking at the controls. It was not much of a job,
and they knew it. I didn't like the rides very much. Where's the
percentage in scaring myself until I puke? That was my question. Still,
there was an attraction, even if only because all the other kids wanted
to go on the rides.

All in all, it was a worthy cause and good clean fun, as they used to
say, though even at my tender age I suspected a ruse, probably
perpetrated at my expense, one way or another.

It was the last day of that year's carnival. Dad was around someplace,
probably playing horseshoes with his old high school pals, contrasting
his past with my future. I think he bored some of them, but they didn't
say anything. My future was all he had. It was a precious treasure. He
guarded it well, even from me.

Mom thought rides and games were a waste of money. "I'd rather just
give the money to the Fireman's Fund," she said. "These carnival people
are all crooks, and besides, you only think you want to go on the
rides. Just wait: you'll be disappointed and wish you'd never gone."
You just couldn't put anything past my mom. She encouraged me in many
ways, cockeyed optimist that she was. Of course, it begged the question
why we were there in the first place. I guess dad wanted to show
support for the community. That was important for him.

At the carnival you paid for everything with tickets purchased at the
ticket booth. Mom controlled the tickets, at least the one's I needed.
If I wanted to do something, I had to ask for each ticket individually.
It was humiliating, but it did conserve the pennies. That was
especially important for Dad because it meant a better future for
me.

Flying in the face of all logic and reason, I still really wanted to go
on this one ride. I'd waited all day, afraid to ask, and soon it would
be too late. I could taste the desire in my Coca-Cola mouth. I could
smell it on my sweaty tee shirt with the horizontal brown stripes. I
could see it rise in little dust puffs when I slapped my trouser
thighs. I could hear the crowd-buzz winding down as first one then
another then another of the families slowly packed up their folding
chairs and waddled to the parking lot dragging little kids along like
giants trolling for bass with recalcitrant bait. It was as if the
musicians in a large orchestra began packing up their instruments and
leaving the stage one by one before the symphony was over. The music
still played, but some of the parts had gone missing and it didn't
sound right anymore. Maybe it would finish without me! Then I'd have to
wait a whole year! The tension rose from my stomach to my throat, up
through my eyes onto the top of my head, down the back of my head,
grabbing me by the scruff of the neck and stretching my spine until I
had to move or stay frozen forever.

I walked up to mom. She was sitting like a Jell-O sardine at one of
those walnut-brown picnic tables with the attached benches on either
side, cackling with the other flabby-armed death squad mothers while
secretly praying for rain.

"Just one ride, mom! OK?" I pleaded, once, then again, then a third
time.

"Ooookaaaay," she sighed, turning towards me at last. She rummaged in
her purse and handed me a ticket. "This is the last one. We're going
soon, so be quick about it," she popped at me trout-mouthed and snapped
her big purse shut with a hollow click.

I took my little powder-blue ticket to the man at the ride and he told
me it was the wrong ticket. So back to mom I went for another nickel.
"What now! Another nickel? Why? Oh never mind, here, but this is that
last of it!" she told me.

I ran to the ticket booth. "The man at that ride over there says I need
a different ticket. Here, can you take this and give me a ticket for
that ride over there?" I asked, handing her the old ticket and the
nickel and pointing at the ride.

"We're not supposed to give refunds," she lazed through her red
lipstick, hiding her cigarette just under the counter. She was probably
just a high school senior, but everything about her reeked stale. Stale
menthol cigarette smoke, stale popcorn butter, stale Ivory soap, stale
Ipana toothpaste, stale dreams stillborn in the backseat of a rusted
Buick with tattered plastic seat covers and an expired license
plate.

"But this is not a refund! I'm buying a more expensive ticket!" I
pleaded.

She shrugged. "Yah, ok, gimme here," she said, taking my powder-blue
ticket and the nickel in exchange for a green ticket.

"Thanks," I said, grabbing the green ticket.

