A Day at the County Fair

by

Michael W. Graves

I had just gotten back to the office and filed the paperwork for a new deal that was going to put me over the top for the Salesman of the Month competition we had going. It was a constant battle between me a young hotshot named Craig Roswell. He and I went way back. We’d worked together for six years at this company, and I’d known him even before that. I’d like to say that I had a strong edge in the number of months I’d won the competition; but I’d be lying. We were neck and neck.

Craig was sitting across the office from me watching me finish up. He had his feet propped up on his desk and his hands folded behind his head. A creepy grin spread across his face, and if I’d had any sense, I would have known he was up to something. Unfortunately, one of the traits I carried with me from childhood that ten years on the road as a sales rep had not been able to kill was my incredible naivety.

“So you managed to pull it off again,” he said. There was no malice in his voice. Our competition was all in fun. Still, we did take it seriously.

“I just got lucky,” I replied. It was a piece of luck that had taken me two months to put together. But we all knew how that worked.

The way our little contest worked was elegantly simple. The runner-up in the monthly competition took the winner out to a fancy dinner, or some other equally enjoyable – and expensive – affair. Early on, it had been the loser taking the winner. However, somewhere along the line, two things occurred to the sales manager. The first was that the new guys inevitably got stuck with the tab. The second was that making the runner-up pony up for the entertainment provided a whole lot more incentive to never be second best.

“So how’d you like to do something a little different for your reward?” he asked.

“What’cha got in mind?”

“The County Fair is going to be down in Rockford this weekend. We can make a day of it. Win a few stuffed animals for the ladies, knock back a few cold ones in the beer tent and maybe check out some of the sideshows and exhibitions.”

“Sounds like fun.” And it actually did! I hadn’t been to a fair in years. It was actually difficult for me to conjure up a mental image of the sights and sounds. “Your treat, right?”

“That’s the idea.”

“You’re on.”

So we arranged to meet in the parking lot outside our building at eight in the morning on Saturday. We’d use his car for the forty-mile drive to Rockford. Technically speaking, according to the terms of the competition, he was supposed to pick me up at my house. I wasn’t supposed to have to shell out a nickel – not even a teaspoon full of gas – in order to collect my prize.

As it were, the competition had been between Craig and me for so long that we’d long since give up on the formalities. We just tried to outdo each other on the festivities. I once drove him all the way down to St. Louis for a night out at the casinos. He responded a month later by taking me to a nightclub in Chicago that would have not gone over well with the ex, had we still been together at the time.

Saturday morning rolled around and he was already waiting in the parking lot when I arrived. He sidled his Lexus up next to my Crown Victoria and I jumped from one car to the other. He held out a Styrofoam cup and said, “In case you need a little kickstart.”

“Thanks,” It was French Roast, black and unsweetened, just like I liked it.

The drive down took a little over an hour. There were a lot of back roads and several one-horse towns that forced him to slow down to a crawl as he passed through. We chatted about work and about the upcoming football season and generally passed the time like two old buddies.

I was in for a surprise when we arrived at the fair. When I was a kid, the fair consisted of four or five rides. A couple would be for the kiddies, and then there would be a couple that only someone with suicidal tendencies would even approach. The fairway of my youth consisted of one long row of rigged games, hokey displays (like the two-headed woman or the genuine hermaphrodite) and mind-numbing acts.

This baby was set out over a twenty-acre field and had at least a hundred rides. All of them looked suicidal to me: even the merry-go-round was going too fast. The fairway stretched out as far as I could see and was four lanes wide. As early in the day as it was, the air was already filled with the smells of fried dough, sausage simmering alongside eggs (any way you like) and cotton candy. At least eight different tunes from as many different types of synthesized instruments competed with the shouts of hawkers and the mechanical sounds of rides and the din of hundreds of voices.

“Where shall we begin?” Craig asked.

“I don’t know. This is your party. You decide.”

“Well, it’s too early for the beer tent. At least for me, anyway. What say we take a stroll down the fairway? You gotta try one of these fried dough breakfast sandwiches.”

“What?” It didn’t even sound edible. But it was surprisingly good. A patty of hot sausage was wrapped into dough, alongside a healthy dollop of scrambled eggs and dropped into a deep fryer. Pancakes, sausage and eggs turned into finger food.

