gargoyles
OK - so I admit. I would sooner brush off my own nipples with Vim and a vegetable scrubber than go to the exhibition. The noise and the smells give me a headache, which I could deal with if only it weren't for the crowds. Throngs of people with no respect for my bubble of personal space. Now I know that pickpockets and other such undesirables frequent these places and are prone to cuddling up, but what about the rest of those folks? You want to know a SECRET? The ride WILL NOT START without you unless it's already full, and if it's already full, your proximity to my body won't make the line move any faster. Standing so close to me that I can smell the corn dog on your breath isn't necessary.
Did I mention I'm a bit uncomfortable in crowds? I wouldn't say afraid - it's not a phobia or anything - I just get irritated and frustrated and start fantasizing about how handy a cattle prod would be in crowd manipulation. A saccharine, "Excuse me..." accompanied by a little jolt ~bzzt!~ and I'd be going to all kinds of crowded places! The only time crowds actually make me fearful is when I have my kids with me, because they are easy to lose since they can't be seen above the masses of bodies and can't be heard over the din of cackling teenagers, loud music, and hydraulic ride farts. If the children could wear stilts and yodel I'd be more inclined to take them.
The sad part about all of this is merely the fact that I love carnies, which is why I opt to capitalize on the opportunity to go to the mall parking lot carnivals whenever they come by. I love watching carnies, I love talking to carnies, and I wish I could be a carny for a day. There's a whole other life that goes on for carnies when the rides are turned off and the lights go down and the gates are locked. "What happens with carnies, stays with carnies." They protect their kind like it's a secret society, retiring to their trailers and doing... and doing what?
When I was about 7, I distinctly remember that my Mom took an orange to work with her, every single day. Not a day went by that I didn't see her pack an orange in her bag. I decided she wasn't really a bus driver. She was the orange princess. When she got away from my sister and I, she would eat that orange and this glorious ball gown would unfurl from under her blah grey-and-navy uniform. She'd shake her hair free from her uniform cap to reveal a delicate gem-encrusted tiara set atop a cascade of long slinky curls that smelled faintly of citrus...
Everyone I knew growing up had a secret life, one that was much more glamourous and exciting than what it looked like on the surface. Teachers were really superheroes by night. Other kids parents were international spies or famous talkshow hosts in foreign countries. My friends all had perfect moms and dads and ate magic food and had hidden trap doors under their boring little beds that would open onto a spiral staircase leading to their real but secret bedrooms, with glowing white canopy beds, closets bursting with starched ruffled dresses, and a built-on nursery full of wonderful toys and those big red-and-white-swirly big-as-your-head lollipops and candy floss and maybe even a private carousel, and I pictured myself growing up humble, and in perpetual awe of everyone around me, since they were all going to grow up to be SO COOL that they could even be the main attraction on a parade float announcing the arrival of the big BIG carnival...
Imagine my disappointment as I grew up and had my childhood fantasies systematically dashed. No, the busdriving gig wasn't a clever front for princessdom, other kids' parents fought or divorced just like mine, and no one I knew owned a private carousel. As time wore on, the fantasies became less fantastic and more realistic - all my friends had better relationships with their boyfriends, cooler houses, better jobs, more money, fame, success, and happiness - but even that wasn't true. As different as our lives are, whatever our income, social status, family size, or location, the only people I know who have ever ridden on a parade float did it a) for a lark or b) because they had to, and not a single one of my friends, even the ones I love and respect and admire, have kept me in a state of perpetual awe, except maybe some of the really dumb ones that defy Darwinian theory.
Last night as I was putting my bike in the garage I heard some screeching, howling, yelling, bellowing, and giggling. Their weathered faces like stone by day, lit up like the ferris wheel by night, I knew full well the rides had shut down hours earlier so made the assumption it was the carnies, going about their secret after-hours lives. I pictured them frollicking about, gleefully trailer-hopping with beers and smokes in hand, the never-ending party. I picture them not as glamourous, but certainly as eternally youthful. And exceptionally unhealthy, as only a diet of carnival food, liquor, and chain smoking can make you.
Bill and I laughed as we rode our bikes through the carnie trailer settlement in the mall parking lot this morning. Take out containers and beer cans strewn about, piles of cigarette butts, and hours-old loogies on the ashphalt, caking at the edges as they dry in the morning sun. I decided the secret life of a carny can stay a secret. I'm not nomadic, and I can't stand noise or kids when I have a hangover. Of course, that won't stop us from taking the children to the little mall carnival after work today so they can ride some rides and Bill & I can talk to some carnies.
