Haunted Houses and Caves and Fair's, Oh My! Part III

I love a small town fair. I grew up in Southwestern Pennsylvania/mightaswellhavebeenWestVirginia and the end of the summer was always rung in with the West Alexander Fair. A week long celebration of livestock, tractor pulls, demolition derbies, rigged carnival games and rickety rides. It was a thing of dusty, stinky beauty and my family went pretty much every year.

But somewhere during college I found other things to do with that week and I haven't been to a fair since. So when K. and I rounded the bend entering Maquoketa and were greeted by the sight of spinning rides and the smells of livestock barns I knew how we were going to spend our evening.

We were staying in the fabulous, turn-of-the-century, Decker House Hotel. It's in downtown Maquoketa and it felt like something out of a western. Grand staircase. Actual keys for the doors. Lots of dark wood and high ceilings. It was scheduled to become a parking lot until a young couple swooped in and saved it. Their three kids were playing in the lobby when we checked in. How cool would it be to grow up in an old hotel? I mean, as long as the place didn't go all Shining on you. 

After a quick shower, we had dinner in the hotel. Great food and, unlike some smaller towns, more than capable of handling a vegetarian. It had a been a beautiful, sunny day and the evening was just starting to cool off, so we decided to walk to the fair. We took a back street, behind the business district, past quaint houses with dogs tied up out back and the garage doors standing open. It reminded me a lot of my hometown. But then, how could it not? It was probably cut from the same plant as other small towns that stopped growing somewhere in the late fifties.

We arrived at the main gate, just as country singer Sawyer Brown took the stage. This worked out well because it meant that the majority of people were in the grandstand instead of creating lines at all the rides and games. We decided we'd just walk through first. Take everything in and then go back and start the fun.

The first row of fair goodness was the concessions area. Every kind of deep-fried evil, a dozen kinds of "homemade" jerkey, smoked meats galore. It was as if they consulted with every doctor in America, decided which foods were the absolute worst for you and made sure they had a sampling of each. Hell's pantry isn't stocked as well. I mentally tagged the little trailer with the handmade sign that said "Deep Fried Oreos" and we went on our way.

I'm sure the midway games haven't changed all that much in the last fifteen to twenty years, but for some reason, they don't have the same appeal to the 34 year old as they did to the 10 year old. I walked past each booth a couple of times, hoping one would call to me. I had promised K. I would win her something, but I wanted to earn it. I didn't want to just throw a dart at a balloon or pluck a floating duckie from a tub. And my basketball skills are weak with a regulation hoop, so trying to sink a basket with the carny hoops was out. After the second pass the only game that seemed to fit the bill was the old "Throw a baseball and try to break a bottle" game.

Nine rows of 2x4s have holes drilled in them and the bottles are turned upside down in the holes. The rows are spaced just far enough apart to make room for the bottles, and the bottles are placed far enough apart as to allow the ball to fit between them, so this one is all about accuracy. It's also about masculinity. First you're throwing a ball. All real men know how to throw a ball. Nothing wounds a man's pride like being told "you throw like a girl". Second, the object of the game is to break a bottle. What can be more manly than to destroy something else? And that great smashing-glass sound. Gotta love it.

I gave the world-worn carny my two bucks and he handed me three baseballs. Now, I haven't thrown a baseball in years and while I was confident that I could chuck it the twenty feet to the bottles, I was unsure if I would actually hit anything. I offhandely commented to K. that the real trick was hitting the wooden shelf and getting the ball to bounce back to you, thereby giving you another chance. As luck would have it, this was exactly what I did with my first throw. The bystanders thought I did it to show K. what I meant, so they all clapped at my hurling abilities. Unfortunately, my ego was quickly deflated when I tried to catch the returning ball. I managed to drop the two other balls. The applause faded. I only wish I had stepped on one of the balls, had it roll out from under me sending me sprawling on my back, then the image would be movie moment perfect. Instead I just rolled my eyes and quickly gathered the stray balls.

I took a deep breath and tried to summon up some ancient t-ball memory to guide my hand. I tried to visualize the ball smashing into the upended Corona bottle dashing it into a million pieces. The wind up. The pitch! Oh! It glanced off the Corona bottle and hit the backstop. (The holes are also bevelled a bit at the top so the bottles have room to move if nudged.) I closed my eyes and took another breath. Focus. Focus. The wind up. The pitch! A hit! The brown Budwieser bottle was history. To win a prize I only needed to smash two out of three. I tossed the last ball up and caught it. I winked at K. That cheap-ass-made-in-China stuffed animal was as good as hers.

I'm not always the best under pressure. As an actor I love it when something goes wrong during a show and you have to see if you can get the wheels back on the bus while it's still in motion. It's one of the reasons I love improvising, though I do it rarely anymore. But in other areas, the pressure and me don't always get along. I am still haunted by the memory of a little league game in which my team was one out away from winning. I was playing second base and ball was popped up right over my head. I called it. I raised my glove. I could already hear my coach and teammated celebrating. But I'd come in too close and the ball landed right behind me. The tying and winning runs scored as I scrambled to pick up the ball. I don't think anyone made eye contact with me the rest of the day.

I tried not to think of that moment. I only thought of the breaking bottle. The victory. Proving my manliness to my woman. I am a man. I break things with balls. Love me. The wind up. The pitch. Straight into the dirt. I tried too hard. Wanted it too badly. I lowered my head. The bystanders drifted away. K. came over and put her arm around me. "Don't worry about it, babe. I didn't want that thing anyhow." And she smiled and started talking about which ride we should hit first. But I know she was only trying to cover over her shame and fear. She had seen her man fail at something manly. The doubts would begin to creep in. "He can't even break a beer bottle with a baseball, how is going to be a decent provider?" I prayed that there would be another chance to prove to her the kind of man I really was.

I don't know whether it was because of all the wide-open space around us, or because God likes a fair as much as the next guy, but no sooner had I uttered that prayer than it was answered in the form of a ride. It was called The Octopus and it was about to forever reveal exactly how manly I really am.