I was just shoving the last of my breakfast into my face when we passed the fortuneteller’s booth. This lady was huge! She probably didn’t stand more than a couple of inches over five feet, but she had to weigh at least four hundred pounds. I tried to pretend I hadn’t noticed her.

“I can see your future in your eyes,” she said. I just kept walking, doing my best to ignore her. But Craig would have no part of that.

“Hold up there, Bill,” he said. “Let’s see what this lady has to say.”

“Oh come on, Craig. You know this is a bunch of crap.”

“What do you care? It’s crap I’m paying for. Now sidle on up here and let the pretty lady tell your fortune.”

That’s when I noticed that the woman was actually very attractive. I hadn’t seen past her bulk to see what a pretty face she actually had. Stepping up to the booth, I asked, “So what do you do? Read my palms?”

“It is a three-part process,” she said. “First I will tell you things about yourself that only you could know. This will convince you that the rest of what I say is true. Next I will read your palm, as you ask. And then finally, I shall interpret the bumps on your head.”

I said to myself, you’re going to have a hard time with that last one, lady. I haven’t been married for over four years. All the bumps have gone away. Aloud, I simply said, “I don’t have any bumps on my head.”

“Everybody has bumps. Shall we get started?”

“It’s your time and his money. Go for it.”

She looked me up and down, examining me carefully as if I were a lab specimen she couldn’t identify. Then she threw her head back and closed her eyes. Here it comes, I thought. The usual guessing of my weight and age. I figured I was standing on a scale buried under the dirt and she was peeking from under her eyelids to get the reading. A lot of people have mastered the art of accurately assessing someone’s age. That didn’t make them fortunetellers.

“You are six feet, three inches tall,” she said. “You weigh exactly two hundred and forty six pounds.”

Nailed that one on the head, I thought.

“You are forty-eight years old and were born in Davenport, Iowa.”

Now wait a minute! The age was something I anticipated. How the heck did she figure out the town I was born in?

“You have been married once, but your wife left you a little more than four years ago.”

What the heck? I looked over at Craig, and guessing from the expression on his face, I figured him to be just about as flabbergasted as me.

“Your birthday is next month.”

Okay, now I was convinced. Either someone had slipped this lady my dossier, or she was for real. And until three minutes ago I hadn’t even known I was going to be doing this. She took my right hand and spread it out, probing it with her fingers. It was as though she were giving me a massage. I have to admit that it felt really good, too.

Her expression grew sharp for a woman whose face had as much padding as hers. Then she kept probing, stroking the lines on the palm of my hand with her fingers.

“You have no children,” she said. That could have just been a lucky guess. “Yet you long for a daughter.”

Now hold on just a doggone minute! Where did that come from? I had her in her first glaring mistake.

“Sorry, babe,” I interrupted. “But kids are the last thing in the world I want right now. I’m way to old to start having kids. The little monster would just be in my way.”

“That’s how you feel now. It wasn’t how you felt ten years ago.”

Now she was starting to freak me out. Ten years ago my wife and I had been seeing a doctor, trying to figure out why she couldn’t conceive. Was it her or me? According to Doctor Samuelson, it had been neither. For some reason, we just never “took” as he called it.

“What about my lifeline?” I tried changing the subject. “Are you supposed to be able to seen how long I’m going to live or something like that?”

“We should move on,” she replied.

“No! I want to know about my lifeline. You’ve fed me all this other nonsense, now tell me where it’s all going to end.”

“Some things are better left unsaid.”

“And some things aren’t. You got your fee. Now earn it.”

“Very well, mister big shot. You will not last until the next leap year. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Actually, it wasn’t. Now, she’d pissed me off. I pulled my hand out of her moist grip and stalked away without getting my bumps read. Craig followed me, but he kept looking back at the woman with a very strange expression on his face. I couldn’t tell if he was scared or angry.

However, there was far too much going on at the fair for me to dwell on crazy fortunetellers for too long. Before long, I’d won a stuffed giraffe by popping three yellow balloons with darts. I handed it to a pretty teenaged girl walking by and said, “Here. Give this to your boyfriend.” She took it with a perfunctory “thanks” and walked away from me as quickly as she could. No doubt she wanted to get as far away from the dirty old man as she could.

