by Page, Wayne;
She should have wandered off. The John Deere salesman finally succeeded in instructing Mr. Old-Man-ATV how to negotiate the four-wheel drive lever. He failed to instruct the gray-haired grandpa as to which foot pedal operated the brakes. No sooner had Maggie locked the door, the Gator ATV lurched forward and crashed into the Port-o-Let. The fiberglass outhouse wobbled as Mr. Old-Man-ATV fumbled with the controls. Bang. Thump. Bang. The ATV repeatedly hit the front of the green poop shack. Bang again, the oversized knobby front tires did what they were designed to do–climb. Now angled at a forty-five degree angle on the front door, the weight of the ATV won the battle.
Maggie’s scream from inside confirmed that the power of the ATV had succeeded in toppling the Port-o-Let onto its back. Mr. Old-Man-ATV fell off the ATV and crawled under the safety of a nearby hay bailer. The ATV rolled onto its side, wheels pawing at nothingness. Spinning in the air. The John Deere salesman found the off switch and quieted the scene. He would not find Maggie’s off switch so easily.
Dark green, disinfectant fluid was dripping from the Port-o-Let. Or possibly the Jolly Green Giant had eaten too much of something very unsettling. Not designed to rest on its back, the fiberglass outhouse started to split at the seams. Rivets popped. Maggie fumbled with the lock above her head and kicked the door open. A prairie dog raises its head from a desert floor more confidently than Maggie did. When she saw the assembled crowd of onlookers, faster than any prairie dog, she ducked back down into the collapsed wreck of fiberglass. One more peek revealed that a photographer from the local newspaper was focusing his camera. She had no choice. Before the photographer could create his front-page Pulitzer masterpiece, Maggie pulled the Port-o-Let door closed over her head. She would stay here all fair week if it kept her picture out of the paper. Her whimper became a full-fledged cry as she pumped hand sanitizer onto her arms and legs.
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Sights, sounds, and smells bombarded his senses as Trip explored the fairgrounds. It was hard to rank the smells. Challengers for top smells varied by who was doing the smelling. Popcorn, cotton candy, roasted peanuts, French fries, grilled sausage and onions. Contenders all. Trip settled on roasted peanuts.
Bringing up the rear on the smell index was a tossup between the sheep barn and the poultry barn. Maggie probably earned an honorable mention. Cracking peanut shells in his mouth, Trip looked up at the poultry sign above the exhibit barn. Taking one step forward, he lost his nerve and concluded, no way am I going in there. Trip still had images of Thunderbolt’s talons gouging at his eyes. The smell of chicken feathers and dander made his skin crawl. Turning on his heels, he decided to explore the midway.
Smells were replaced by sights and sounds. The collision of merry-go-round calliope, drums, and bells with the high-pitched squeal of children created a dissonance that challenged the ear. Each sound, heard individually might have been acceptable. The combination was best avoided, much too screechy. Fingernails on a blackboard sounded better than this out of tune calliope.
Finishing his bag of roasted peanuts, Trip followed his nose toward the cotton candy. While he was waiting in line, the Ferris Wheel captured his attention. His fear of heights kicked in, the swaying of the top chair reminding him of his parachute crashing through the trees in Gerty’s woods. Was that really almost two months ago? He thought. Shaking it off, he recognized the guy rocking the top chair back and forth. It was Buzz. Deb was punching him on the shoulder in protest. Buzz was enjoying Deb’s reaction. To avoid recognition, Trip slid behind the cotton candy booth and continued to spy on Buzz and Deb.
Deb continued to punch Buzz as they hopped off the swaying Ferris Wheel chair. Buzz pointed toward the banner above the grandstand depicting rodeo scenes. The not-quite-ready-for-prime-time assortment of cowboys, bucking broncos, bulls, and clowns was always a hit at the county fair. Arm-in-arm, Buzz and Deb disappeared with the crowd into the grandstand.
Trip melted into the bustle of activity in the games of chance area. The gyp-joint carnival barkers plied their banter to coax the weak and unsuspecting suckers into their web of deceit. Two Coke bottles, one tennis ball, huge stuffed animals. Looked easy. Fifty cents down the drain. Come on. Try again. Good natured insults of intelligence and physical prowess. Manhood challenged in front of embarrassed young lovers. Everyone loved the carnies.
