Under the Electric Sky (7 page)

He extended his hand and I shook it, but the little weasel wouldn't let go and ended up pulling me off the stool I was sitting on and knocking it to the floor. The bouncer came over to smooth things out and I left it at that, not wanting to get myself involved in anything. By this time the carnies had noticed him as well, Amber taking particular offence. She told me he had grabbed her breast while she was on stage by putting his arm around her and pretending to hum along to the music.

He squirmed around the bar a little longer, trying to agitate the carnies any way he could. Amber was getting frustrated and pleading with the bouncer hadn't given her any satisfaction. The drinks were accumulating and she couldn't get it out of her head. It reminded her of other men, of people trying to touch her, of men trying to get close to her, of being put in that vulnerable position and... she had had enough. Her eyes swelled with anger and she stopped talking at the table, choosing instead to drift away in quiet contemplation. If some of her friends had to leave, why didn't this little pervert? The orange and yellow lights were flashing in her eyes, the hard, dispassionate girl from the junkyard was lurking somewhere inside.

By closing time, the only members of the carny party left were Amber, Bobby and me. The creep had made his rounds and somehow managed not to get his head caved in. The bouncer knew Amber was ready for something and he didn't care for the general effect of Bobby's massive biceps, so he kept us at the door as the creep hopped a cab back to whatever repulsive, dim-lit one-bedroom apartment he slithered out from.

We went next door to Subway and ordered a few subs to take back to the bunks. Amber grabbed her sandwich and headed for the parking lot just ahead of me as a taxi pulled up. The back door opened and the creep stepped out, slinking toward the door in front of her. She threw her sandwich down and ran toward him, connecting her gnarled, oil-stained right hand against his nose which proceeded to burst open. The waiting taxi pulled off with a squeal.

My first instinct was to grab the man by the collar and throw him. Not as any retaliatory action, but rather to give him a fair shot at getting away. I have seen – and been involved in – enough drunken street fights to know the losers lose badly and usually a painful part of their organic structure. So, I grabbed the rubbery bastard by the scruff of the neck and threw him toward the back of the building. I figured this would give him a head start as I held Amber back, but he fell to the ground clasping his broken nose instead and Amber jumped past me to tackle him with another shot.

Her fists followed even quicker, as if they were bouncing, smashing the flesh and cartilage and bone, as blood squirted out of his nose and mouth. She was yelling and swearing and beating him with every ounce she had.

I was on my way to pulling her off him when a fat kid began yelling behind me, prompting me to turn around. He was objecting to our subs landing on the hood of his Honda Civic, which teenage Valley boys seem to hold sacred for mechanical reasons understood only by themselves and the Japanese. I initially thought he wanted to get involved in the altercation, but through the flash of what was happening, it turned out his grievance was the worthless machine's now practical use as a sandwich holder. He quickly shut up as Bobby slipped through the door, making his way to the scene of the battle. Bobby didn't try to hold her back.

By this time Amber – Amber Dawn – was on top of the guy in the parking lot punching him between gasps. Bobby squatted down to get a closer look at the damage, the way a paramedic would.

“Yeah,” he said, “you good? Huh? Ya had enough?”

The creep had. Amber got up and we walked back to the lot, leaving him writhing in the darkness. The chubby Civic kid entered the store for a sandwich.

Jack Adams, the carnival owner, was standing at the end of the lot closest the street as we approached with what looked like a crowbar in his hands. He instructed everyone through gritted teeth to go to their bunks and get to sleep. He was angry and they knew it. When Jack speaks people listen, especially when he's carrying what looks like a crowbar.

“I'm With It... I'm For It”

Oh, the magic of the midway,

Earning dollars in the dust.

It's a wonder world to work in

As in our God we trust.

The music is so merry,

The day's so deadly long.

Some people spending plenty

Some think the price is wrong.

When the business is booming,

And the people wait in line

Then the worker's heart is happy,

And he's feeling mighty fine.

