Imperfections (7 page)

Mother did not accompany me to the stage for the talent portion of the show. I didn't see her as I made my way through the corrals alone to stand behind the Bee Girl, in line to get on the stage with ten other Little Misters and Little Misses. I didn't see her from where I peeked through the curtains from backstage, my stomach in a knot, wanting someone to tell me this would all be okay. I didn't see her as I moonwalked my way through Michael Jackson's “Thriller,” doing the monster dance we had practised and pulling it off flawlessly.

I looked for her.

I looked to where I had seen Leonard and Auntie Maggie earlier in the show. I could only peek occasionally while I was onstage.

She didn't meet me when I exited through the curtain offstage.

“That was great.”

Those words weren't from my mother. They were from the Bee Girl.

“Who're you looking for?” Bee Girl asked my swivelling head and darting eyes.

“Have you seen my mother?” I asked her.

Where was I supposed to go next?

What was I supposed to do?

Where were my normal clothes?
 

Was I abandoned there to be forever dressed like Mike?

Tears of panic welled up and there was the tingling in my sinuses that I always felt before I cried.

“I haven't seen her,” Bee Girl said. She saw my distress and reached out to touch my arm.

“Neither have I,” I huffed, “for quite a while.”

My eyes searched the corral. It was empty of children and mothers and was filling up with folding tables covered by red and white checkered plastic table cloths. The show was reaching its end and the cook-off was setting up. Old ladies were plugging giant, floral-patterned Crock-Pots of chili into extension cords that snaked through the hay. Some already stirred bubbling vats and cackled to their neighbours, giving the occasional hungry glance to the children gathering behind the stage. Chunks of meat and beans glistened under the sweaty lids of those cauldrons. Gnarled fingers grasped wooden spoons, bringing spicy grease to withered lips, a vile taste test by pasty tongued hags.

I watched a tongue slip out of a woman's mouth and wet her lips, all the while she watched me. I could smell the sickly sweet barbecue smell coming from her chili.

“My mom can help us,” Bee Girl redirected my attention away from the witches' Little Mister Beef Cattle Chili Cook-off.

Without further prompting, she grabbed my hand and led me to a tall, plump woman with such a kind face that I wished I could wrap myself in its safety.

“Who's your friend, Abigail?” the woman asked.

The question was really directed at me.

Here is where my training kicked in. I shouldn't talk to strangers. I looked away and caught sight of the corral full of chili cookers. I did a quick risk analysis before responding.

“I'm Richard,” I said.

“Nice to meet you Richard. I'm Ms. Spencer, Abigail's mom,” she replied.

Instantly, my panic subsided.

“Richard can't find his mom,” Abigail said.

“Come here, honey,” Ms. Spencer said. “They're about to crown the winner. We'll find your mom after.”

All the finalists were called back onto the stage and the judges read off several names, the Little Misters and Little Misses who were eliminated. There were some tears, there was some loud wailing and a few angry parents until I stood there with one other boy and two girls. Abigail was gone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the judges have narrowed down all the wonderful Little Misters and Little Misses that we have seen here this morning to these fine guys and gals.” There was a shriek from the PA before the announcer continued. “I am pleased to present Little Mister Beef Cattle 1984, Little Mister Richard Trench.”

I heard a scream and saw two up-thrown arms sprout from the stands. I spotted Mother's shadow backlit from the glowing red canvas wall, and smiled the biggest smile I could.

My world blurred into handshaking, flashbulbs, clapping and lots of teeth glistening behind smiles. Someone pinned a blue ribbon on my chest. My title was printed in gold letters on the button in the middle. Someone else handed me a hundred-dollar gift certificate for Wal-Mart.

The next thing I remember was Mother snatching my hand from Mrs. Spencer and storming off with me to where Father, Auntie Maggie, Uncle Tony and Leonard stood at the entrance to the swine wing. They stood at the junction of the dairy cattle, sheep, swine, goat and poultry pavilions, near benches under a sign that read
Sittin' Room
.

“This place smells like shit,” Father was saying.

Uncle Tony nodded gravely.

Auntie Maggie spotted me and came barrelling forward, squat-walking with her arms outstretched.

“Gimme a hug, Little Mister Beef Cattle,” she said through a smile.

When she hugged me, all I could think of was that Father was right. This place did smell like shit.

“It's noon.” Father stated, looking pointedly at Uncle Tony. “Let's find us a beer garden and some lunch.”

Uncle Tony grunted his agreement and we entered the swine wing. We walked past a series of livestock wash racks between two rows of swine stalls, which we needed to pass through to exit the livestock complex.

I paused briefly to look at one stall. There was a placard at the gate that read
Ian
. Ian had a blue ribbon beside his name with
swine racing
printed in gold letters on the button in the middle. Before being called along by my beaming mother, I watched Ian roll in some filth.

Outside the Livestock Complex, the sun beat down. The animal smells dissipated as we wove our way through the crowds and snaking spaces between big canvas tents. In the distance, I saw half of the Ferris wheel spinning over the tent tops.

Father piped up when he spotted a beer garden, a fenced-in open-air area with a straw floor and patio furniture shaded by umbrellas. A sign at the entrance read,
No Minors
. Leonard and I were ushered into an adjacent corral under a sign that read,
Milk Bar.
We sat at a table on the other side of the fence as our parents.

Three frosty pints of milk later, I looked across my filmy glass at Leonard.

“…so they are going to take her title away because of some nude photos she supposedly had taken of her before the competition. What kind of message does that send? Here she is, the first black woman in the sixty-three year history of the pageant and they scandalize her.” Mother was talking.

