I was a carnie once. It lasted only 12 hours, but I can add that job to the list of jobs I’ll never do again. In fact, if it came down to watching my family starve or work the ring toss booth, I’ll be the guy watching the kids wither and blow away.
It was in the late summer of 1993, about September I think. I was living in Pocatello, Idaho and the Eastern Idaho State Fair was being held in Blackfoot, roughly about 30 miles away. I don’t remember exactly how I got roped into this gig, but I took it. I didn’t have a job at the time, and I was couch surfing between some friends, so some extra cash sounded nice.
A few of my friends also got hired on, and in the morning we all piled into the van of the people who hooked us up with this gig and drove to Blackfoot.
Carnies are scary people in dim lighting, but looking at them in broad daylight can be downright terrifying. The group I was riding with, (other than my two female friends), looked exactly like those strung out dope addicts you see on anti-drug posters. Not a pretty sight at all.
After a 45 minute ride in the van with these jokers, I was glad to finally step out of that clap trap and onto the fairgrounds. Within minutes I was introduced to the Midway supervisor, and any hopes I had about the day improving were immediately squashed.
Meeting the boss
This supervisor, whom I’ll refer to as “Dave”, was a prick from the start. He was gruff and rude to the crew that drove us up there, and then it was my turn for his abuse.
He immediately picked apart my physical appearance, telling me that if I wanted to work at this fair I would need to shave and wash my greasy hair. In all honesty, I hadn’t showered that morning before heading to the fair, but my hair was far from being greasy. He said he would let my appearance slide for the day, but I had better be more presentable the next day.
Personally, I found his critique amusing. First off, I was 20 years old at the time, and could barely grow a whisker. Telling me I needed to shave would be like saying Kojak needs a haircut. It doesn’t make sense. Secondly, and most importantly, compared to every other carnie working there I looked like a supermodel. And I’m not even attractive!
After “Dave” finished criticizing my appearance, he then explained to me how the job would work. I would work a game booth, and my pay would be 25% of what I took in. No hourly wage. Damn few breaks. And I would be under constant surveillance to make sure I wasn’t stealing. Awesome.
In order to help ease “Dave’s” constant fear of us carnies pocketing the cash we brought in, he would swing by all the game booths every 2 hours and collect the cash. Whatever, I wasn’t planning on pocketing any cash from the game I would work, so I wasn’t too terribly concerned with his paranoia.
I was assigned to work some stupid game where people would roll some type of heavy softball looking thing down a wooden lane and try to knock over three bottles. Heavy and rigged bottles, mind you. It wasn’t one of the most popular games, which probably explains why rookies such as me always got sent there.
I was handed a black apron to wear (for the purpose of storing cash), told how the game operates, and I was sent on my way.
It was slow going at this game. A few of the people passing by glanced over in interest, and fewer still would actually hand over money to give this game a shot. After working 90 minutes, I calculated that I would be lucky to earn over $40 for working the whole 12 hour day.
My game booth also happened to be in close proximity to the supervisor’s trailer, and I often caught him stepping out of it to check out what everyone was doing in the game booths, and always showing extra attention towards me. I hadn’t done anything wrong, but his never ending attention was unnerving.
2 hours had gone by, and sure enough, Dave was making his rounds to collect the cash from us carnies. I hadn’t brought in much money, and wasn’t looking forward to any negative reactions from this douchebag when I handed him my apron.
Dave had one more stop before he got to me, and I’ll never forget the scene that unfolded in front of me. The carnie in the booth next to me was a seasoned pro, if a carnie can be called such a thing, and handed what appeared to be a “light” apron to Dave. Dave came unhinged.
Dave asked him where the rest of the cash was, and if he was pocketing any for himself. Dave lurched over the counter and started patting down the carnie’s pockets, all the while calling him a thief and demanding that he return anything he stole. Dave never found or felt any cash in the guy’s pockets, and after some more shouting Dave left the scene and headed towards me.
Now I was really nervous about handing over my apron to this psychopath after seeing what I just saw. Dave made his way to my counter, and without saying a word I handed my cash apron over to him and waited for the tirade to start.
Surprisingly, no fireworks happened. Dave calmly counted the cash, kept most for himself, and handed me the rest. He said, “You’re doing pretty good so far.” And pointing to the last booth he added, “Not like that thief over there.”
He did add that I was too quiet, and needed to holler more at people passing by to lure them into my booth. I said OK, I would try doing that.
The rest of my day consisted of me trying to do my best impression of a high pressure car salesman in order to get people to fork over a few dollars to take their chances with my rigged game. This routine was interrupted every two hours by Dave coming by to collect the cash. I felt like a hooker, and Dave was my pimp.
My great shame
During the afternoon I did manage to pull in $40 from one customer, and to this day I’m still ashamed of how I did it. Let me bear my shame and tell you what happened.
A kid, probably about 14 years old, wandered close to my area so I started calling out to him to see if I could get him to throw his money away with me. He promptly came over and handed me a few dollars to play my game.