Yes, there's magic on the midway,

Making dollars in the dust.

It's a wonder world to work in

As in our God we trust.

----Old Poem, origins unknown, often found displayed in the cookhouse on the lot during the 1980s and 90s. The phrase “I'm with it, I'm for it”, essentially means that a particular person works on a carnival and enjoys the life.

T
he next morning was a spectacular meteorological combination of blue skies and puffy white clouds, the kind carnies dream about. The sun was shining hot on the steel frames of the rides as they stood upon this vacant Valley lot with a touch of majesty. Today, money will be made and with that in mind the engines and air compressors and electric motors and drive cable chains and wheels and hydraulics all came to life.

Spinning and bleeding hydraulic fluid, the grand old man of the carnival, The Ferris Wheel, awoke with everyone on the lot. The Gravitron made its test cycles, spinning nineteen rpms counter-clockwise, ready to jolt fresh flesh against the bones of its riders. The Zipper flipped and puffed and rotated its cages in every direction like a robotic dragon. Kiddie Land spit to life with fibreglass horses running laps, big stupid bears spinning in unison, metallic fleck-painted cars beginning their never-ending chase scene, and a giant alligator circling a mini-rollercoaster track. The Tilt-A-Whirl gyrated along its familiar rhythms, the Scrambler scrambled like a three-pronged eggbeater. The Star Trooper lifted and spun, stopped and reversed in orbit as the music pounded out of the speakers.

Larry, Amber's duet partner, was operating the Star Trooper with his counterpart, Booker T. The two of them have a well-documented habit of blaring Bob Seger through the large speakers on the ride to start each morning. The Trooper has the loudest speakers on the midway and whatever they put on, everybody hears. The rest of the workers have grown tired of the songs but Larry and Booker still play them, for their own musical enjoyment. Larry is a little sore this morning and the music isn't doing it for him, not even “Turn the Page”. He was part of the reason Jack Adams had the crowbar last night, which it turns out is called a pin bar, used to pull the pins that hold the rides together. After his stirring rendition of “Picture” on the karaoke stage, Larry staggered home and got into a fight with another worker. It was a strange altercation and nobody on the lot seemed to know why or how it started, but Larry's nursing bite marks on the skin around his kidney this morning. Robert – the carnival bunk attendant and one of the ride supervisors – has lost his glasses with nothing to replace them but a large gash over his right eye.

Robert is a big, solid man who easily outweighs Larry. If they were offering odds, Robert would be up five to one at first glance. Neither of them were talking about the incident, but the story going around the lot has Robert piercing Larry with his teeth and Larry defending himself with the pin bar. The kidney is a valuable organ to the average carny, filtering substantial waste on a daily basis, so it's understandable Larry would protect it with any means available. The lack of proper nutrition on the lot has serious implications for a number of workers who are fighting various health concerns.

Coffee and cigarettes are the lifeblood of the carny vascular system. Their blood, on a purely physical level, is thick and stuffed full of carcinogens and caffeine. Tar, nicotine, formaldehyde, hydrogen cyanide and various other alkaloids are pouring through their veins, administered in the form of a short stick every few minutes to ward off extreme boredom. The nightly sacraments of alcohol and marijuana take their toll on the liver. Mix in the daily meal selection of hotdogs and cheeseburgers and the health problems of some of the workers become clear. Many carnies have genetic conditions that never seem to improve after a year on the road and others just pick things up. Nagging coughs, dyspepsia, anemia, chronic diarrhea and renal failure, to name a few. It's not the kind of job that offers substantial health benefits after all, so everybody keeps moving and tries to avoid any serious consideration of the symptoms.

Robert's own affliction is an odd blood pressure condition resulting in almost grotesquely swollen fingertips. One night he showed me his hands, proudly proclaiming what he saw as his obvious advantage over other men.