Back to the ride I ran, where the man told me "No you still don't have
the right ticket, you need a purple ticket."

"What! This is the ticket you told me to get! She told me it was the
right ticket!" I said pointing to the ticket booth, still conveniently
located no more than 30 feet away.

"You need a purple ticket, kid. I don't care what she said," he
snarled, the words lumbering out his mouth like vinegar drooling from a
latrine.

I stood there looking at his ashen drunk-tank face, the tension
grabbing me once again by the scruff of the neck and stretching my
spine, the blood collecting in my face as disbelief flooded my
soul.

I turned away without a word and ran back to the ticket booth. "He says
I need a purple ticket!" I told the prom queen's sullen sister. "You
said I needed a green ticket! I want to go on that ride right there! Do
you see it?" I demanded.

"Yah, I see it, and you've already got the right ticket."

"But HE says I don't! HE says I need a purple ticket!"

"Yah, well that'll cost you another nickel."

I stood there staring at her pasty white face, cheap red lips, dingy
peroxide hair, the cigarette trapped between her index and middle
fingers like a stick of burning chalk poised before the maw of a
five-legged flesh crab. What is the tensile strength of a little boy's
spine, the rage was asking.

So back I ran to mom for another nickel. She was in a complete huff by
now. "What's wrong with you? For crying out loud, another nickel!" she
snapped at me. "I already told you no more. Aaaach here! Take this and
be quick about it! We'll be going soon!" I was too desperate to be
insulted at that point. I grabbed the nickel and ran back to the ticket
booth, tossed the coin and the green ticket on the counter, snatched
the purple ticket from Big Hair's paw, and ran back to the ride.

"Wrong again, kid," he said.

"What!" I cried, stifling an urge to punch him even though he was three
times my size.

"Go get the right ticket," he snapped. "And hurry up, kid, we're about
to close."

I ran to the ticket booth again, numb with rage and panic. Everything
was crashing down around me. What was going on? I couldn't get anyone
to pay attention to me. They all kept lying to me. The money was gone
and I'd gotten nothing for it! Where was dad? Where was anyone? How
would I ever explain this to mom? What would I do with an unused
ticket? Wait until next year?

"I WANT A TICKET FOR THAT RIDE OVER THERE!" I cried out to Big Hair,
pointing hysterically at the ride, still only thirty feet away.

"You have the right ticket," she droned in that
teenager-practicing-to-be-a-mother way.

"BUT HE WON'T TAKE IT," I yelled.

"OK, here, take this one," she moaned, flipping me a new ticket without
looking. She'd already started packing up and no longer cared. Her mind
was on her fingernails.

I dashed back to Slack Jaws. He looked at my ticket, shook his head,
rolled his eyes skyward, and told me, "Still not the right ticket,
kid."

"SHE TOLD ME THIS WAS THE RIGHT TICKET!" I screamed, mentally
measuring him for a rat-infested coffin.

"Gimme the ticket and hurry up. I don't have all day," he grumbled,
snatching the ticket from my hand and throwing it in the trash.

I got on the ride. I was alone. It was no big deal. I don't even
remember what kind of ride it was. I remember going around in circles a
few times. Then it stopped. I got off and ran back to where mom was
still sitting with the other mothers. It looked like their prayers for
rain were about to be answered, but it was too late to do them good.
The carnival was already over and we had to leave, rain or no
rain.

"Well, did you go on that ride or not?" mom asked.

"Yeah," I said.

"You didn't like it, did you?" she said. "I knew you wouldn't."

I said nothing.

Dad came trotting towards us, laughing and shouting farewells to his
pals over his shoulder. My future must have made a good impression on
them that day.

"Hey, we'd better go. It sure looks like rain, doesn't it?" he said
cheerfully.

"For crying out loud, stop talking and let's go before I get wet," mom
grumbled as she started off for the parking lot.

"Did you have fun?" dad asked me in that hearty father-son way.

"Yeah. It was ok." I mumbled as it started to rain and we ran for the
car.