Desperate By Dusk

by Alexander Salkin

  Simon sipped his beer, trying at least halfway not to think about it. It wasn't a happy subject. "I guess something came up. Or she wasn't as interested as she thought she was," he mumbled.

  "I know, I know- hey, maybe there's a good reason. I guess you two didn't share numbers or anything?"

  "Nope. Not as sssuch," Simon slurred, frowning. He didn't think about it at the time. Stupid.

  Ramone pat him on the shoulder reassuringly. "I guess... keep me posted. Don't let this turn you away from asking out a girl you like. This stuff happens. There could be a legitimate reason. And it could be bullshit. She ain't the only one, Simon. And you're not the only one who has to experience things like that."

  "I'll be fine," Simon muttered, as he grabbed his jacket. He was half telling the truth.

  Around midnight, Jessie sent a forum message to BC6, stating the obvious.

  "I'll admit I didn't catch it as quick as I'd like, but friends are a good thing to have. I wonder, Leonard... do you have any? I hope this rather pointless challenge made your night. Whoever you are. -GS"

  He promptly logged off and called it a night. It seemed like an involving task for nothing. And he was a little annoyed with himself having gone ahead on this detour with his strange correspondent after the seriousness of the weekend with the black Lincolns. If anything, he wondered if this might encourage BC6 to behave like more of an elusive stalker by enabling 'him'; playing his game like this. That night and from thereon, Jessie double checked the locks.

  And again, a week went by predictably for the three boys in the backwater of New Jersey. Simon delivered his circulars and papers listlessly, nagged by old women and wandering dogs alike.

  Jessie quietly repaired whatever was brought to him with nary a word from BC6, although for all he knew, BC6 was any one of his customers. Periodically, he would study the notebook from the briefcase, but he wouldn't make mentioned of it on the forum for obvious reasons. At the same time, he didn't seem to get anywhere with it either. It didn't reflect much of anything he'd heard of beyond the tree inscription.

  Ramone tuned up a Grey Baskerville rat rod brought in by a collector from Heiowah and went on another fun, if forgettable date before the weekend struck. The three boys grew several days older, going nowhere in the grand scheme of things. And so came the weekend and a new adventure.

  Perhaps still feeling the uncomfortable recollection of events from the past weekend's run in at the Green Military Base, Jessie had no suggestions this Friday's activity, feigning indifference when the subject was brought up. Simon, similarly, had no ideas. He was solidly sequestered in his mental coma since Vikktorea stood him up. Fortunately, like a knight in shining armor, Ramone came to the rescue.

  Gathering in the evening at Simon's house with his Dodge Challenger, Ramone presented his friends with a handful of oversized tickets. They idly studied them over while he spoke with excitement.

  "Check it out- the carnival's in town! I won some free admission passes from the radio guys on WDPF during a rock block yesterday. I thought this would be a perfect way to de-stress instead of ghost hunting. Especially since I haven't heard any other ideas brought up."

  Jessie sniffed. "The carnival? Really, Ra? I might have enjoyed it back when I was five. What am I going to do? Ride the teacups and eat cotton candy?"

  Ramone looked back at him vacantly. "You sayin' you don't like cotton candy? My god, man... live a little."

  Simon studied the ticket with some interest. It was brightly designed with red and yellow lettering, with a mess of advertisements concerning features crammed onto the small piece of paper. "Come visit the Setting Sun Carnival- a treat for all ages, this weekend only at the 4 H camp grounds. Witness Boris the dancing Russian bear. Meet Norbert, the world's fattest palm reader. Gaze upon the fire breathing of Lady Calliope." He wasn't sure what to think. Simon did regard carnivals as fun, but this one sounded particularly hokey.

  Jessie continued to frown at Ramone as Simon read off the attractions. "The world's fattest palm reader... this is supposed to get people to attend? What does that even mean? A guy who packs away the cookies who can make up nonsense while staring at my hand is somehow interesting? Yeah, I bet the radio guys had a real hard time giving away free tickets to this gala event of the season."

