Carnies
I was flipping through the news feed of a Popular Social Networking Site, wait, I guess the proper term is “scrolling” through the news feed, “flipping” being something one does with the physical pages of physical media. Physical media is dead; at least that’s what I read all the time in the electronic media.
So now let us reset.
I was scrolling through the news feed of a Popular Social Networking Site and came across the following update from a friend who is in fact, a friend in real life and not just a friend on the Popular Social Networking Site: “My hatred of local carnivals officially knows no bounds. Just had to walk a mile or so to cross the street due to a silly fair thing. Funnel cakes and carny folk for all!!”
Ah, carnivals.
Back in the last century before “quality of life” initiatives made the consumption of alcohol on the streets of this town a Serious Crime (or rather, a crime serious enough that not only do you have to pay a fine but you actually have to show up in front of a judge) I was a frequent attendee of the San Gennaro Festival in Little Italy. I spent many a September night wandering the streets downing plastic cups of red wine and eating sausage and pepper sandwiches in foil wraps and frutta di mare in paper containers and fresh, hot zeppoles out of greasy paper bags. I’d watch people play carny games and if I was lucky there would be the odd mobile skee-ball setup and I’d play that. It was a fun way to spend an early fall evening. Until one time I went with a friend of mine who decided to play some carny games.
My friend, let’s call him DF, was a social worker by trade. His clients were homeless people, mostly men who were trying to overcome whatever demons put them on the street. This meant DF was an idealist by nature and a cynic through education. You would think he would be the last person on Earth to fall victim to a carny game. Well, sometimes things don’t unfold quite the way you imagine they might. Sometimes people have urges, an urge to perform or an urge to win or an urge to make money for nothing, say, and these urges are not readily apparent.
It was a fairly dank night, one of those New York nights where there was just enough rain earlier in the evening to fill the air with moisture rather than wash out the humidity. We wandered from stall to stall down the streets, I as always looking for the legendary tic-tac-toe playing rooster that I never did find though we did find one of those sideshow “See The World’s Largest Sewer Rat!” exhibits that typically houses a capybara. I refused to pay the five bucks to see something I could see in any zoo which I guess made me a killjoy but I also figured the poor damn capybara was probably not well cared for and I didn’t want to provide an economic incentive for animal abuse.
We continued down the street until we came to a stall that had a simple game. There was a small pool table set up in the stall and a hawker holding a cue. We watched as, for two bucks you would try to knock down a golf tee that was snuggled in the middle of three balls arranged in the shape of a triangle. The hawker set up the cue ball like a regular break shot and if you knocked down the golf tee when you fired your break at the three balls you won a prize…..or if you wanted you could give them more money and they would give you odds that you couldn’t break it twice in a row. So in essence what was a normal carny game with cheap stuffed animals suddenly became a betting enterprise. Illegal, no doubt, but remember this was New York Before Rudy when such things were still possible.
DF decided to try his hand. The hawker set up the balls.
Booompf, crack, down went the golf tee.
“Give me another two bucks and I got ten says you can’t do it twice in a row”, said the hawker.
DF decided this was easy money. I smirked and sipped my wine.
Booompf, crack, down went the golf tee.
“OK, OK you can take the ten, or you can give me another five bucks and take 25 bucks if you do it again.”
At this point I’m figuring the hawker will work her magic and DF will lose his money and we’ll move on.
Booompf, crack, down went the golf tee.
“Man you’re good at this. Hey, take a look at this guy! All right, you give me ten bucks and I got fifty that says you can’t do it again.”
At this point a crowd is beginning to form. The hawker warms to the task, attracting viewers by yelling things like “We got a big winnah hear, check it out New York”. At this point the wine’s starting to kick in so I don’t remember what she said. I did notice that she had an assistant setting up the balls now. Aha, I think, now he’ll lose and I can get another drink.
Booompf, crack, down went the golf tee.
Shit. The crowd was getting bigger. Another bet is made. DF forks over another ten to get a shot at 75 bucks. The setups are taking longer
Booompf, crack, down went the golf tee.
“C’mon man, I need another wine.” I said.
