“Women: you can’t live with them, and you can’t get them to dress up in a skimpy Nazi uniform and beat you with a warm squash.”
– EMO PHILIPS
Ah. The Saunders County Fair in Wahoo, Nebraska. The name says it all, doesn’t it? Nothing but dirt, horseshit and fried food as far as the eye can see. Sigh. It’s paradise. I checked the crankshaft on the Tilt-A-Whirl before admitting sticky children and beer-addled adults to the ride. People expect a carney doesn’t really give a damn when he checks the safety bars and pushes the button to start the ride. But they don’t know me. I’m a firm believer in safety first, because I actually like kids. Adults, however, are more complicated.
I grinned through my beard and turned on the ride, watching as the little cars swiveled and swirled. I hadn’t had a barfer in two days, but I figured I was overdue. Sure enough, when the ride came to a stop, some green-faced teen was being led off her car. It didn’t bother me. When you eat five corn dogs with a cottoncandy chaser, then go on a ride that scrambles your insides like eggs, you have to expect a little carnage.
Oh, well. This was my last gig before heading out to Orlando. I’d have to use the solution my brilliant scientist cousin, Missi, gave me to erase the tattoos. I’d miss the beard a bit. Even though I generally lived off the grid, I was still a bit paranoid. The disguise kept me from being recognized, and the customers seemed to expect it. It came with the carney image, and I hated to disappoint anyone. I was so involved in my thoughts it took me a minute to realize the woman standing before me didn’t want a ride-at least, not on the Tilt-A-Whirl.
She looked to be in her mid- to late twenties, with chin-length blonde hair, very little makeup and a slim build. I watched for a moment as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Definitely nervous.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
She stuck out her right hand as if she had never shaken hands before. I slowly grasped it in my own and she shook it. I could feel her heart beating in her palm. Must be the beard. It scared even Sartre.
“Um, I’m Veronica Gale.” It looked as though she immediately regretted giving her last name. I took no offense. I was used to such a reaction.
“Hello, Veronica.” I thought it might be rude if I didn’t respond. Of course, I still had no idea why she was standing there, but I thought I should at least make her comfortable. And there was something about her. She wasn’t mysterious; in fact, I could read through her like tissue paper over a large-print picture book.
“I’m finishing up my master’s thesis on transient lifestyles and wondered if I could interview you?” Ms. Gale bit her lip, displaying a lack of confidence that I found a little adorable.
Ah. So that was it. An academic. You don’t see many in this line of work. I felt a twinge of nostalgia for the ivory tower.
“Okay.” I stepped past her and admitted more kids to the ride. “I’ve got a break in an hour.”
Veronica jumped back as if she hadn’t noticed the people around her. “Um, fine. I’ll be back in an hour.” She paused for a second, as if her central nervous system had failed her. Finally she turned around and marched off.
Hmmm. A sheltered little thing with no life experience and plenty of attitude. How could I possibly resist? And who was I to stand in the way of a fellow academic and her quest for knowledge?
I checked all the safety bars and switched on the ride. I didn’t really have a break coming up, so I called one of the other guys on duty on my radio. Mort agreed to cover for me in a bit.
I was actually looking forward to talking to Veronica Gale, master’s candidate. I hadn’t had a date in a long time. Sure, carneys have followers-often wealthy housewives with a sexual fetish for tattooed flesh-but a real date? It was too depressing to think about. As I said, I’m a loner, but that doesn’t mean I don’t get lonely for intelligent conversation with a woman. Most of my contact included very little discussion.
Mort showed up less than an hour later. When my “date” arrived a few seconds after, I suggested we hit the beer tent. We bought two drinks and settled at a splinter-riddled picnic table.
Veronica slid her beer to the side and pulled a notebook out of her purse. I smiled. She was starting to grow on me.
“Now, your name is…?” she asked, sounding very official. This chick had to loosen up.
“Coney Bombay.” I watched as she wrote that down. She had beautiful, slender fingers. I like that in a woman. Veronica Gale wasn’t a hottie. She was pretty in an interesting sort of way, with large, questioning green eyes, a classic European nose, a strong chin and dark blonde hair. I found her intriguing. I’d like to think she found me intriguing, but then I remembered her nervousness around me. To her, I was just some sort of hobo who still had all his teeth.
“Thank you for agreeing to talk to me, Mr. Bombay.” All friendliness had gone from her voice. This woman was pure business now. At least, that was what she wanted me to think.
“Call me Cy. And no problem. This is the best proposition I’ve had all day.” I smiled, hoping to loosen her up.
It didn’t. Veronica scowled. “Fine. Cy it is. But this is not a proposition.”
“Too bad,” I responded, never taking my eyes off of hers. It unnerved her. Have you ever tried to keep your eyes on the person you are talking to? Americans aren’t used to it. They look away every now and then to fight their unease. Especially when you are a carney. Veronica was no exception.