Rufus and Gomer worked as a team. No one knew what these one-week carnival workers did the other fifty-one weeks of the year the fair wasn’t in town. How do the traveling carnival bosses find these low life creatures? When not running the shooting range, Rufus and Gomer fleeced unsuspecting fairgoers. Dirty, tooth challenged shysters with rotten, sardine breath, they both looked like they picked their clothes from a dumpster behind the local Goodwill store.
Rufus had the quick tongue and the sharp wit. He created the distraction. Gomer was the follower, the pickpocket extraordinaire. He could steal someone’s socks and underwear before they could figure out how they got commando. Their highest success rate in picking wallets and watches wasn’t in random walks around the fairgrounds. Their greatest haul was gleaned at the shooting range. Rufus could have hosted a late-night T.V. talk show. His verbal banter would have made Shakespeare proud. He drew them in. All eyes were on Rufus, the spinning whirligigs, parade of ducks and rabbits, and the current contestant shouldering a .22-caliber rifle. No one noticed Gomer.
Mingling in the crowd, Gomer took his lead from Rufus. The carnies made eye contact and agreed on their next victim.
The male ego made the scheme work to perfection. Rufus insulted a young buck with his doe-date in tow. Challenged, the testosterone flowing, a ninety percent hit ratio resulted in the young man taking the rifle from Rufus.
“Step right up, right this way,” Rufus barked. Ignoring the young buck, Rufus chose to work his date. “Hey, purdy lady, yuz need a great big Teddy Bear.” Switching back to the young man, Rufus blurted, “Yuz her Teddy Bear?” The trap was set.
Embarrassed, the lady drifted into the background. This left the man in a vacuum of loneliness. Suckered in by all of the attention, he was stranded. If he retreated beside his lady friend, he was a coward. In the clutches of a skilled carnie at the fair, every man is a man’s man. No retreat. Grasping the rifle, Rufus extended his arm, shoving the rifle into the man’s face. There was no backing down now. The man accepted the challenge– and the rifle. Slapping his dollar on the shooting range counter, his pulse quickened. He must remember the Alamo. Defend his honor. Sucker!
From the back of the crowd, a neighbor of the rifle man shouted, “Show ‘em, Frank!”
The lady had settled into the first row of the gathered spectators. Gomer slid in beside her. One last confirming glance between the two carnies, Gomer expertly removed the lady’s billfold from her purse and slipped back into the crowd. Gone. Success.
Frank shouldered his rust bucket of a weapon and shot; pop, pop, pop, pop, pop in rapid succession. He hit a few targets. Bells, whistles, but he did not win a prize. The crowd hissed and booed its disapproval. The woman looped her arm into Frank’s elbow as they strolled away. Her laughter would subside once she discovered that her billfold was missing. It could have been lost in any number of places. A dozen other fairgoers would suffer a similar fate this day.
Some of the crowd bled away as Rufus begged anew, “Step right up. Right this way. Who’s next? That last dude? Blind in one eye, and cain’t see outta d’other. Look at these targets.”
Using a yardstick, Rufus pointed to the assortment of stuffed bears and worthless treasures. When the crowd waivered, he slapped the counter with his yardstick. It was hard to ignore Rufus.
“They’re huge,” he shouted. “Biggest targets at the fair. How ‘bout yuz young feller?”
Rufus had turned his attention to a thirteen-year-old boy. He took the bum rifle the previous man had been using and secreted it below the counter. Rufus replaced it with a good rifle. This bait-and-switch routine worked particul
arly well with the younger kids.
“It’s easy, son,” Rufus assured. “Dat last dude couldn’t hit the barn side of a broad. Here,” as he handed the good rifle to the young chap, “two free shots. Wow. Did I say free? Don’t let the boss man hear that or I’m fired. Hey, son, I’d give these stuffed bears ‘way if ’n I thought I’d get away with it.”
Rufus leaned over the counter, into the crowd. He looked left, right as if checking for the boss man. Rufus reached back, pointed to the biggest Teddy Bear with his yardstick.
“Ya know, son, if you win that purdy littl’ gal this Teddy Bear, she’d be kissin’ ya all night ‘hind the grandstand.”