Somewhere along the line, Craig and I got separated. I figured it was no big deal. We’d bump into one another eventually. Even if we didn’t, I knew where the car was parked. Around two o’clock, I was sitting in the beer tent, just finishing off my first cold one when he found me.

“There you are,” he said. “You aren’t going to believe what I managed to get you signed up for.”

Probably not, I thought. “I get to judge the wet T-shirt contest?” I guessed.

“Close. You’re going to be one of the judges in the pie-baking competition.”

“Oh? And just how’d you manage to pull that off at such short notice?”

“Called in a couple of favors, okay?”

“And why didn’t you set yourself up as a judge if it’s such a wonderful treat?”

“There was only one slot left and you’re the one that won the sales contest, remember?”

Off we went to the Country Kitchen Hall where the judging was to take place. Craig introduced me to a few ladies that seemed nice enough in a country sort of way, and they introduced me to the other judges. They seemed nice enough in a red-necked sort of way.

One of them had a nametag that simply said “Josh”. He grabbed my hand in what felt more like an oversized pair of Vice-Grips^® than it did another hand, and I think I felt something crunch. “Glad you could fill in fer us on such short notice,” he said. “When Andy fell sick I thought we was goin’ to hafta go with just two judges. Then my buddy Craig here said he figgered you’d get a kick out sittin’ in with us.”

Just how widespread is Craig’s circle of friends, I wondered.

The other judge was a fellow named Randy. When we were introduced he didn’t say a word or offer a handshake. He just looked at me with a silly grin on his face. That was probably just as well. I didn’t think I was going to be able to use that hand for another month at least.

We finally got seated and one of the ladies stood up at the microphone and introduced the judges, along with the two women and one man who were finalists in the competition. Thankfully, I didn’t have to wade through all the pies that were deemed second best.

“Our first contestant,” the announcer decreed, “is Becky Ann McBride. She has made the most wonderful Strawberry Rhubarb pie with just a tang of lemon.” She cut off thin slices for each of the judges and placed them before us. I forked a piece into my mouth and almost instantly my jaw locked. Never in my life had I intentionally put anything that sour into my mouth. The glands beneath my jaw suddenly felt hollow and the saliva was flowing like a small river. It wasn’t enough to wash the taste out of my mouth. I couldn’t taste a trace of strawberry, and I wouldn’t have known what rhubarb tasted like unless you held me by my ears and shoved some down my throat. Frantically I looked around for a place where I could spit it out without being painfully obvious. I thought I was going to be sick.

I glanced surreptitiously around at the other judges to see how they were reacting. I think I was expecting expressions of horror, shock or at least amazement. Josh had a sublime smile on his face and he was nodding contentedly. Randy pushed another bite into his mouth before saying, “Not bad. Could use a little more lemon, though.”

One of the women gave each of us judges a cup of coffee to clear our palates for the next offering. I guzzled my down and asked for more.

“Next,” said the announcer, “We have Bob Finnigan’s famous Mincemeat Bourbon pie. In addition to just a touch of bourbon to give it flavor, Bob says he has a secret ingredient that he won’t tell anyone.”

We each took a bite and immediately, I was looking for a chaser. It was more like a slice of bourbon with a sprinkling of pie. And it was cheap bourbon at that. Forcibly controlling an automatic gag reflex, I tapped my cup for a refill. Josh asked, “So, Bob. Is it my imagination, or did you add hazelnuts to this pie?”

“You caught me,” said the delighted contestant. “Nobody was supposed to be able to figure out my secret ingredient.”

I chugged down the coffee the lady gave me and prayed that my stomach would stop churning before the next offering arrived. It was a chocolate cream pie made by some lady named Thelma Bragg. Breathing a noticeable sigh of relief, I sat back in my chair. How could anyone screw up chocolate cream pie?

That was a question I should have known better than to ask myself. My mouth was just not ready for what it took in. Have you ever tasted raw, unsweetened chocolate powder? That’s all this pie contained, except for just enough sour cream to keep the next stiff wind from blowing it out of the crust. There wasn’t a single crystal of sugar that I could detect, and the crust had the texture and consistency of library paste. The incredible bitterness of that mess was almost enough to tip me over the edge.

The other judges could not possibly be enjoying this, I thought. A quick glance in either direction showed Josh chewing his pie thoughtfully and Randy with his usual blissful expression. After a moment, Josh said, “As far as I’m concerned, this is it.” He held up another forkful of the chocolate cream and shoved it into his mouth. “I’ll give the Strawberry Rhubarb second place.” The last sentence was hard to understand around a mouth full of pie.

