We purchased the necessary ingredients and constructed our Elephant Cake, not mentioning the incident again. The success of our creation made it a smooth transition. “Yep,” Cal decided through a mouthful of culinary bliss, “this is a modern marvel.”
We sampled a few more mundane options after that, but the Elephant Cake reigned supreme as the meal’s crowning achievement.
As we were finishing, Brent stood up from his seat. “IF we’re finished eating… are we finished eating?” He looked to us for confirmation. I glanced at Cal. He shrugged, saying, “I GUESS we can tap out.”
“All right,” Brent declared, “what do we want to do now?” A glint several shades darker than hellfire filled his eyes. “More rides? That sound good?”
A chorus of groans protested. Woeful as I’d been with the Ping Pong gun, I considered testing my accuracy with different ammunition. I was testing the balance of the nearest grime-smeared, foam plate as Brent started to laugh.
Beside him, Laurel rose, scowled at Brent and said, “Let’s take a look around, let our meals settle some more.”
“I love you,” Cal stated with little sarcasm. Laurel smirked.
We rose, settled up with the trash bins, and made for the midway. We hadn’t explored much of the fair beyond the rides and eateries to that point, so a nice, digestion-friendly stroll sounded wonderful.
As we walked down the midway, the variety of fair games bordering us on either side was wild. Ring tossing, dart popping, weight guessing, water squirting; every deceptively difficult sucker-lure was available. We dallied a few times to watch one of our number get bested by a game, but most of our money stayed in our pockets.
When we passed the milk bottle game (toss a bean-bag, try to knock over the world’s most stubborn pyramid of empty bottles – you know it), here christened “The Chug”, Brooke paused beneath its awning. She wasn’t concerned with the game itself or its attendant, who immediately hurried toward her, motor-mouthing his rehearsed solicitation. Instead, she was staring at the row of stuffed animals lightly swinging above her like the world’s most adorable collection of Damocleasian rapiers.
Specifically, her gaze was fixed on a blue porcupine. It, like its fellow stuffies, was enormous, almost half as tall as Brooke. The look on her face caused me to halt behind her.
That same expression served as bleeding chum for the carny. They train carnies to recognize that look and pounce.
“Like ta’ take yer shot? Knock em’ down, you won tha' round. Smash ‘em in, win a frien’.”
“No, thank you,” Brooke told the man, almost guiltily. Her eyes lingered on the toy a moment longer before she smiled apologetically and moved on.
I hesitated, took a mental snapshot of the porcupine and slid it into the file right beside hot sauce-enhanced ‘cheese fingers’. The carny pivoted to me, but before he could wind up again, I held up my hand. “I gave last week,” I told him and vacated the booth.
~~~
The carnival had become more crowded. It wasn’t shoulder-to-shoulder by any means, but there was a significant customer presence. It no longer felt like our group had free run of the place.
In fact, at the end of the midway an actual cue line had formed. At least a dozen people waited in front of a small, nondescript tent.
“Oh, that’s gotta be the face painting,” Dean said. Pulling a sighing Marissa behind him, he surged toward the line. “Matching butterflies?” he asked her.
We followed, all of us. Moths to a flame, perhaps, but a line that size born from a still-paltry crowd had to represent something worthwhile. Dean and Marissa entered the cue ahead of us. He’d shifted to, “Well, ok, we can do Yin and Yang. Do you think they only tattoo faces?”
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“Excuse me,” Brooke asked the couple ahead of Dean, “but what is this line for?”
“A FREE fortune teller,” the left half said excitedly. He glanced at his partner, nodding. “Free!” he repeated.
“Yes, dear,” she said, giving Brooke a defeated smile. “Free.”
“Something of an enthusiasm gap there,” Brent whispered after hearing the exchange. Then, raising his voice, he addressed the rest of us, “Fortune teller – everyone ok with that?”
“It’s free!” the exuberant man encouraged.
No one complained, so we moved into line behind Dean and Marissa. “Fortune teller,” she echoed with relief. Despite the revelation, Dean continued suggesting painting patterns to her.
The line moved surprisingly briskly considering the attraction’s nature. “The mystic must be keeping things brief,” Cal suggested when we reached the front of the line. “A palm speed reader.”
