Carny

 

  The county fair is over and once again I've missed my chance to leave town with the carnival. On the last day of the fair, hand-written signs go up around the carnival looking for locals to help disassemble the rides. This would be my best chance to get away. The carnival is always hiring. They give you a shirt. I'd bring a few clothes and a fat novel for rainy days.

  I'd help with the driving as we drove non-stop to the next town. There are three main jobs at a carnival: running a game or "joint", as it's called in carny talk, running a food stand, a "grab", a "popper" or a "floss wagon", or running a ride. I would definitely be a "ride jockey".

  Running a game takes too much brass. It's not for the shy and retiring. And I'd feel guilty pushing so many empty calories at a floss wagon. Give me a comfy chair and an umbrella and I'd be happy running a kiddy ride. I would not run one of the big thrill rides. They're noisy and involve vomit. A kiddy ride with no minimum height requirement is what I want. I'd get one that doesn't need safety belts that the ride jockey must inspect each time. I know I'm picky, but they'd give it to me because I don't demand smoke breaks. Also, I must have day shifts only. The ride's jingly tune would lull me into the zone and my shift would quickly pass. A fellow carny would bring me a slushy now and then to keep me hydrated.

  In late September we'd drive out to San Diego and load the carnival, trucks and all, onto a ship headed for Chile and start all over.  Our winter is their summer. ¡Arriba!

Chile con carny