“Ah,” the judge exclaimed, “you have both passed on to the talent round.” She smiled at us.
With that, the Bee and I rushed offstage. There was still a crowd of kids to be judged but I couldn’t see how they did because Mother whipped me back into the corral and behind one of the screens. My clothes were gone again and I was being wrapped in leather pants, a white T-shirt, and a black and red leather jacket with colours that made a V on my chest.
“You were so good. I knew you were going on to the talent part,” Mother fussed. “I can’t believe that girl made it though. You really pulled her through.”
Someone walked by the screen and it billowed out. A boy milling about outside pointed at me and poked his mother to get her attention. I flushed. The curtain fell back.
“Do you remember the routine?”
“Yes.” We had only practised it every spare moment for two weeks.
“Remember it’s not just about going through the steps. You have to feel the moment, make it yours. Those judges have to see your character, you, shining through. Make them fall in love with you. Want them to fall in love with you and they will. You can perform perfectly and not make that connection. You need to connect with them. Let them know you. Let them in. That’s the way to win.” Mother fussed over the leather jacket.
My outfit cost $300, a fact Father wouldn’t let us forget for an hour after we bought it.
“Coulda’ got a full set of hockey gear for that much,” he had puffed.
I nodded as Mother sat back on her heels for a final look. She finger-combed my hair a little, avoiding the divot the haemangioma had left in my skull once it had disappeared.
“This is important, you know.” She wouldn’t make eye contact with me; her gaze wandered every part of me but my eyes. She was tearing me down and rebuilding me.
“I know,” I said.
She contemplated me for a moment. “I don’t know if you really do.”
There was a pause where I wondered if she would tell me or if I would remain ignorant.
“Good people win, they deserve to,” Mother continued. “Good people do well in life and I want you to do well. This is so important, it’s your first big test.” Her eyes began to well up. “This is an early test as to how you are going to do, how your life will turn out. I think I have raised a good little boy who will turn into a good man. A man who will succeed, who will be happy. I want you to be good at life because I lo…” Her chin dimpled and her lip wiggled. She forced a smile through her emotion.
My chest felt like it was going to explode. In eight years, those first eight of my life, I had never experienced such love from her. I felt that I was responsible for her happiness and at that moment she was happy with me. I felt I had already succeeded. I felt what she was about to say before becoming so choked with emotion. I truly felt it. She loved me and I loved her in return.
She sighed an uneven breath. “…because I longed for this so much. I have put so much into this. I have sacrificed… make it worth my while. Win this contest.” Her hand flew in front of her mouth and she darted out from behind the curtain. It flapped as she ran past and I stood there confused.
Mother did not accompany me to the stage for the talent portion of the show. I didn’t see her as I made my way through the corrals alone to stand behind the Bee Girl, in line to get on the stage with ten other Little Misters and Little Misses. I didn’t see her from where I peeked through the curtains from backstage, my stomach in a knot, wanting someone to tell me this would all be okay. I didn’t see her as I moonwalked my way through Michael Jackson’s “Thriller,” doing the monster dance we had practised and pulling it off flawlessly.
I looked for her.
I looked to where I had seen Leonard and Auntie Maggie earlier in the show. I could only peek occasionally while I was onstage.
She didn’t meet me when I exited through the curtain offstage.
“That was great.”
Those words weren’t from my mother. They were from the Bee Girl.
“Who’re you looking for?” Bee Girl asked my swivelling head and darting eyes.
“Have you seen my mother?” I asked her.
Where was I supposed to go next?
What was I supposed to do?
Where were my normal clothes?
Was I abandoned there to be forever dressed like Mike?
Tears of panic welled up and there was the tingling in my sinuses that I always felt before I cried.
“I haven’t seen her,” Bee Girl said. She saw my distress and reached out to touch my arm.
“Neither have I,” I huffed, “for quite a while.”