  "Stop being such a damn wet blanket, man. I'm trying to liven things up with a little fun and you're just pissing and moaning. Not like you had any plans this time. What are we supposed to do? Sit and stare at walls until the paint peels?"

  Jessie shook his head irritably and looked away, saying nothing. It was true; he was in a particularly grumpy mood. Maybe it was the weather. It had been raining on and off today. He didn't feel inclined to admit it, however.

  "Fine," Ramone sighed. "Simon, what about you? You want to go, don't you?"

  Fidgeting with the ticket in his hand, Simon slowly nodded. "Yeah, you know... it does sound silly, but whatever. It could be fun. I really don't want to sit around doing nothing again. That describes my entire week as it is. You sure you don't want to tag along, Jess?"

  Their stumpy friend rubbed his face tiredly. Maybe it really was the weather. He seemed more evened out when Simon double checked with him. Simon was so much more neutral in the way he spoke than Ramone. "I'll be alright. Maybe catch an early night here. You go have fun. I'm just not feeling it tonight."

  Ramone sombered a bit. "You feelin' okay, bro?"

  "Yeah... nothing a nap and some chai wouldn't cure. Just feeling tired here, sorry. I think my knee is acting up with the barometer going crazy. I'll catch you guys later."

  "Later man."

  "Take it easy, Jess."

  Jessie waddled back to his car with a departing wave. His vehicle was a nineteen eighties pea green Volkswagen Bug covered with semi-faded Grateful Dead bumper stickers from the previous owner and various scraps of electronics in the back. He drove back towards Main Street, leaving Ramone and Simon to their distraction for the night. It began to drizzle slightly, not long after he sped off.

  CHAPTER 7

  "Well then... ready to see what this thing is all about?" Ramone asked his shades wearing friend. Simon gave a consenting nod and rode shotgun in Black Beauty.

  The drizzle remained in effect by the time Ramone pulled his chariot onto the now muddy dirt lot. A series of weather treated chopped logs showed him where to stop before the grass. Simon peered out the window. It was dark and somewhat hard to see, but it didn't look like the carnival was taking in too much business about now. There were a handful of mid sized pickup trucks and a blue metal garbage drum to occupy the lot besides themselves. Simon reasoned the wet, cold weather drove off any potential crowds much like Jessie's knees. The worker's trucks were surely positioned out of sight elsewhere.

  Despite the weather, there beckoned an inviting warmth, occasionally passing on an errant moist breeze throughout the grounds. It smelled pleasant. Corn dogs, burgers, zeppoles, and other inviting carnival fair junk food tempted the senses. Ramone rubbed his hands together and then stuck them in his jacket. "What say we grab a hotdog or something and check it out? It smells great here." Simon nodded idly, half daydreaming of a bag of dry roasted peanuts that made him feel nostalgic.

  They followed a loose assortment of signs under a copse of dripping pines, gum, and scattered birch. The ballyhoo messages were similar to those they found written on the tickets with just a bit more to tantalize. Ramone lingered slightly at a cut out for a wild orange maned woman called Marianne the Snake Handler. Simon thought he heard him mutter something indistinctive about Frank Frazetta.

  A vague path of stone borders on fallen straw colored pine needles led them to the front entrance. Ringed by a simplistic plastic fence that one might line an outdoor beer garden with, there was a simple primer white booth with a single old woman in librarian glasses reading a harlequin romance novel. She took her time before looking up at them.

  "That'll be four fifty each, boys."

  "We have free passes," R
amone quickly replied as he demonstrated the stubs and slid them under a small gap in the hut's window.

  She began to study them intently with her spectacles, holding them both close and far away. Simon could only wonder how many people really tried to save the price of a burger at a diner by counterfeiting an obscure carnival's entrance fee. "Looks about good to me, boys," she finally concluded in a froggish voice befitting a lifetime chain smoker. "You go on in and have fun. Just know we're closing in about two hours because of the weather and low attendance. But you've pretty much got run of the mill here until then."