“Who are we talking about?” Uncle Tony asked.

“Vanessa Williams,” Mother responded and nodded to the waitress for another round.

“I would scandalize her,” Father muttered to Uncle Tony.

“We have to pee,” Leonard said.

“What?” Mother asked Father.

“Oh,” Father feigned surprise, “I didn't say anything.”

Uncle Tony smirked and gave Father a look.

“What are we to take from that?” Mother continued. “Are we supposed to be ashamed of a woman's body? Is it because she's black? What's offensive about a beautiful black woman's body?”

Next year, Sharlene Wells, a twenty-year-old Mormon from Utah would be crowned Miss America. Her life goals, when asked, would be to get married and raise a family at home.

“We have to pee,” Leonard said again.

“I don't have to pee,” I told Leonard.

“Yes, you do,” he hissed back.

“Nothing wrong with naked beautiful women,” Uncle Tony smirked to Father.

“Nude women,” Mother corrected. “Nudes aren't some porno girlie pictures. They're a celebration of perfection through beauty of form.”

“We have to pee,” Leonard piped in louder.

More beers arrived at the parent's table.

“Boys,” Auntie Maggie said sharply, reaching for her beer. “Just go, for Pete's sake.”

Leonard grabbed my hand and dragged me from the table and out under the
Milk Bar
sign.

“I don't have to pee, Leonard. And the bathrooms are the other way.”

“Shut up, I don't have to pee either but I'm so bored. We're going to the midway. I want to see the games and rides. Anyhow…” he jerked his chin over his shoulder in the direction of the beer garden, “they could be there all afternoon.”

Once we were around a corner from the beer garden, Leonard let go of my hand. We wound our way between people, past cotton candy and mini-doughnut stands, toward the Ferris wheel. At one point, we were drawn to the sound of screaming engines coming from behind a fence. We went to the fence and tried to peek through but were thwarted by several big signs.

Motor Sports Arena!

Antique Tractor Pull Tomorrow… Agripowered by Annex Ethanol!

Come in and check out our Safety Wall! New This Year!

A fat man in an undershirt staggered up and shooed us along before taking a piss on the fence.
 

We followed the noise of a crowd and the Ferris wheel beacon and rounded a corner to the blaring music, bells and whistles of the midway. The air smelled like diesel and vomit. With mouths open and awe-filled eyes cast upwards, we wandered the length of the midway in wonder. Hair, legs, arms and screaming mouths blurred from the rides. At one point, I was narrowly missed getting hit by a set of keys that seemed to fall from the clear blue sky. Once we reached the other end, we stood between two tents, gape-mawed at the twirling metal and flesh stretching out along the midway.

Strong hands latched onto my shoulders from behind.

I screamed in surprise and Leonard spun to see where the little-girl noise came from. I glanced over my shoulder as I squirmed in panic. At the end of the arms attached to the strong hands was a pitted, sunburnt face of a man. He was wearing a carnie uniform, a stained, red T-shirt and jeans that were blotchy with grease and filth. He pulled me close enough to smell oil and sweat. He held a rusty nail between the yellow pegs of his teeth. In my glance, I saw the white paste in the corners of his mouth and the brown flecks of food stuck between his teeth.

I screamed and struggled harder.

“Hey,” the carnie barked through his foul grin.

I pulled and twisted. I caught a glimpse of Leonard running forward and kicking his shin.

The grip released. Leonard and I retreated out of arm's reach and stopped, scared to keep our back to the man.

“You little bastard,” the man spoke around the nail and rubbed his shin.

Leonard held my elbow and I felt his grip tense, ready to run or ready to fight, I wasn't sure.

“I was talkin' at ya,” the carnie said. He seemed to think for a moment. “You guys wanna see something different, something really far out?”

His eyebrows rose. Ours followed suit.

“What?” Leonard asked though his grip didn't lessen on my elbow.

“I don't know if I wanna tell ya now you gone kicked me.”

“What could you have to show us?” Leonard asked.

I made to leave but Leonard's grip on my elbow stopped me.

“It's something so far out, they tell us not to show anyone,” the carnie continued. “Something that even makes the management nervous, something we ain't even supposed to talk about,” the carnie paused and gave an exaggerated hurt look as he finished rubbing his shin. He pulled the nail from between his teeth, a string of spit dragged out with it. “Can you boys keep a secret?”

How could we not?

The carnie continued to talk, the white gobs at the corner of his mouth migrating as his lips moved, “You can't never tell no one. Not your parents, not the cops, not nobody. Promise?”

“Promise,” Leonard said.

“I ain't sure I can trust the two of you. How can I know you'll keep a secret?”

Leonard took a step closer.

“Oh, you can trust us. We won't tell anyone. We already promised.”

The carnie rolled his bloodshot eyes from Leonard to me and then back to Leonard. Then he seemingly made up his mind. “Y'all will love this.” The carnie smiled. “Foller me.”

How could we not?

We followed the carnie's baggy, stained jeans and skinny shoulders around the back of a tent. He checked over his shoulder to see if we followed and gave a crooked smile when he saw that we did. He stopped at a tent, hiked up his jeans while he glanced about and pulled a flap open on the tent.

I peeked in. It was mostly dark except for a dim glow coming from somewhere deep inside.

“This way gentlemen,” the carnie said.

There are many moments in life that conspire toward making you the person you turn out to be on your deathbed. All of the events, the people, the places you go, the things you do and have done to you, everything foreshadows the person you are at the end. Final hindsight is like the cover of the puzzle box: it shows you the big picture but during life all you get are the pieces.