My eyes searched the corral. It was empty of children and mothers and was filling up with folding tables covered by red and white checkered plastic table cloths. The show was reaching its end and the cook-off was setting up. Old ladies were plugging giant, floral-patterned Crock-Pots of chili into extension cords that snaked through the hay. Some already stirred bubbling vats and cackled to their neighbours, giving the occasional hungry glance to the children gathering behind the stage. Chunks of meat and beans glistened under the sweaty lids of those cauldrons. Gnarled fingers grasped wooden spoons, bringing spicy grease to withered lips, a vile taste test by pasty tongued hags.
I watched a tongue slip out of a woman’s mouth and wet her lips, all the while she watched me. I could smell the sickly sweet barbecue smell coming from her chili.
“My mom can help us,” Bee Girl redirected my attention away from the witches’ Little Mister Beef Cattle Chili Cook-off.
Without further prompting, she grabbed my hand and led me to a tall, plump woman with such a kind face that I wished I could wrap myself in its safety.
“Who’s your friend, Abigail?” the woman asked.
The question was really directed at me.
Here is where my training kicked in. I shouldn’t talk to strangers. I looked away and caught sight of the corral full of chili cookers. I did a quick risk analysis before responding.
“I’m Richard,” I said.
“Nice to meet you Richard. I’m Ms. Spencer, Abigail’s mom,” she replied.
Instantly, my panic subsided.
“Richard can’t find his mom,” Abigail said.
“Come here, honey,” Ms. Spencer said. “They’re about to crown the winner. We’ll find your mom after.”
All the finalists were called back onto the stage and the judges read off several names, the Little Misters and Little Misses who were eliminated. There were some tears, there was some loud wailing and a few angry parents until I stood there with one other boy and two girls. Abigail was gone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the judges have narrowed down all the wonderful Little Misters and Little Misses that we have seen here this morning to these fine guys and gals.” There was a shriek from the PA before the announcer continued. “I am pleased to present Little Mister Beef Cattle 1984, Little Mister Richard Trench.”
I heard a scream and saw two up-thrown arms sprout from the stands. I spotted Mother’s shadow backlit from the glowing red canvas wall, and smiled the biggest smile I could.
My world blurred into handshaking, flashbulbs, clapping and lots of teeth glistening behind smiles. Someone pinned a blue ribbon on my chest. My title was printed in gold letters on the button in the middle. Someone else handed me a hundred-dollar gift certificate for Wal-Mart.
The next thing I remember was Mother snatching my hand from Mrs. Spencer and storming off with me to where Father, Auntie Maggie, Uncle Tony and Leonard stood at the entrance to the swine wing. They stood at the junction of the dairy cattle, sheep, swine, goat and poultry pavilions, near benches under a sign that read Sittin’ Room.
“This place smells like shit,” Father was saying.
Uncle Tony nodded gravely.
Auntie Maggie spotted me and came barrelling forward, squat-walking with her arms outstretched.
“Gimme a hug, Little Mister Beef Cattle,” she said through a smile
.
When she hugged me, all I could think of was that Father was right. This place did smell like shit.
“It’s noon.” Father stated, looking pointedly at Uncle Tony. “Let’s find us a beer garden and some lunch.”
Uncle Tony grunted his agreement and we entered the swine wing. We walked past a series of livestock wash racks between two rows of swine stalls, which we needed to pass through to exit the livestock complex.
I paused briefly to look at one stall. There was a placard at the gate that read Ian. Ian had a blue ribbon beside his name with swine racing printed in gold letters on the button in the middle. Before being called along by my beaming mother, I watched Ian roll in some filth.
Outside the Livestock Complex, the sun beat down. The animal smells dissipated as we wove our way through the crowds and snaking spaces between big canvas tents. In the distance, I saw half of the Ferris wheel spinning over the tent tops.
Father piped up when he spotted a beer garden, a fenced-in open-air area with a straw floor and patio furniture shaded by umbrellas. A sign at the entrance read, No Minors. Leonard and I were ushered into an adjacent corral under a sign that read, Milk Bar. We sat at a table on the other side of the fence as our parents.