  "Thanks ma'am," Ramone said with a polite smile. "C'mon, Simon."

  The carnival was set amidst many trees upon a wide walking passage. In either direction, there were simply painted shacks featuring wheel based games of chance and balloon popping booths, each hawking some flavor of the year children's character as well as some brightly colored stuffed animals of foreign make. Scattered in between those collapsible wooden buildings were snack shacks featuring all the usual treats. Cotton candy, hot dogs, fried everything, and bottles of overpriced water. At least the pleasant smell was free.

  True to the ticket taker's statement, there were few to none attending in such drizzly weather. A brave family or two and about as many lone stragglers looking for something, anything, to do in this small town. The booth attendants seemed half interested in their presence, only looking up from a cellphone or idle conversation if someone passed by, however brief. Simon frowned a bit. These places seemed more magical when he was younger. Maybe Jessie was right.

  Ramone seemed impervious to such sulky thoughts, meanwhile. Simon looked away only for a moment and found him ordering a gyro at a nearby stand while chatting up the person behind the counter. "So, do you guys come by here annually...?" could be heard over the pitter patter of light rain splashing the ground. Simon guessed they hadn't. He didn't recall this carnival dropping into town before. It seemed so small and non-flashy, perhaps some new operation attempting to find its financial legs.

  Sandwich in hand, Ramone returned. "The guy back there told me they've got a sideshow that might be worth checking out in the back section. Wanna go look?" Simon nodded, glancing at a few machines in the distance. There weren't more than a handful of wet rides to consider and he was too big for most of them. This was very low budget, indeed.

  Simon followed his friend to a yellow painted excuse of a building, with an alternating red candy striped canvas nestled between some tall dark pines. Signs advertising the performers and part time freaks inside sat in front of an open entrance with their now dulled lettering and imagery gone, faded from days in sunlight. The open tent seemed to breathe out warm air, which Simon regarded as quite welcome, especially after standing in the drizzle that quietly wrenched the vitality from of his joints.

  The interior featured several smaller sections under the big top of red and yellow canvas, in which a hallway decorated with glass displays of oddities and curiosities was separated by small rooms featuring the sideshow cast themselves. "Wonder if they have one of those Fiji mermaid props in here," Ramone asked idly, thinking back to the infamous P. T. Barnum creation. "Probably could get one for like thirty bucks from a taxidermist these days. What exactly was it again?"

  "A fish and a monkey of some kind," mentioned Simon. "The man had a lot of eye catching bullshit at his command. I think he bought some giant concrete statue of a man and tried to pass it off as the real thing, like he was petrified."

  Movement caught their eye as a hefty bearded woman emerged from a nearby alcove littered with random junk decor composed of a mish mash of cushions, burning incense, and second rate couches. A staticky old television could be discerned, playing defunct game show repeats in the background.

  "I couldn't help but overhear you boys," she said in an unfittingly sweet voice that had no justice being associated with her Fidel Castro length brunette beard. "But I assure you, everything here is quite the genuine article."

  She wasn't more than a few years older than them, indicated by the lack of lines on her face. She identified herself with a polite curtsy as Little Bertha. She was clad in a frumpy light blue dress with white polka dots that looked recycled from someone's drapes in the nineteen thirties. Suffering black penny loafers could be seen on her feet, several sizes too small. Her hair was long and reasonably well maintained, as well as the same color as her beard. Clearly, it was not a fake. She beckoned them to follow and they did so.