“Yep, I got ten dicks for fingers,” he gleefully announced. “I went to the doctor and he told me there was good news and bad news. He said my fingers were caused by bad blood pressure, but that his wife would love me...”

It was never made clear if Robert had paid a visit to Larry's wife that night, which may have explained the fight. Women have typically been the cause of many altercations between carnies over the years, rarely producing any winners. Brawls would erupt all the time between ride guys and jointees for a variety of reasons, but the factions have reconciled, realizing that sticking together was the best way to survive. But the fight had happened and Jack Adams was sufficiently angry enough to inform all the workers they would be on until midnight, whether there were customers or not.

By late afternoon, there weren't many. The regular carnival creatures crept out of dark holes after a year of forced hibernation; teenage girls with long, strange faces and raccoon eyes skulked about the lot as if trying to locate something forgotten there last year. The rounded, clean-cut Valley boys were admiring their souped-up Civics in the parking lot while attempting to flirt with a couple of the carny girls. A few kids accompanied by parents were taking turns on the rides, testing their luck on the games and making noise in the distance, but even with the blessing of sun, the day was quickly becoming a bust.

Verney and Jack were at the end of the hidden Valley carnival lot by the street, trying to attract motorists with an inflatable jumping set and an empty ticket booth. There were strong fears that the location was not visible enough from the road for the general masses despite Verney's romantic attachment to the notion of it. Jack had taken out radio ads he hoped would help, and the inflatable castle was the next best immediately available thing.

But the carnival – El Dorado, The City of Lights, Wonderland – in all its legendary glory was upon the citizens of the Valley whether they knew it or not. The people mingling around the midway were treated to the full, sweet carnival song, which it turns out plays on whether anyone is there to hear it or not. The colour wheel was clicking away between green, yellow, red and black, spinning straight into the auditory nerve. The sweet fragrance of cotton candy was wafting through the sinuses. One of the workers' kids was maintaining a steady rhythm on the High Striker as he banged away with a large rubber mallet... ding... ding... ding... The compressors were shooting off a percussive whim in the distance and soon the smoke-strained vocals of this grand carny carol chimed in:

“Heyyy, cowboys and Indians, shoot the gun, pop it off and win a prize!”

“... Ezeee muneee!!... Come n' get it!...”

“Heyy, don't be shy, don't walk by, come give it a try..”

...
The music is so merry
...

Bill Durham was over at the Roller-Bowler phrasing his ol'time showman grind calls in staccato bursts that seemed to mimic the trajectory of the ball on its way over the hump and down the little track.

“Walk right in guys, check it out. The cheapest game on the midway, the world famous Rollllllerrrr Bowllllerrr, still only costs... just a quarter... Right here... walk right in. No two dollar games here now, no five dollar games.... It's a quarter... fun for everyone... Right here... walk right in. All you... gotta do now... walk up to an empty alleey... put in a quarter... ball'll come down to ya... Roll that ball... slow and easy, up... over... the... top, the hill... make it stay... in that little dip on the other side. If ya get it up and in you are gonna win... Right here... for a quarter, just a quarter, walk in. Walk right in....”

The underlying tendency in the carny grind is to get on a roll, no matter what. Get the energy going, suck back the Red Bull, and hustle until the lights go down. Get another quarter or loonie at any cost, grind it out till it happens, then quickly move on to the next guy. The carny work ethic doesn't permit idleness when the lights are on and the crowds are flooding in. It didn't matter that the audience was sparse today. This was show business and the show was happening; the rest of the world be damned.
Yes, there's magic on the midway, Making dollars in the dust
...

Ian, the Lilliputian fellow from the bar last night, was spinning the colour wheel and exercising his call in an exceptional rusted growl. He's only a few inches over five feet, with black eyes and an odd-shaped cranium that makes him appear like a missing member of a long lost-tribe.

“Hhheeeyyy babeeee, gaaettt over here and winnn one! C'monnn, hheeyy, come overrr and winn the biggg wonnn!”

