Old Joe Grady in the Carnival
One day Old Joe Grady found himself working as a ticket seller for a carnival. Most of the time he sat in a narrow box the size of a telephone booth. All around him, people were laughing, talking, carrying fluffy prizes. They bounced on rubber tubes filled with air. They crowded into revolving capsules shooting back and forth between outer space and certain collision with the ground. They pranced in front of mirrors that turned them into hour glasses, bowling balls, and creatures with long legs and no necks.
Old Joe had to watch all this over piles of coins as he counted change. At the end of the week, the carnies would tear everything down and sneak off like a band of thieves.
Wherever they set up, he would hear an entreating voice just above the drone of the crowd: I'll guess your age or I'll guess your weight. Your age within two years, your weight within three pounds. Step on up and fool the old guesser.
When there was a lull at his ticket booth, Old Joe would watch the old guesser enticing onlookers to test his skill, which turned out to be not very good. Joe calculated that for every age or weight he guessed within the stated parameters, the old guesser would miss two or three at the cost each time of an impressive looking prize. After work one evening, Joe asked how he stayed in business. The old guesser cocked his head.
Sonny, he said finally, "how much do I charge them yokels to see how fat or old they look?
Twenty-five cents, Joe said.
And when I lose, I give 'em a big plaster of parish stature of Jesus or some half nekkid gal. How much you reckon I pay for them statures?
I don't know, Joe said. A dollar a piece?
A nickel, the old guesser said, grinning widely. The yokels go away happy and I go away happy.
I'll be durned, Old Joe said.
The next few days, Joe listened to the Old Guesser with a new sense of appreciation. As he did so, he looked with a keener eye at other temptations around him, including a strange looking ride near the ticket booth. The Tilt-a-Whirl was a series of half-shell compartments, each spinning on a small round track, with the entire platform circulating in a wave-like motion that accentuated the spins and caused them to unexpectedly reverse themselves. It cost $2.00 to ride maybe two minutes, tops. When the contraption came to a stop, the riders would push up the restraining bar and stagger around for a few seconds before they could find their way out. The Tilt-a-Whirl operator had one good eye and an empty socket. On a grease smeared T-shirt was pinned the picture of a buxom woman he claimed was his girlfriend. He liked to step onto the moving platform with a cup of coffee in his hand, make a complete revolution back to his station, and hop off without spilling a drop.
They were all goofy mirrors, Old Joe realized. The rides, the freaks, the concessions, each carnie's show persona--all mirrors creating new fears, new possibilities. The carnival gave people glimpses of themselves spun out of dullness, like cotton candy. Getting gypped was penance for taking part in such craziness. In all this, the ticket seller seemed strangely alone. He wasn't one of the carnies, and he wasn't part of the crowd. He worked in a box and counted money. Nobody came up to him to share a story or a joke. In fact, nobody noticed him until they needed a ticket for something else. But if it wasn't for the ticket seller, Old Joe knew, the whole show would collapse, disappear as in a magic trick.