The employee glanced at us doubtfully. “One group at a time,” she warned.
“There’s a lot of us,” Brent explained. “What’s the maximum capacity in there?”
“Six,” the staff member said.
“Six,” Brent repeated over his shoulder, “at a time.”
Excluding Dean and Marissa, who had gone in alone, our group still lapped the limit. So, while the worker held the thin cloth flap open, Brent, Laurel, Brase, Brooke, Cal, and I entered.
Even six was pushing it; the space was cramped. I bumped into the same lava lamp 3 times until, pausing Laurel’s reading, the fortune teller sighed and asked, “You wish to buy?”
“Just… testing my reflexes,” I said. “Please, continue.”
“Men, they are so clumsy,” the teller, also a man, commented.
There weren’t many other furnishings. A fern hung in one corner. A few colorful murals obscured the stained tent walls. Behind the mystic, a bookshelf displayed several dozen tomes with esoteric-friendly names like “The Inner Self.” Mostly, however, it was just us, a small table, and our host perched on the opposite side of it. He was the most interesting set piece of the collection, though.
He played the role to a tee. He wore a shimmering, needle-thin band around his forehead like an emaciated tiara. Beneath it, his face was solemn, almost stern, as he questioned Laurel. His shirt was white, staunchly pressed, like he could wring bleach crystals out of the cuffs. The links holding said cuffs snugly out of the way of his sweeping gestures looked like swollen grapes dipped in silver. His black vest contained similar silver trim that sparkled when it caught the light from the row of overhead lanterns. He spoke in low, weighty tones that drew the listener in, making his nonsense sound prophetic.
Give it to the guy, he knew how to set a mood and be reasonably convincing. I expected hokey and over the top, but he was playing the role razor-straight.
His questions -- the “Beckoning Sequence,” he called it – were simple fare : name, occupation, family members, and so forth, but Ergo (great name) treated each response as if it were a great revelation. The interaction felt like a blood donor questionnaire or job interview with the world’s most easily impressed recruiter.
His precognition, however, was less masterful. None of his divination rose above the deep insight of a newspaper horoscope. I’m going to come into wealth soon when a new acquaintance recognizes my worth. Great. Who wouldn’t be happy with a prediction like that? I suppose that’s the trick to Ergo’s profession, though : always tell the mark what you think they want to hear. No one returns to a mystic who doles out realistic prophecy.
My fortune, at least, served as ammunition for later discussion. How, exactly, was I going to ‘come into wealth’ out there, alone, in the wilderness? And which of my new friends would deliver it? Maybe a giant, diamond acorn would drop on my head. After collecting a few stray crumbs from my lunch, some squirrel misinterpreted my slobbery as charity and repaid me in kind. Even-Steven.
Stupid, all of it.
Brent proved the greatest test to Ergo’s professional mettle. Excuse me, that’s BULWORTH DERRINGER, of the New England Derringers. Obviously. As soon as he took the chair, Brent became that absurd persona while Laurel stood in the back, head in her hands.
“Competitive taxidermist.” Brent insisted proudly. “I won the circuit in… Laurel, which year did I win the international circuit again?” She responded only by pushing her face deeper into her palms.
He had bad luck in love, our hapless Bulworth, four wives in a row eaten by walruses – not the same walrus, mind you. That would be too much to bear. Ergo nodded sympathetically.
The fortune listened to every farce, keeping his face straight and his dialogue professional… right until it was time to commune with destiny and ascertain Brent’s future. “Smothered in your sleep tonight,” Ergo said casually, “by the spirit of your first grade teacher. There will be caterpillars. Next!”
How’s that for specificity? I received the industry standard while Brent is getting strangled in bed by a deceased educator. Color me jealous.
Brent lit up, overjoyed by Ergo’s morose augury. He even tipped the guy. Go figure. Ergo indirectly threatens him and Brent stuffs a five into his jar. That’s who Brent is. He couldn’t quite hold his laughter in, though, and began to splutter as Ergo’s assistant opened the flap. Did I see the faintest twinge of a smile on the mystic’s face before leaving? I’d like to think so.