Did I mention I'm a bit uncomfortable in crowds? I wouldn't say afraid - it's not a phobia or anything - I just get irritated and frustrated and start fantasizing about how handy a cattle prod would be in crowd manipulation. A saccharine, "Excuse me..." accompanied by a little jolt ~bzzt!~ and I'd be going to all kinds of crowded places! The only time crowds actually make me fearful is when I have my kids with me, because they are easy to lose since they can't be seen above the masses of bodies and can't be heard over the din of cackling teenagers, loud music, and hydraulic ride farts. If the children could wear stilts and yodel I'd be more inclined to take them.
The sad part about all of this is merely the fact that I love carnies, which is why I opt to capitalize on the opportunity to go to the mall parking lot carnivals whenever they come by. I love watching carnies, I love talking to carnies, and I wish I could be a carny for a day. There's a whole other life that goes on for carnies when the rides are turned off and the lights go down and the gates are locked. "What happens with carnies, stays with carnies." They protect their kind like it's a secret society, retiring to their trailers and doing... and doing what?
***********************************
When I was about 7, I distinctly remember that my Mom took an orange to work with her, every single day. Not a day went by that I didn't see her pack an orange in her bag. I decided she wasn't really a bus driver. She was the orange princess. When she got away from my sister and I, she would eat that orange and this glorious ball gown would unfurl from under her blah grey-and-navy uniform. She'd shake her hair free from her uniform cap to reveal a delicate gem-encrusted tiara set atop a cascade of long slinky curls that smelled faintly of citrus...
Everyone I knew growing up had a secret life, one that was much more glamourous and exciting than what it looked like on the surface. Teachers were really superheroes by night. Other kids parents were international spies or famous talkshow hosts in foreign countries. My friends all had perfect moms and dads and ate magic food and had hidden trap doors under their boring little beds that would open onto a spiral staircase leading to their real but secret bedrooms, with glowing white canopy beds, closets bursting with starched ruffled dresses, and a built-on nursery full of wonderful toys and those big red-and-white-swirly big-as-your-head lollipops and candy floss and maybe even a private carousel, and I pictured myself growing up humble, and in perpetual awe of everyone around me, since they were all going to grow up to be SO COOL that they could even be the main attraction on a parade float announcing the arrival of the big BIG carnival...
Imagine my disappointment as I grew up and had my childhood fantasies systematically dashed. No, the busdriving gig wasn't a clever front for princessdom, other kids' parents fought or divorced just like mine, and no one I knew owned a private carousel. As time wore on, the fantasies became less fantastic and more realistic - all my friends had better relationships with their boyfriends, cooler houses, better jobs, more money, fame, success, and happiness - but even that wasn't true. As different as our lives are, whatever our income, social status, family size, or location, the only people I know who have ever ridden on a parade float did it a) for a lark or b) because they had to, and not a single one of my friends, even the ones I love and respect and admire, have kept me in a state of perpetual awe, except maybe some of the really dumb ones that defy Darwinian theory.
*******************************
Last night as I was putting my bike in the garage I heard some screeching, howling, yelling, bellowing, and giggling. Their weathered faces like stone by day, lit up like the ferris wheel by night, I knew full well the rides had shut down hours earlier so made the assumption it was the carnies, going about their secret after-hours lives. I pictured them frollicking about, gleefully trailer-hopping with beers and smokes in hand, the never-ending party. I picture them not as glamourous, but certainly as eternally youthful. And exceptionally unhealthy, as only a diet of carnival food, liquor, and chain smoking can make you.
Bill and I laughed as we rode our bikes through the carnie trailer settlement in the mall parking lot this morning. Take out containers and beer cans strewn about, piles of cigarette butts, and hours-old loogies on the ashphalt, caking at the edges as they dry in the morning sun. I decided the secret life of a carny can stay a secret. I'm not nomadic, and I can't stand noise or kids when I have a hangover. Of course, that won't stop us from taking the children to the little mall carnival after work today so they can ride some rides and Bill & I can talk to some carnies.
Comments
That secret bedroom you described .. "full of wonderful toys and those big red-and-white-swirly big-as-your-head lollipops and candy floss and maybe even a private carousel" Isn't that Michael Jackson's bedroom?