Carny

As a kid I loved carnivals. They were bright, flashy and noisy, and everywhere you looked there was a promise of instant gratification: eat this, throw this, win this, ride this — all designed to extract money from children. They hit hard and fast, then move on to the next town full of suckers. The experience was something like Christmas morning in the suburbs. When it was over you still weren't satisfied, nevertheless you couldn't wait until next time.

Having been conditioned by our national culture to want instant gratification all the time — I'm a card-carrying member of the first generation to grow up with television — it was only natural that I took drugs in the 60s, and only slightly less natural that by the mid-70s I was a hard-core addict. Drugs can take one into some strange worlds, and for me one of the more interesting ones was after-hours at the carnival. The word “carnival” is derived from a Latin phrase meaning to remove meat, and that suggestion of a not-so-pretty underlying picture of the brightly-lit midway is pretty close to the mark.

I've been away for 20 years, but the Marin County Fair used to be held on the grounds of the pink, futuristic Civic Center in San Rafael, a delightful place where we used to apply for food stamps and go to jail. It was there, within sight of the Sheriff's Department, that a cohort and I sold drugs to carnies. Our man at the carnival was, no joke, the guy who ran the shooting gallery. He in turn resold the methamphetamine and hashish to the guys who ran the other concessions and of course, the rides. This one fellow, who put live .22-caliber rifles into the hands of strangers all day, was constantly loaded on crank and hash, as well as Southern Comfort. (I never took my own kids to a carnival after that.)

The last night of the Fair that year, we delivered a sizable packet of drugs to our shooting-gallery friend. They were breaking it all down, and after the transaction I wandered around the grounds to observe the Morlock-like activity. The rides hadn't all been dismantled yet and at one point I found myself under the Octopus. On the ground, in amazing quantity, were combs. Pocket combs, hair combs, whatever you want to call them, all varieties of them. More than a hundred combs, there on the ground under the Octopus ride. And there I had a minor revelation: If this ride could cause combs to fly out of pockets and handbags, what about loose money and wallets? These rides are designed to literally and directly extract money and other valuables from the people sitting in them. Needless to say, there wasn't so much as a single coin among the combs. These people worked fast, and I was helping them do it.

The carnival that comes to town here every year just packed it out, but while it was running I couldn't resist walking through it once. Same concessions, same worthless prizes, same rides — including the Octopus and a newer improvement on the concept called The Zipper — same junk food, same eager faces everywhere. But for the first time I noticed a disclaimer on one of the rides: “Not Responsible for Lost Valuables or Other Items. Ride Keepers Not Allowed to Hold Your Possessions.”

Not until you've gone home, that is.