Three frosty pints of milk later, I looked across my filmy glass at Leonard.
“…so they are going to take her title away because of some nude photos she supposedly had taken of her before the competition. What kind of message does that send? Here she is, the first black woman in the sixty-three year history of the pageant and they scandalize her.” Mother was talking.
“Who are we talking about?” Uncle Tony asked.
“Vanessa Williams,” Mother responded and nodded to the waitress for another round.
“I would scandalize her,” Father muttered to Uncle Tony.
“We have to pee,” Leonard said.
“What?” Mother asked Father.
“Oh,” Father feigned surprise, “I didn’t say anything.”
Uncle Tony smirked and gave Father a look.
“What are we to take from that?” Mother continued. “Are we supposed to be ashamed of a woman’s body? Is it because she’s black? What’s offensive about a beautiful black woman’s body?”
Next year, Sharlene Wells, a twenty-year-old Mormon from Utah would be crowned Miss America. Her life goals, when asked, would be to get married and raise a family at home.
“We have to pee,” Leonard said again.
“I don’t have to pee,” I told Leonard.
“Yes, you do,” he hissed back.
“Nothing wrong with naked beautiful women,” Uncle Tony smirked to Father.
“Nude women,” Mother corrected. “Nudes aren’t some porno girlie pictures. They’re a celebration of perfection through beauty of form.”
“We have to pee,” Leonard piped in louder.
More beers arrived at the parent’s table.
“Boys,” Auntie Maggie said sharply, reaching for her beer. “Just go, for Pete’s sake.”
Leonard grabbed my hand and dragged me from the table and out under the Milk Bar sign.
“I don’t have to pee, Leonard. And the bathrooms are the other way.”
“Shut up, I don’t have to pee either but I’m so bored. We’re going to the midway. I want to see the games and rides. Anyhow…” he jerked his chin over his shoulder in the direction of the beer garden, “they could be there all afternoon.”
Once we were around a corner from the beer garden, Leonard let go of my hand. We wound our way between people, past cotton candy and mini-doughnut stands, toward the Ferris wheel. At one point, we were drawn to the sound of screaming engines coming from behind a fence. We went to the fence and tried to peek through but were thwarted by several big signs.
Motor Sports Arena!
Antique Tractor Pull Tomorrow… Agripowered by Annex Ethanol!
Come in and check out our Safety Wall! New This Year!
A fat man in an undershirt staggered up and shooed us along before taking a piss on the fence.
We followed the noise of a crowd and the Ferris wheel beacon and rounded a corner to the blaring music, bells and whistles of the midway. The air smelled like diesel and vomit. With mouths open and awe-filled eyes cast upwards, we wandered the length of the midway in wonder. Hair, legs, arms and screaming mouths blurred from the rides. At one point, I was narrowly missed getting hit by a set of keys that seemed to fall from the clear blue sky. Once we reached the other end, we stood between two tents, gape-mawed at the twirling metal and flesh stretching out along the midway.
Strong hands latched onto my shoulders from behind.
I screamed in surprise and Leonard spun to see where the little-girl noise came from. I glanced over my shoulder as I squirmed in panic. At the end of the arms attached to the strong hands was a pitted, sunburnt face of a man. He was wearing a carnie uniform, a stained, red T-shirt and jeans that were blotchy with grease and filth. He pulled me close enough to smell oil and sweat. He held a rusty nail between the yellow pegs of his teeth. In my glance, I saw the white paste in the corners of his mouth and the brown flecks of food stuck between his teeth.
I screamed and struggled harder.
“Hey,” the carnie barked through his foul grin.
I pulled and twisted. I caught a glimpse of Leonard running forward and kicking his shin.
The grip released. Leonard and I retreated out of arm’s reach and stopped, scared to keep our back to the man.
“You little bastard,” the man spoke around the nail and rubbed his shin.
Leonard held my elbow and I felt his grip tense, ready to run or ready to fight, I wasn’t sure.