  "Over here, we have the skeleton of the late privateer Johannes Van Yurick," she said, walking them to a glass display as she assumed the role of a tour guide. The skeleton was dressed appropriately in a faded red officer's uniform and medals as it lay silently within a glass box. "He commanded a private vessel known as the Toreador, serving several countries and participating in several regional wars over the course of his career. His eccentricities are well known as he was said to have stocked his ship with statues he purchased from various ports, in order to give the enemy the impression he had more forces at his command than he really did. Some say he only spoke to those statues and his living crew had to indirectly overhear his orders while he delivered his commands to the stone and mortar."

  Ramone made an appreciative murmur, looking closer at the glass entombed skeleton. Simon felt the spirit of Jessie's cynicism within him, however. Yurick? Sounded like a name taken from Shakespeare over a few glasses of wine to make up a story for a no longer needed medical student's skeleton and a mish mash officer's uniform gathered from an Army Navy collector. Of course, the story was more important than the credibility. Simon wasn't going to be the prick to look all this up later only to find nothing existed about the Toreador and its stone quarried crew.

  "Now, over here..." the bearded woman began as she led them to another display in the same hall, "...is a collection of tiny humanoid bones. Can you see them well?" It was another glass case, this one with a strange diorama set up consisting of a tribal scene of rodent sized bipeds holding cute little toothpick length spears. "We don't know who they are but they were found in the late seventeen hundreds off the Gold Coast by a geologist taking samples from a small sinking island. He happened upon their remains originally thinking them to be miniscule monkey skeletons having died of disease, when he noticed they were wearing tiny loin cloths and carried itty bitty spears, similar to the facsimiles you see here."

  "As he began to dig around, he found several, and then dozens more! There was an entire village of these tiny people in a small grassy clearing. It is believed they were buried in the smoldering ash from a nearby volcano and in a short period of time, it wiped out what civilization they had. So we ask ourselves... who were they? Missing links? Ill fated cousins of humanity? Or were they in fact tiny monkey people, making them among the first creatures other than ourselves to develop a sophisticated working tribal structure that used tools? The world, sadly, may never know. Lovingly, however, we have nicknamed them the Tiny Tot tribe."

  Ramone gushed. "So cool! Look at them! I bet they could ride guinea pigs into battle." Simon remained quiet behind his shades. Admittedly, he liked this story a bit better than the last one. But he noticed the bones, while arguably humanoid, seemed to be missing parts or had substitutions were it was needed. And the heads were too big for the bodies, probably those of actual juvenile monkeys. Finally, he was pretty sure the chief had a chicken shack drumstick for a femur. Still, it was a charming little display. And the thought of microscopic people racing around on guinea pigs was pretty amusing. He had to admit the curator was pretty good at this. Not once was he able to focus on her beard, even if it was the most genuine article here.

  "I'm sure you boys want to see the living residents here as well," Bertha spoke. "But I'd like you take a gander at one more display, right over here. This is a treat; we've got something in between."

  The final display was set up curiously. It was an old gross jar of greenish formaldehyde, sealed with wax and the lid bound shut with cloth bearing inky b
lack scriptural writing. And all of that, inside a clear plastic terrarium locked with two chains. Inside the semi-murky jar was... something fleshy. Simon couldn't immediately tell what.

  "You won't find this one anywhere else," Little Bertha exclaimed proudly. "Courtesy of the Setting Sun Carnival's collection of eldritch strangeness, I present to you The Living Hand of Mim! Say hello to the nice people, Mr. Mim."

  Slowly, there was movement inside the jar, like someone waking up groggily. Then, frenzied movement, angry and thrashing like a blood hungered piranha. The two boys could make out a man's hand with hair on the back of the palm and no cuticles left. It was trying to claw at the jar of the glass and when it failed to accomplish anything, it appeared to flip them the bird.

  "Well! Someone's cranky today! I'm sorry, he gets pretty upset from being inside that jar twenty four seven. But we can't let it out. I wasn't there, but I'm told this hand once was set free and went on a strangling rampage. My roommate tells me it killed three carnies before someone managed to catch it with a pool skimmer. Now we have to leave it in the jar so it won't hurt anyone."