Duck Soup

Happy children screaming glee with sticky sweet sunshine smiles and proud beaming parents: there was a certain charm and attraction to the daytime part of it; the time before the carnival air began to midnight; to stagnate, and putrefy, ferment and become addictive with high, syrupy toxic and preserving fumes.

Ice cream dragonflies with fried licorice wings buzzed the multicolored spinning toys that lit up and danced and sang; humming, zipping and pleasing to the senses. Kids on leashes led the way with busy mommy eyeing siblings in tow, scolding in three directions at once and doing her best. Hungover carnies smoked peaceful cigarettes and drank coffee from paper cups and rued the woo of the traveling prison of lights that held them captive.

The voices all blended together as I sat on the bench and rolled a cigarette, listening to the barkers; “Step right up – step right up – three tries for a dollar – just one in wins – just pop one balloon – knock over only one set of lead bottles – win the stuffed animal for your girlfriend – for your daughter – for your son – for your grandmother – how ‘bout you sir? A hundred bullets for three dollars just shoot out the star – every round’s a winner – just squirt the water into the bulls-eye and make the toy horses run – just wind up and throw – hit the target and win – just pick a duck from the pond – every duck has a number on its belly – every duck is a winner.”

I watched the action at the games on my smoke break. I liked the barker’s, their greasy ways with the rubes. I liked the gambling fools hoping to score some major victory and collect their plush two penny prize. I liked the girls with their short shorts and demand-to-be-won-a-prize-for high-heel strut; their phony whine and expert lipstick. The more materialistic plastic princesses would often point at the largest stuffed animal and bat her flattering lashes to see if she could convince her man to win for her the life-size plush chimpanzee with Velcro hands and feet.

I liked the boys who had enough money to learn the rules of the game, and skills to sink the basketball into the bent basketball rim, knock all three circus punks over, shoot all ten ducks in a row, toss all three rings over bottle necks etc. etc. etc. Man would those asses swing back and forth when they walked away with their huge stuffed animals and confident champion companions.

“Hey man I bet all these ducks have low numbers on them!” Some touched patron offered to the carnie in charge of the duck pond.

“No they don’t!”

I never understood why someone would argue with a carnie. There is only the increased chance of you being taken for more of a ride.

“How much money do you take from people everyday huh? There’s no true number on ANY of those ducks that have big prize numbers on them I’m willing to bet you anything!”

“I’ll bet you however much money it takes you to pull out a duck with a big prize number on its belly,” snarled the greasy carnie.

I smiled and laughed a whispered chuckle into my chest.

“What if there is no big prize number on any duck belly?”

“Then I’ll give you back double the money you spend trying.”

The rube then went wild turning over duck after duck. He was examining the ducks. That’s when Ray slipped in a big prize duck into the stream behind him, away from the rube’s dutiful turning over duck after duck after duck after…

Ray’s duck eventually floated to the man’s desperate turning over station; “I got one! I got one!” The man did a little arm raising and fist pumping as if he’d just caught the final out in the World Series. He then did a little jig and pointed to the top shelf prizes and said; “I’ll take the Jumbo Elephant.”

“Sure – right after you pay me for those wet ducks at your feet.”

The rube looked down at his feet. There were thirty or so ducks at his feet. “I can’t pay for all those ducks.”

Ray pulled a gun on the man. “That’ll be thirty dollars.” He put the large elephant on the counter.

“I don’t have thirty dollars!”

“Pick up my ducks and put them back into the pond.”

The rube did as he was told. By now every barker in eyeshot picked up on the story. Most of the games had stopped and fifteen or twenty carnival goers were watching the action.

“Don’t shoot me man,” pleaded the mark.
“You have an outstanding balance of thirty dollars.”

“I don’t have thirty dollars!” The man was truly afraid.

“Too bad for you,” Ray pulled the trigger. POP! A cloud of smoke popped from the cap gun and shot out a thin rod from which a small flag rolled down “BANG!” It said in giant yellow letters on the bright red square fabric. “Get the hell out of here, before I shoot you for real.”

The rube took off running. Everyone laughed. I felt bad for the guy, but hoped he learned his lesson; never call out the odd makers in a game of chance.

The daytime carnival air was hot and full of insect excrement soaked in animal dander floating on the consumable waves of breath we all share. I snubbed out my cigarette and headed back to the ride. It was going to be a long hard sweaty one.