“All right. What do you want to know regarding my…what was it? Transient lifestyle?” Hmmm…when you added the word lifestyle it made me sound like a hobo sporting platform sandals and lime green eye shadow.
“How long have you been employed by the…” Ms. Gale stumbled over her words in what appeared to be an attempt at political correctness. “Um…”
“How long have I been a carney?” I stepped in to rescue her. Now, why did I do that? I certainly didn’t owe this woman an explanation of my chosen profession. “Almost twelve years now. I’ve worked with a number of outfits-this one for two years.”
“And what did you do before that?”
“I was a student.” Actually, I still considered myself to be a student. But for the sake of this interview, I thought I’d keep it simple.
Veronica looked me in the eyes. She didn’t seem to believe that twelve years ago I was in high school. I could’ve helped her out, but I held back.
“How old are you?” she asked. Clearly, this woman wasn’t one for social graces. I couldn’t figure out why that was. Usually I’m good at reading people. But was she asking me as a researcher or out of her own personal curiosity?
“I’m thirty-eight.” I could see her doing the math in her head. Eventually the question would come up, and it would confuse her. For some reason, I wanted to let her off the hook. What was wrong with me? I could see Sartre rolling her eyes back in her cage in the trailer.
“I have a postgraduate degree in philosophy. I spent most of my twenties in school. Like you,” I answered before she asked.
“Like me? What do you mean?” Veronica sat straight up.
I leaned forward and looked her in the eyes again. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you appear to be about twenty-six or so. My guess is that you have been in school ever since kindergarten. I’m also guessing you’ll go for your Ph.D. as soon as you are through with your thesis.”
I expected her to be angry. Hell, I expected her to throw her beer in my face and walk off. She didn’t.
“Is it that easy to see?” Her question was strangely straightforward.
I shook my head. “No. It just takes one to know one. I did the same thing until I ran out of degrees. Then I ran away and joined the carnival.”
Veronica sighed as if she’d been holding her breath all this time. She actually reached for her beer and drained half the cup. I waited.
“Did your family harass you about it too?” She seemed to ask the question with some degree of bitterness. The tide was turning in my favor.
“No. They didn’t really mind. They weren’t even surprised when I became a carney.” That is actually true. The Bombays don’t care what your cover is. It’s merely important to have one. Well, unless you became an attorney. Then they’d probably kill you out-right.
I kind of expected Veronica to see my admission as heartening-something that would inspire her to give me her life story. She didn’t.
“So why did you take your education and throw it away for this?” She gestured around her. Did I detect disgust in her voice? How boring.
“Why not? I can’t see a better place to examine the human soul.” I folded my arms.
My interviewer snorted. “Well, Cy, it seems like a waste to me.”
So that was how it was going to be, eh?
“Tell me, Ms. Gale, what practical applications does your thesis have for everyday life?”
Her eyes snapped to mine. Gone was the brief vulnerability I’d seen earlier. I’d pissed her off. Oddly enough, I liked it.
“I don’t have to explain my intellectual interests to you!” Ooh. A defiant outburst. How original.
“But you are asking me to do that. Aren’t you?” I adopted a more distant tone. For a moment, I’d thought maybe this woman had something more to offer. Instead, she was just another overeducated snob.
“Let’s just keep this professional, Mr. Bombay.”
“Fine.”
She looked back at her notepad. “So, why do you choose to live outside the norms expected by society?”
“I see it as an apprenticeship for a future career in the entertainment industry.”
Her eyes grew wide. “Seriously? That’s interesting. What do you want to do?” Ms. Gale began to scribble on her notepad.
“I want to be a Henry Kissinger impersonator. That’s where the real money is.”
Veronica narrowed her eyes. “That’s not funny.”
I ignored her. “But first, I have to work on my condescending attitude. Maybe you can give me some pointers.”
She started to pack up her stuff.
“Of course, the Kissinger thing might be a bit overdone these days. In that case I’ll have to fall back on my dream of studying the effects of business cards on giant, hissing cockroaches.”
She rose to her feet.
“Now, my cousin, she’s got some really lofty goals. She wants to drive an ice-cream truck. You should talk with her.”
“Thank you for the interview. I appreciate it.”
“Was it something I said?” I clutched my chest dramatically.
Veroncia Gale turned a lovely shade of red as she spun on her heel and left me. No sense of humor in that one.
Later that night as we packed up the carnival and I said good-bye to my friends for the last time, I couldn’t help wondering what would become of Veronica Gale. I’d given her some information she could use. Unfortunately, she would end up a dull college professor with no experience in real life. But I couldn’t help that. After all, Disney World and Sartre beckoned, and it was time to begin a new chapter in the life of Cy Bombay, carney/assassin.