“I disagree,” Randy said. “I think it’s much too heavy on the sugar. I’ll give it a very close second-place, but I’m voting for the Mincemeat Bourbon. I have never tasted anything like this in my life!”

I wasn’t going down easy. I reached over and scooped up another huge bite of the Strawberry Rhubarb. “Neither have I, Randy,” I said, forcing my biggest smile. “Neither have I! But I have to say; I’ve got to go with this absolutely scrumptious Strawberry Rhubarb.” I shoved the pie into my mouth and prayed that my eyes weren’t watering enough for everyone in the back row to see. “I’ll give the Mincemeat Bourbon second place.”

The announcer had been checking all this off as the judges spoke and once I was finished choking down that last bite of dragon puke, she looked out at the audience and said, “Well I do declare! We have a dead tie! Each entry has received one vote for first place, one vote for second place and one vote for third. We’re going to have to go for the tiebreaker! Ladies and gentlemen, bring out your cakes.”

That was it for me. I’d enjoyed as much of these folks’ home cooking as I could stand and I wasn’t sure I could swallow any more of their culinary delights without making a nasty mess on the judging table.

I stood and help up my hands, “I’m very honored to have been selected to sit on your panel, but I’m certainly not worthy to pass judgment on you fine folks. Since I know how much this would mean to him, I’m going to ask my friend Craig Roswell to come on up and take over for me in the cake judging.”

It was the expression on his face that gave him away. Pure terror. He protested and wailed, but to no avail. Several sets of arms propelled him forward, and into my seat he went. The way he looked at me told the whole story. He may have been the one to set me up, but it was time to turn the tables.

I have no idea what that poor guy endured, but the names had to indicate something. There was Chocolate Mayonnaise Cake, Cucumber Delight and Tomato Lemon Surprise. The vindictive side of me enjoyed every grimace that crossed his face. The compassionate side of me felt – ah, heck, who do I think I’m kidding? There was no compassionate side of me that day. All I wanted was revenge and I got it.

We were walking away from the Country Kitchen Hall and I asked him, “So how much did it cost you to set this up?”

“Two hundred bucks.” The son of a gun didn’t even have the decency to try and cover his tracks!

“That’s all?”

“Well, you know. I’m related to half those people.”

“I see.”

“So how’d you manage to keep a straight face? I know what those pies had to have tasted like.”

“I just thought about you the whole time I was sitting there.”

“Me?”

“Yup. Trying to figure out how I was going to get you up on that table before the day was over.”

“So that’s why you voted for that nasty Strawberry Rhubarb mess. I saw her make that you know. You don’t even want to know what went into that thing.”

“Which means if you ever tell me, I might have to kill you. Are you about ready to go home yet.”

“Any time you are,” he said. “But I’ve got to make one more stop first.”

We wandered down the fairway until he found the obese fortuneteller. He pulled out his wallet and slipped her a twenty. “Told you I wouldn’t forget you,” he said.

“You set me up with her, too?” I protested once we were out of earshot. I didn’t know if I was going to get really angry and pop him one up side of the head, or if I was going to bust out laughing. It felt like I was about to do both.

“Afraid so. I dropped by here yesterday and told her my devious little plan. I’d written all that stuff about you down on a sheet of paper and asked her to memorize it.”

“Where’d you dig it all up from?”

“From you, mostly. You’re always telling stories about this and that. I’m just a very good listener.”

“You sure didn’t get that part about wanting a little girl from me.”

“No.” He seemed a bit embarrassed. “Remember a few years back when you were still with Sara? You invited me over for dinner a few times. One of those nights, after her third glass of wine, she told me while you were off taking a leak or something. I apologize. That was out of line.”

“Oh, well. I’ll get over it.” He was right about it being out of line, but I tried to shrug it off. Now was neither the time nor the place. Come to think of it, that might be one of those issues for which there simply was no time and place. “But that part about packing it in before the next leap year just wasn’t funny.”

“I didn’t think so either,” Craig said. He had really queer look on his face when he said that. “And I guarantee you; I didn’t have anything to do with that. She made that part up on her own.”

It was a while before either of us spoke again. I was remembering the woman’s expression.