As expected, he lost the game and no prizes were awarded. I talked him into trying again, and he obliged. Same result. I kept talking him into trying again, he kept forking over his cash, and he kept on losing. Eventually, he ran out of cash and he walked away looking pretty glum.
Did I mention that this kid was mentally retarded? Yeah, I sold my soul and took advantage of a kid with mental disabilities just so I could get a 25% cut of what he spent. And that ended up being $40, so the price of my soul that day happened to be $10.
Immediately afterwards, I began hating myself for doing this and I still cringe a little inside today when I think of it.
Mercifully, the day finally came to a close on the Midway, and it was just about time to head back home to Pocatello. My gal friends who came up with me finished up first and stopped by to tell me that they were heading to the van and would tell the skeezy carnies who drove us up here not to leave without me. I had to go to the supervisor’s trailer and drop off my apron, and told them I would meet up with them when done.
I settled up with Dave in his trailer, and my cut of the money I brought in totaled almost $50. I wasn’t pleased, but I did the math earlier and knew this would be outcome. Dave handed me my cut, and told me to wash my hair before showing up tomorrow.
Karma is a bitch
After exiting the trailer, I headed to the parking lot where the van was supposed to be. I looked everywhere, and much to my dismay there was no van. The van was nowhere to be seen. I checked every parking lot, then circled back to the Midway hoping to find the people who were supposed to give me a ride back home. By this time the Midway was shuttered down, and people were few and far in between.
Perfect. I’m already feeling shitty from the day I had, and now I had no way back home. I was stuck, and my only option was to hoof it over 30 miles back to Pocatello. So at nearly midnight, I started walking.
My journey home consisted of walking alongside Highway 15 with my path being illuminated by the moon. Every once in a while a car would pass by. I wasn’t too keen on the idea of hitchhiking, but I made my one and only exception that night. After thumbing at some cars over a few miles, I finally got one car to stop.
The driver wasn’t going to Pocatello, but he could take me a few miles down the road. I gladly took him up on his offer. Once he reached his exit, I was out the door and my walk began again.
I had been walking for about 2 hours when I noticed a car coming in the opposite direction make a U-turn behind me. The car slowly approached me, and when it was about 100 feet away the squeal of their siren went off and their lightbar lit up the night. It was the cops!
Crap! On top of my already shitty day I was now going to top it off with getting harassed by cops. This must be karma getting back at me for my illicit hustling that happened previously in the day.
The cop’s cruiser slowly moves in on me and stops about 20 feet away. Both doors open, and two officers step out. One is of slight stature, and the other is as big as a mountain. The driver, the slighter of the two, starts calling me over so I turned and walked towards the cruiser.
I only managed to take a few steps before one of the officers, the slighter one, barks out, “Stay right there!” I immediately stop. The officers then began to take turns questioning me, asking what I was doing walking on the highway in the middle of the night. I explained the story to them and they seemed to be OK with what I told them.
Then their questioning took a different course. They asked for my ID, and since I wasn’t carrying ID that night, they began asking me all sorts of other questions. They asked my name, my Social Security number, my address, and where I lived before moving to Pocatello. The slightly built officer wrote all this down then returned to his cruiser to run my information.
In his absence, the other officer, the one who could easily pass for an NFL offensive lineman, continued asking me questions. What these questions were, I can’t remember. But what I do remember is during the interrogation I absentmindedly took a step towards him (we were still almost 20 feet apart), and this mountain of a man quickly pulled out his nightstick, crouched in a defensive stance, and told me to stand my ground.
That scene still blows me away. This man was 3 times my size, had arms the size of my legs, but felt the need to have a weapon at ready even though I was so far away.
Eventually, the driver stuck his head out the window and asked me what my father’s name was. I quickly answered, and the officer then said that the person in dispatch knew someone from my hometown with my name and wanted to see if I was that person. I was not.
So, once the officers ran whatever checks they did on me, and after the goliath of a cop holstered his nightstick, they offered me a ride to Chubbuck (which is really the north side of Pocatello). I took them up on their offer, and after they searched my person they opened the back door for me and away we went.
Epilogue
15 minutes later, the officers and I arrived in Chubbuck, and they stopped and let me out. From there I managed to find a phone booth that had a phone book and called for a cab (we didn’t have cell phones back then). I finally got home and walked through the door at about 5am and was welcomed by my two female friends who worked the fair with me that day. They were happy to see me, as they had been up all night worried about what may have happened to me.
As I found out, the skeezy carnies took off early but circled around a few times looking for me before giving up and heading to Pocatello. Guess we must have just missed each other every time.
After the day I had I was determined to not return the next day. I had had enough of that soul sucking venture and vowed to never do it again. And after hearing of everything I went through that day, my two gal friends wouldn’t return either.
Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/rebcal/3919837580/
Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/m-i-k-e/5993189356/
Photo credit: http://aaronjenkin.com/