“You lay 20 bucks; I’ll give you $200 if you do it again.”
DF looked at me imploringly. “I’m out of money”.
“Good” I said. “Take your money and let’s get some wine.”
DF stood there. The hawker looked at me and said “C’mon man, help your buddy out. He ain’t missed yet! He’ll buy you all the wine you want when he wins!”
It wasn’t the hawker that motivated me, rather it was a desire to get this over with that motivated me to fish a 20 out of my wallet and hand it over.
“All right man, he owes you a whole lotta wine when he makes this shot. Hey check this out New York, lotta money at steak over here, check it out!” The hawker’s barking was like nails from a nailgun fired into my ears. The wine-buzz was wearing off, I either needed a nap or another drink and the crowd now pressing in on all sides was blocking me from either. The assistant took a good long time to set up the shot.
Booompf, crack, the golf tee never moved.
DF stared in disbelief. “You rigged that!” he roared.
“I’ll give you another shot for free. You tell my guy how to arrange the balls.”
The crowd was yelling instructions about what to put where, DF was sweating bullets and pondering all the angles. Finally after the shot was set, reset, and DF knocked over the golf tee once with his finger to prove that they weren’t “using a magnet or Velcro or something” to keep the tee in place he bent over to take the shot. Really, he couldn’t have been a better shill if they were paying him. DF bent to take the shot, his final shot, sweat pouring off his face and dripping onto the green felt.
I don’t even have to continue this, do I? You know how it turns out.
Five minutes later we are in the ATM lobby of one of those grand old Chinatown bank buildings and DF is pulling out a hundred bucks. I have refused to subsidize him any further and am determined to spend the dough I have left on edible products only. Maybe some zeppoles to take home to the Mrs. We leave the bank and DF heads back toward the hawker. I don’t even go with him. A little while later we meet up and I ask him how it turned out and his answer was a little surprising. He had only taken one more shot with his freshly withdrawn money. Seems the crowd had moved on. Without the pressure of the crowd, the desire to perform, the urge to continue playing the game left him.
I nodded and polished off another glass of wine, tucked a bag of cold zeppoles under my arm and we wandered through the steaming, emptying streets toward the subway and eventually home.
So now let us reset.
I was scrolling through the news feed of a Popular Social Networking Site and came across the following update from a friend who is in fact, a friend in real life and not just a friend on the Popular Social Networking Site: “My hatred of local carnivals officially knows no bounds. Just had to walk a mile or so to cross the street due to a silly fair thing. Funnel cakes and carny folk for all!!”
Ah, carnivals.
Back in the last century before “quality of life” initiatives made the consumption of alcohol on the streets of this town a Serious Crime (or rather, a crime serious enough that not only do you have to pay a fine but you actually have to show up in front of a judge) I was a frequent attendee of the San Gennaro Festival in Little Italy. I spent many a September night wandering the streets downing plastic cups of red wine and eating sausage and pepper sandwiches in foil wraps and frutta di mare in paper containers and fresh, hot zeppoles out of greasy paper bags. I’d watch people play carny games and if I was lucky there would be the odd mobile skee-ball setup and I’d play that. It was a fun way to spend an early fall evening. Until one time I went with a friend of mine who decided to play some carny games.
My friend, let’s call him DF, was a social worker by trade. His clients were homeless people, mostly men who were trying to overcome whatever demons put them on the street. This meant DF was an idealist by nature and a cynic through education. You would think he would be the last person on Earth to fall victim to a carny game. Well, sometimes things don’t unfold quite the way you imagine they might. Sometimes people have urges, an urge to perform or an urge to win or an urge to make money for nothing, say, and these urges are not readily apparent.
It was a fairly dank night, one of those New York nights where there was just enough rain earlier in the evening to fill the air with moisture rather than wash out the humidity. We wandered from stall to stall down the streets, I as always looking for the legendary tic-tac-toe playing rooster that I never did find though we did find one of those sideshow “See The World’s Largest Sewer Rat!” exhibits that typically houses a capybara. I refused to pay the five bucks to see something I could see in any zoo which I guess made me a killjoy but I also figured the poor damn capybara was probably not well cared for and I didn’t want to provide an economic incentive for animal abuse.
