When I was eleven my family which consisted of my
mother, three sisters and my mother’s friend and her daughter went to a
carnival, I don’t believe it was my first time at a carnival but as it turned
out it was my first time that I got to venture out by myself at a carnival. As
my family waited in line for the carousel I ducked out of line and easily lied
to them that I wanted to go to the midway and check out the games. My mother
reluctantly agreed and told me to be careful and then warned me about
strangers. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that with all the carnies running
around “strange” was a common occurrence in our chosen family entertainment.
When
I got to the midway, I quickly walked past all the games, candy vendors, food
vendors and teenage boys trying to win the hearts of their girlfriends by
winning cheap stuffed toys at games that were clearly rigged to take the money
of the customers and fatten the pockets of the owners. My destination was at
the end of the midway, past the safety of the lighted booths and tucked away in
the darkness near the tractor trailers, RV’s, and generators. As I passed the
lights of the last booth the barker there yelled to me “Son, there’s nothing
back that way, come on over here and try your hand at winning a stuffed bear.”
I ignored him and stepped into the darkness.
As
I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dim light, I noticed the sound of the
midway seemed to dim as well. It didn’t take before I made out the dim yellow
lights shining on a sign that read “Freakshow!”. Standing under the sign was a
large man wearing a tattered tuxedo jacket and an even more tattered top hat.
In his hand he was holding a megaphone and he looked as if he had led a life on
the edge of society and the wrinkles on his face showed little remorse at the
things he had done. I slowly approached him and when he saw me he scowled down
at my small frame and said “Get outta here kid. This ain’t for you.”
I
looked at the sign near the entrance that said “Entry Fee $1.00”. I reached in
my hand and pulled out three one dollar bills, separated one from the others
and held it up to him while trying not to let my hand shake from fear. “Entry
is a buck, here is my buck.” I said, trying to sound brave.
“I
told you to get.” He said without even acknowledging my money.
“I
want to see the Freakshow. Here’s my dollar, let me in.”
The
grizzled man shrugged his shoulders, reached out with his hand and snatched my
dollar and nodded over his shoulder. “Go ahead, but don’t blame me for any
nightmares. I warned you.”
As
he pushed my dollar into a beat up wooden box I noticed that the hand he
grabbed my dollar with was missing a thumb and a pinky. “You only have three
fingers.” I said.
“Yeah,
thanks for noticing kid. Now get lost.”
“What
happened?”
“None
of your business… you going in to the show or do I have to kick your ass to get
you outta my sight.”
I quickly
ducked passed him and made my way inside the tent. When I got inside I saw a
large room with several rows of wooden folding chairs. Some of the chairs were
occupied, but most weren’t. I took a seat in a row that had no one sitting in
it and looked up towards the stage. I didn’t look at any of the other occupants
of the tent not because I didn’t want to but because I was nervous and a bit
scared. I don’t know how long I sat there but it couldn’t have been long before
the lights on the stage brightened and a short, chubby man came up on stage and
began to explain all of what we were about to see. I ignored him. I wanted to
see what sort of people the carnival called freaks.
When
the man finished talking, everyone stood up and followed the MC to a curtained
entrance. I was the last person in line and as I ducked behind the curtain I
wasn’t sure whether or not I had made the right decision. What I saw was
amazing and sad all at the same time. As we walked up to each stall to view the
freak housed within, I was stunned by how sad and emotionless the whole event.
The bearded lady was slowly brushing her facial hair, the fatman was eating hot
dogs, the strong man was lifting weights, the contortionist was bending her
body in odd shapes and there were many, many more.
Those
images have stuck with me all my life, so much so that whenever I could I would
go to a carnival and pay for the freakshow.
But
now, in todays watered down society you can’t really find a freak show to visit.
However, I’ve discovered a new place to go to see people who look as if their
souls have been sucked right out of them but this time it’s under the harsh
incandescent light in a room filled with fan boys and fan girls. These places
now are called “Conventions” and they are usually held in hotels with large
meeting rooms and patterned carpet that gives a person a headache and lights so
bright that one couldn’t even begin to think about trying to hide a blemish on
their skin.
I’ve
been to six conventions over the past four years and each time it’s the same.
Vendors are trying to sell movies, photos of movie stars, action figures, jewelry,
costumes and of course books. I go for the books.
But
every time I go, I am inevitably accompanied by people dressed up as their favorite
movie character, cartoon character and occasionally their favorite serial
killer. I don’t dress up. I like horror books, fantasy books and science
fiction books and when I find out a writer whom I like is attending one of
these conventions, I try to make a point to go there, give the writer my money
for their book and have them sign it for me. I also try to make some sort of
contact with them. I try to let them know that I like what they do, that what
they are doing makes a difference and that no matter how small that difference
is, it is at least a difference in a world filled with indifference.
Most
of the time I get the practiced smile and nod from the writer as they hand
their book to me and I can tell they are either too tired to hold a
conversation or that they are wondering when they will be able to take a break.
I feel sorry for them because the look in their eyes reminds me of the look in
the eyes of all the people I’ve seen in carnival freakshows over the years. It’s
a look that says that they would rather be almost anywhere than where they are
and that they are doing this job out of an obligation to their publisher.
Now,
not all writers are like this, I have to say, the few that I’ve met outside of
the convention circuit are quite nice and have lots of personality. Personality
that during a convention seems to get worn thin. That’s when the soul of the
person leaves their eyes. Yet they continue to do it. I know they love their fans
and are grateful for every one that comes to see them but after endless hours
of sitting in a room filled with loud screams and answering the same question
over and over again, I can see how it wears them down to a soulless nub.
It’s
a funny thing, I’ve been to author signings more than conventions and the
singular singings are even worse than the conventions. When I’ve asked about
how many books they’ve sold the answer is usually in the single digits. Those
answers make me want to buy out their entire stock just so they have a good
day. But of course, I can’t.
So,
where is all this going? Well, since you’ve stuck with me this far, I’ll give
you the answer…
If,
in the future, you happen to see an advertisement for a book signing by an
author, and if you have time off, please go see them. Buy their book and have
them sign it for you. Even if the subject matter is not of your liking, just
try to read it. Imagine if you will some of the “A” list writers like Stephen
King went to a book signing when he was just starting out and sold one book and
then decided to become a morning drive time radio dj. A lot of us would not
have five shelves of books in our house now.
Ok,
this blog has gone on way too long and I need to get in out of the cold. Have a
great week. Go buy a book.
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