“I was talkin’ at ya,” the carnie said. He seemed to think for a moment. “You guys wanna see something different, something really far out?”
His eyebrows rose. Ours followed suit.
“What?” Leonard asked though his grip didn’t lessen on my elbow.
“I don’t know if I wanna tell ya now you gone kicked me.”
“What could you have to show us?” Leonard asked.
I made to leave but Leonard’s grip on my elbow stopped me.
“It’s something so far out, they tell us not to show anyone,” the carnie continued. “Something that even makes the management nervous, something we ain’t even supposed to talk about,” the carnie paused and gave an exaggerated hurt look as he finished rubbing his shin. He pulled the nail from between his teeth, a string of spit dragged out with it. “Can you boys keep a secret?”
How could we not?
The carnie continued to talk, the white gobs at the corner of his mouth migrating as his lips moved, “You can’t never tell no one. Not your parents, not the cops, not nobody. Promise?”
“Promise,” Leonard said.
“I ain’t sure I can trust the two of you. How can I know you’ll keep a secret?”
Leonard took a step closer.
“Oh, you can trust us. We won’t tell anyone. We already promised.”
The carnie rolled his bloodshot eyes from Leonard to me and then back to Leonard. Then he seemingly made up his mind. “Y’all will love this.” The carnie smiled. “Foller me.”
How could we not?
We followed the carnie’s baggy, stained jeans and skinny shoulders around the back of a tent. He checked over his shoulder to see if we followed and gave a crooked smile when he saw that we did. He stopped at a tent, hiked up his jeans while he glanced about and pulled a flap open on the tent.
I peeked in. It was mostly dark except for a dim glow coming from somewhere deep inside.
“This way gentlemen,” the carnie said.
There are many moments in life that conspire toward making you the person you turn out to be on your deathbed. All of the events, the people, the places you go, the things you do and have done to you, everything foreshadows the person you are at the end. Final hindsight is like the cover of the puzzle box: it shows you the big picture but during life all
you get are the pieces.
What was in that tent would change Leonard and me forever, in very different ways. The pieces are all coming together but they can only be seen in hindsight. Leonard and I were too young to realize this. We had the puzzle but not all the pieces were there yet.
I followed Leonard through the tent flap.
It dropped behind us with a wet sound.
CHAPTER 5
Tokyo Is in Flames
“Welcome to the big one-oh,” Father yelled, then grimaced over the screaming kids at Bullwinkle’s. “Happy Birthday, Kiddo.”
The table we sat at was ringed by Leonard, Auntie Maggie and Uncle Tony. Our table was surrounded by other tables full of kids celebrating similar milestones. Those full tables reminded me that I invited ten kids from school and only Leonard showed up.
In an outer orbit around the tables were banks of coloured spotlights roaming the darkness and large speakers with poor sound quality. These pumped out a static and pop version of “Rock Me Amadeus,” adding to the seizure-inducing quality of light and noise. Falco’s lyrics were lost on us.
Occasionally, a comet of a waiter or waitress would fly through and drop off soda pop and food. Invariably, the server was a teenager with a face like the moon’s—waxy, pale and cratered.
Father was putting on a brave show of enjoying himself so I followed along, pretending like none of this bothered me. If he could put in the effort, so could I.
All the tables faced an animatronics Rocky and Bullwinkle show that played every half hour. Boris and Natasha joined the bull moose and flying squirrel halfway through the ten-minute show. The few kids paying attention would boo at the villains. The lights were kept dark even between shows, save for the roaming spotlights. The only thing on the menu was pizza, but there were thirty different kinds of it.
Mother was notably missing. Father thought it best if he smiled a lot in her absence and pretended like she had never been there, anywhere, in the first place.
“She’s gone off to fix her Tanqueray smile,” Father had said the first day she was gone. “She’ll be back in a month.”
At the time, I figured it was something like a tan. It sounded exotic, like she was lying on a beach somewhere next to the ocean with a dentist or something. I just wished she would have said bye before she left.
Imperfections Page 5