The newly-gathered crowd cheered the young boy, encouraging him. Were he a riverside preacher, Rufus could have baptized fifty sinners about now. Even Gerty had taken a position beside the young girlfriend to marvel at Rufus, the magician. Best entertainment at the fair. Rufus handed the good rifle to the boy. “Okay, everybody. Stand back. Wyatt Earp is at the OK Corral. Let ‘er rip, Wyatt.”
The boy took careful aim. Pop, pop. He hit targets straight-on with both shots. Bells rang, two ducks flopped over. The crowd cheered. The young girlfriend jumped up and down. Bait-and-switch is a two-step process. Rufus had successfully dangled the bait. Now for the switch; he retrieved the good rifle from the boy, laid it on the counter, and held it securely under his hand.
“One doller,” he said. “Five easy shots and the kisses stert flowin.’ How ‘bout it, Wyatt?”
As his girlfriend squealed, the boy dug into his blue jeans, pulled out a wadded up dollar bill. As the boy looked at his dollar bill, Rufus cleverly switched back to the bum rifle under the counter. Bait-and-switch; both now completed. The trap was set.
The boy laid his money on the counter. Rufus handed him the bum rifle. Taking careful aim, the trigger was eased. Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop. No bells, no whistles. The crowd sighed ‘ah’ in disbelief. The boy missed everything. Embarrassed, he slumped his shoulders. The girlfriend was disappointed.
Gomer reached for Gerty’s purse as she abruptly moved to stand beside the boy. Gomer, furled brow, missed his pickpocket target. Before Rufus could retrieve the switched bum rifle, Gerty had it in her hands. Observing from a distance, Robinson settled into the back of the growing crowd.
“Mr. Wyatt Earp, hold this a second,” she instructed the defeated boy as he fumbled with her purse over his elbow.
Gerty looked down the bum rifle sight line and darted an accusatory stare at Rufus. “Crooked as a dog’s hind leg,” she announced.
Rufus took another swipe to retrieve the bum rifle, but missed. The front row of the assembled crowd gasped and jumped back as Gerty smashed the barrel end of the rifle hard on the shooting range counter. Squinting through one eye perched aside the stock handle, she looked down the sightline. She lifted the end of the rifle barrel to her eyes and bent the sight bead with her thumb. Again, looking down the sightline, she licked her thumb and swiped the end of the barrel sight bead.
“There, that should do it,” she said.
Gerty exchanged the newly repaired bum rifle for her purse with the shocked young boy. He had never been around such a take-charge woman. She opened her purse and authoritatively slapped a dollar bill on the counter.
“Our little friend would like to try again.”
Rufus opened his mouth to object. He had barely initiated a cautious inhale when Gerty cut him off.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she lectured. “You must not have understood. Shut up and stand back, skunk breath. I said our little friend here would like to try again.”
Rufus reluctantly slid the dollar bill off the counter and shoved it in his apron. He stood aside. The crowd cleared back as the boy shouldered the rifle. Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop. Five dead-on hits. Ducks and rabbit targets flopped over, bells rang, whistles tooted, the crowd hooted and hollered. Passersby within fifty feet joined the action to see what all the commotion was about.
The boy raised the rifle triumphantly over his head and laid it on the counter. His girlfriend cheered, threw her arms around the boy’s neck. Rufus’s banter had been right, the kisses might start flowing. Rufus reluctantly handed the huge prize bear to the boy. Now in possession of her new Teddy Bear, the girl grabbed the boy’s hand as they retreated through the separating throng.
The boy paused, dropped the little girl’s hand, and took a few steps back to Gerty, saying, “Thank you, ma’am.”
“You did the shootin.’ What’s your name, son?”
“Luke, ma’am.”
“Well, Luke, you have fun at the fair.”
The young couple, Teddy Bear in tow, walked off, hand-in- hand. As the crowd dispersed, Robinson left the shadows and approached Rufus. He whispered to Rufus, pointing to Gerty, as he slipped him a fifty-dollar bill. Rufus and Gomer made eye contact. They had a new assignment.
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The public address speakers blared an announcement that the rodeo was about to start at the main grandstand. Trip eyed the rodeo banner above the grandstand entrance. Recalling that Buzz and Deb had entered the grandstand, he decided to avoid the swarm of people at the main entrance. It would be better to disappear into the overflow crowd on the infield track. He joined the late-coming stragglers and circled around the left side of the grandstand. He grabbed a space in the middle of the dirt track in the second row. This would have been acceptable, except for the six-foot-five cowboy with the ten-gallon hat standing in front of him. Trip bobbed and weaved and missed most of the calf roping event.