We continued down the street until we came to a stall that had a simple game. There was a small pool table set up in the stall and a hawker holding a cue. We watched as, for two bucks you would try to knock down a golf tee that was snuggled in the middle of three balls arranged in the shape of a triangle. The hawker set up the cue ball like a regular break shot and if you knocked down the golf tee when you fired your break at the three balls you won a prize…..or if you wanted you could give them more money and they would give you odds that you couldn’t break it twice in a row. So in essence what was a normal carny game with cheap stuffed animals suddenly became a betting enterprise. Illegal, no doubt, but remember this was New York Before Rudy when such things were still possible.
DF decided to try his hand. The hawker set up the balls.
Booompf, crack, down went the golf tee.
“Give me another two bucks and I got ten says you can’t do it twice in a row”, said the hawker.
DF decided this was easy money. I smirked and sipped my wine.
Booompf, crack, down went the golf tee.
“OK, OK you can take the ten, or you can give me another five bucks and take 25 bucks if you do it again.”
At this point I’m figuring the hawker will work her magic and DF will lose his money and we’ll move on.
Booompf, crack, down went the golf tee.
“Man you’re good at this. Hey, take a look at this guy! All right, you give me ten bucks and I got fifty that says you can’t do it again.”
At this point a crowd is beginning to form. The hawker warms to the task, attracting viewers by yelling things like “We got a big winnah hear, check it out New York”. At this point the wine’s starting to kick in so I don’t remember what she said. I did notice that she had an assistant setting up the balls now. Aha, I think, now he’ll lose and I can get another drink.
Booompf, crack, down went the golf tee.
Shit. The crowd was getting bigger. Another bet is made. DF forks over another ten to get a shot at 75 bucks. The setups are taking longer
Booompf, crack, down went the golf tee.
“C’mon man, I need another wine.” I said.
“You lay 20 bucks; I’ll give you $200 if you do it again.”
DF looked at me imploringly. “I’m out of money”.
“Good” I said. “Take your money and let’s get some wine.”
DF stood there. The hawker looked at me and said “C’mon man, help your buddy out. He ain’t missed yet! He’ll buy you all the wine you want when he wins!”
It wasn’t the hawker that motivated me, rather it was a desire to get this over with that motivated me to fish a 20 out of my wallet and hand it over.
“All right man, he owes you a whole lotta wine when he makes this shot. Hey check this out New York, lotta money at steak over here, check it out!” The hawker’s barking was like nails from a nailgun fired into my ears. The wine-buzz was wearing off, I either needed a nap or another drink and the crowd now pressing in on all sides was blocking me from either. The assistant took a good long time to set up the shot.
Booompf, crack, the golf tee never moved.
DF stared in disbelief. “You rigged that!” he roared.
“I’ll give you another shot for free. You tell my guy how to arrange the balls.”
The crowd was yelling instructions about what to put where, DF was sweating bullets and pondering all the angles. Finally after the shot was set, reset, and DF knocked over the golf tee once with his finger to prove that they weren’t “using a magnet or Velcro or something” to keep the tee in place he bent over to take the shot. Really, he couldn’t have been a better shill if they were paying him. DF bent to take the shot, his final shot, sweat pouring off his face and dripping onto the green felt.
I don’t even have to continue this, do I? You know how it turns out.
Five minutes later we are in the ATM lobby of one of those grand old Chinatown bank buildings and DF is pulling out a hundred bucks. I have refused to subsidize him any further and am determined to spend the dough I have left on edible products only. Maybe some zeppoles to take home to the Mrs. We leave the bank and DF heads back toward the hawker. I don’t even go with him. A little while later we meet up and I ask him how it turned out and his answer was a little surprising. He had only taken one more shot with his freshly withdrawn money. Seems the crowd had moved on. Without the pressure of the crowd, the desire to perform, the urge to continue playing the game left him.
I nodded and polished off another glass of wine, tucked a bag of cold zeppoles under my arm and we wandered through the steaming, emptying streets toward the subway and eventually home.
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