Ian has one of the most superb toothless grins you'll see on the carnival. He's missing his two front teeth, but the rest are still floating around in his mouth presumably preserved by liquor, straight and a close shade to white. His distinct voice sounds like the result of a steady combination of three packs of harsh cigarettes a day, shots of any foul liquor found around the lot and battery acid. It's a pure alkaline larynx growl, treated and cured over years on the road. Ian's bunk is in a larger trailer directly across from mine. As I was on my way out one morning, he asked for a drink.

“Heyy, buddy, ya got any a dat beer left?”

I obliged and he proceeded to chug a bottle of warm Budweiser in front of me at 9 a.m.

“Jesus, tanks, buddy, heh, heh,” he said after he finished. “I was so damn dry I couldn't spit.”

He looked up at me with a grin on his face.

“Boss never knew I was drunk till I showed up sober one day, ha, ha, heh, heh, heh,” the battery acid gurgling up and through the rusted trachea in a phlegmy laugh.

Ian runs on the same corroded circuitry high-functioning alcoholics operate on. He doesn't even know if he's drunk or not, it all gets blended into the hyperkinetic movements of his wiry body and he never sits still long enough to assess if he's moving correctly. Whatever it takes to keep the music flowing. And the truth was, nobody wanted to see him sober. The delerium tremens he would have undoubtedly suffered through would have seriously impacted his ability to execute his job properly. And then there would have been trouble.

Carnies are permitted to drink after hours and in the old days, as long as a guy could handle it, he wouldn't have any problems with a sip or two throughout the day. But one intoxicated screw-up – or if he was lazy enough to be witnessed by a customer sucking back on a bottle – and he'd be in the unemployment line on crutches. The owners never took chances with this type of behaviour because they knew it would be the end of their enterprise, or at the very least trouble from law enforcement. A man who could handle his job, however, was given considerations. And still is today.

Ian started on the show thirty years ago when it pulled into Moncton one glorious afternoon. He had recently been expelled from school and his mother told him if he wasn't finishing, then he had better find a job.

“I punched out a teacher,” he says. “I broke his jaw. I kicked him in the face. That's how I got my job.”

The Bill Lynch Shows weren't looking for high school dropouts with obvious behavioural problems, but they never turned them down either. Resumes are not required in the carnival trade; no questions asked. It hardly matters if someone is mentally ill or an ex-convict, as long as they're willing to work and don't possess any immediate threat to society.

Any carny worth his salt is a hard worker by nature, punctual and enthusiastic, willing and able to take initiative and exhibit at least a small undercurrent of resourcefulness. The sharper guys will flourish in the carnival business and could become “agents” – one skilled and experienced at a particular joint. In some instances, a guy's reputation will come to be known by different carnival outfits across the continent, thereby ensuring employment wherever he wants. The lazy and dumb, on the other hand, will either be sent home quickly by the boss or of their own volition.

There has always been an equation even nine-to-fivers understand; the longer the job application, the less enjoyable the position. Aside from prostitution and casinos, the carnival is one of the few remaining cash enterprises still operating and unlike most businesses today, it still reserves the right to fire incompetent dimwits on the spot without severance pay.

The procedure has always been to tell a kid who wants a job to come back on the last day the show is in town. Tearing down the rides would give the boss a good indication of whether the new kid would work or not. It's not good policy to hire someone instantly because, chances are, he'll let his friends on for free in his hometown, or he might just steal cash and tickets and disappear in the middle of the night. It's happened. So the policy is to tell the young man with his hat in hand to come back on the last day there.

That first tear-down, Ian was a worker. Here's this five-foot-three little bastard swinging the bars atop the Ferris Wheel like a nimble primate, with a cigarette grasped between his canines, on micro-dot acid, popping pins out with his knees and teeth. The sonofabitch could work! He pulled out of Moncton that night in the belly of the Show with the promise of adventure on the Maritime highways. Nothing could have been better.