At the State Fair, conscientious mothers frequently warn against the Midway because “Dangerous people hang out there.” Who are they afraid of? In a word, carnies. Last year, Sheila brought her 10-year-old son Ivan, who couldn’t wait to hit the Midway. She begged him to go to the Poultry Barn first, to look at the funny chickens and rabbits. It was a transparent bid to help him stretch his allowance that much longer, but Sheila quickly realized how foolish and Mom-like she sounded. “OK, pal,” she said. “Let’s you and me head to Sin City.”
Ivan ran to the games and quickly converted $20 into energy, whipping baseballs at china plates, shooting darts at balloons. Pat Benatar wailed in the background. (KQRS truly is the soundtrack of desperation.) Fifteen minutes later, Ivan trudged up to the ticket booth with the last of his money. He saw a game he was sure he couldn’t lose: the Ring Toss.
Armed with a $5 bucket of rubber O-rings, Ivan stood as close as permitted, leaning over the edge of the booth, strategizing every toss. Would putting spin on this one hook it over the pop bottle? How about slamming the ring down in a sort of overhanded spike? Finally, it was over. Sheila wrapped her arm around him and led him away, remarking all the close calls and good tries. Just then, a black O-ring landed right in front of their feet. Ivan snatched it up and ran back to the game. He closed his eyes and tossed. Nothing. They walked away again, this time talking about how freaky it was to get a second chance like that. Three more rings fell at their feet. This time, as Ivan shouted and scooped up the rings, Sheila turned to see where their luck was coming from.
Black steel-toed motorcycle boots, used-to-be blue jeans, and a tobacco smile, leaning against the support post of the Ring Toss booth. The carnie’s expression was somewhere between a leer and a laugh. “Here, little buddy, compliments of the house.” He dispatched another full bucket of O-rings for Ivan. Ivan’s eyes bugged. “Thanks, dude!” He set to work. The carnie had hooked the little one. Now he set about reeling the big one in. “So, taking your little brother out to the fair on this nice day?” He lit a cigarette. “Oh, this isn’t my brother, it’s my son.” She giggled, knowing there was only so far she could take this mating dance. The carnie smiled and leaned in closer. “Never would have guessed. But then I’m not the age guesser, I’m the Ring Toss guy.” They laughed together, taking in the chorus of rubber rings bouncing off glass, like some kind of weird xylophone music. Sensing her relaxation, the carnie closed in for the kill. “That ring on your hand mean anything?” She said, “I’m married.” He’d heard that before. “How long you two been together? Maybe you’ve got the seven-year itch.”
“We only just got married this past year.”
“Damn, Baby. Tell me this, was it for love…” his eyes swept down to Ivan, still sweating over his bucket of rings “…or obligation?” They laughed again and he backed down saying, “I’m just kidding.” They settled into a companionable silence. Sheila was completely lost in the heat and the sugar smell of the place. The carnie wrapped his arm around the tent pole, so he was dangling about three inches away from her, breathing Miller High Life all over her Lancôme. It was so ridiculous that instead of jumping away, she smiled up into his crinkly maw. “Alright then. This here’s my last shot. You wouldn’t have one of them ‘Open Marriages,’ would you?” She told him there was no chance she was going to toss her ring over his Coke bottle. He laughed and said, “Aw, well, you hang around anyway. It looks good for me to be talking to a woman.”—Colleen Kruse
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