He gave up as the barrel racing event commenced. The only saving grace of the second row was that the first row blocked most of the dust, dirt, and horse crap that filled the air as the horses made their tight turns around the barrel in front of the six-foot-five cowboy. Trip noticed an older couple abandoning their front-row spot to his left. Before he could nab the spot at the rail, two young teenagers cut him off. Heck, he thought, they’ll get covered in dirt, anyway. He gave up and meandered toward the backstage area in the racetrack infield.
Trip was amazed at the flurry of activity behind the scenes. Horses, cowboys, everyone crisscrossed every which way. In the shadow of a raggedy old canvas tent with a tattered ‘Crew Tent’ sign posted above its entrance, he saw a rodeo clown. Seated on a bale of straw, the clown was drinking Jim Beam whiskey straight from the bottle. Finished with his afternoon refreshment, the tipsy clown tossed the bottle aside.
The clown’s timing could not have been worse. The discarded bottle landed directly at the feet of the rodeo manager as he exited the crew tent. The rodeo manager picked up the bottle, gave it a quick sniff. He threw the bottle back at the feet of the inebriated clown.
“Tex!” he screamed. “That’s it. Yer fired! Get yer drunk carcass outta here.”
The clown stumbled to his feet, ripped his bright orange wig off, threw it, hitting the rodeo manager in the chest as he staggered off. The rodeo manager caught the wig and kicked the bale of straw beside the crew tent. Still holding the orange wig, the rodeo manager turned on his heels, without looking, he bumped into Trip. As he shoved him aside, the orange wig dropped at Trip’s feet.
Ignoring Trip, the rodeo manager shouted one last expletive toward Tex, “And the horse you rode in on.”
Turning his attention to Trip, he grumbled, “Get outta my way.”
With that, the rodeo manager stomped off. He scratched his head under a well-worn cowboy hat. Now what? Can’t have bull riding without a rodeo clown.
The rodeo manager kicked a clod of dirt as he heard Trip ask, “You got fifty bucks?”
Still frustrated, the rodeo manager stopped in his tracks, turned, and saw Trip wearing the bright orange wig and muttered, “Excuse me?” The rodeo manager gave Trip a quick once-over. Trip fully extended his arms, palms up; as if ‘ta da.’
“Fifty bucks,” Trip repeated as he did a full circle spin.
Rodeo day at the
county fair would be a good time to burglarize farmers’ homes. Everyone was there, hanging from the grandstand rafters. Buzz and Deb, stuck behind a support post, sat about halfway-up in the grandstand. Eating popcorn and waving at crop-dusting customers and farmers, they craned their necks around the post to see the rodeo action.
The rodeo manager, having resumed his role as interlocutor, ringmaster, and public address announcer extraordinaire, pumped up the crowd, “Cowboys, cowgirls, cinch up yer britches ‘cause it’s the main event. Six tons of snot-snortin’, poop-squirtin’, gut-wrenchin’ beasts are a’comin’ yer way. And heck, that’s jest the cowboys. Wait ‘til ya see our bulls.”
The crowd cheered wildly. They had waited for this bull-riding event since last years’ rodeo sent two cowboys and one overly fed spectator to the local hospital. Nothing better than the mixture of blood, bull snot, and torn human flesh. This was a show not to be missed.
A female rodeo clown skipped around the dirt track in front of the grandstand. Introduced as Flossie, her baggy pants, wild colors, huge polka-dot bow tie, and floppy hat elicited squeals and giggles from the kids. Facing the grandstand, hands on her hips, she scratched her bottom, then stretched her pant front out far enough that she could double over, fully inserting her head into her oversized pants. The crowd roared in delight, what is she looking for? Resurfacing from her deep dive, she threw her hands in the air, as if where is it?
“Over here,” the rodeo manager shouted. “Ya left it over here,” as he pointed to a large rubber barrel in the corner of the dirt track arena.
Flossie hopped, skipped, and jumped over to the barrel. She looked down into the barrel, flailed her hands inside the barrel as if stirring a kettle of porridge, and motioned, it’s empty. She rolled the barrel into the center of the dirt track arena and balanced on the side of the barrel like a log roller. She righted the barrel.