D e s e r t E x p o s u r e
August 2010
Carnie Folk
The carnival comes to town, bringing with it childhood memories.
By Jeff Berg / Photographs by Robert Yee
When I was a kid, the occasional carnival came to my hometown of Barrington, Ill. As I stroll through a carnival in the 101-degree twilight of Las Cruces — the second traveling carnival, by my count, to alight here so far this spring and summer — it's clear that not much has changed since my childhood except for the rides. Most of the rides are bigger, faster and probably scarier than they were oh-so-many years ago. But the same games of dubious skill such as the ring toss and "shooting" gallery are still played, offering the same brightly colored smiling stuffed animals as prizes. The carnie workers still come in all sizes, sitting quietly behind their games with frozen smiles as they watch me stroll by. Pop music — mixed with a touch of hip-hop, another innovation — permeates the hot desert sunset air.
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Game operator Art Vorberg: "The carnie life is crazy." |
This itinerant carnival is operated by Paradise Amusements of Staples, Texas, near Austin. The company apparently is part of another group, Crabtree Entertainment.
I count at least 15 semis used to haul around the necessary equipment and tools of the trade, plus another 15 or so portable housing units. There are a couple of fair-sized pull-along camper-style mobile homes and a few other units that look like dormitories on wheels. Do they really still use those? I remember seeing them during the coal boom in 1970s Wyoming, so I guess housing is housing for businesses such as traveling road shows.
It is still early, not quite sunset, and the crowd is a bit thin. Numerous employees are just hanging around until things pick up. Several are gathered in groups, chatting. A couple of others fiddle with cell phones. But the middle-aged woman who is handling the admission booth is more than ready to sell me the $5 ticket that entitles me to see all the wonders of the carnival world — something I've not done for many, many years.
There is a haunted house, a house of mirrors attraction (kind of a refurbished 1970s disco) and of course a sideshow. This promises glimpses of a two-headed squirrel, a two-headed cat (no, thanks, my cat already eats like he has two heads), a four-legged chicken, a "Devil Child" (my mom's nickname for me when I was a kid), Red Eye Louie, the Cyclops baby, Big Dick (a giant frog), and every southwesterner's favorite, a chupacabra! The gentleman who is operating the "chupacabra" attraction is not at all enthused about his temporary position, explaining that he is usually a truck driver. He is certainly not a barker, nor does he even lift his head off his chin as he talks to me with eyes that say, "Keep moving, hack."
So, I do.
Even the food is the same as I remember. It's much like present-day school cafeteria fare: hot dogs, burgers, popcorn. Large swirls of cotton candy, funnel cakes and soft drinks of all kinds are available through various mobile food vendors. All the same as it was many years ago.
I think the best carnival that ever made its way through Barrington was the one associated with the village's centennial in 1965. That show, by far, was the best ever, since I won a mini-camera at some game along with a tiny derringer.
After a couple of turns around the carnival grounds, I look for likely suspects who will tell me everything I want to know about themselves and the carnival. Two BIG (as in having eating too much carnival food) security guys walk by, but I opt for Melissa, who is sitting on the metal steps outside the carnie office trailer, doing some ciphering with numbers.
I walk past a ride called the Crazy Dance, which looks like a psychotic version of a Tilt-A-Whirl (which amazingly is also part of this show), and introduce myself to her.
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Rides on the midway at the Paradise
Amusements Carnival, recently in Las Cruces. |
She is perhaps 30-35 and has a deep southern drawl, but not much to say. "Y'all need to talk to Brandon. He's the manager. He'll be here later on."
I thank Melissa and walk across the midway to a golf cart, where a number of employees are gathered, smoking, joking and, like me, waiting for things to pick up. I introduce myself, tell them in my kindest, least-threatening voice what I am up to, proffer a recent copy of Desert Exposure — and immediately three of them take their leave.
But Dawn isn't quite as shy. She ponders for a few moments, asks me a couple of questions, and announces that "journalists always make carnivals look bad." She tells me a story about a recent stop the show made, but asks me not to repeat it, since the journalist was hired by the show, and it turned out that he was sneakily doing a story about drug use and abuse on the carnival circuit. I promise not to repeat that story, but when Brandon the manager, whom I meet a short time later, repeats it, he says it is okay to share with readers.
Dawn is a pleasant, middle-aged woman, who is a third-generation carnie. She's been on the road with her husband, Travis, for 20 years and has probably done everything there is to do at the carnival. But now the couple own two food concessions, and more or less are paying to be in this show — renting space to park their concession trailers on the midway.
Her husband is also a ride supervisor, and they've raised four kids on the road, resulting in a fourth generation of carnies for the family. In the brief off-season, they make their home in Canyon Lake, near Austin. The season lasts 10 months of each year, and Dawn has home-schooled her kids, two of whom are now off on their own; the other two, Tori and Amber, are working tonight.
Dawn admits it can be a challenge to keep the family together, but so far, so good. Tori and Amber are both reasonably happy to be working in the show, although Amber admits she really wants to go to cosmetology school, and smiles as she mentions the "weird-ass people" she encounters while she is working in the carnival. All three women laugh heartily at Amber's comment, suggesting this is a unanimous observation.
Roswell is on the list of stops this year, and Dawn and Tori are really glad to be finally able to hit the city of aliens. Travel is in their blood, and is one of the things that they like best about their jobs, along with changes in altitude and climate they encounter while on the road 300 days a year.
"It's a lifestyle. I have no regrets," Dawn says as Brandon Kibby, the aforementioned manager, pulls up in a golf cart with a couple of associates.
Kibby is the operations manager of the show and, like Dawn and her family, has been in the business for quite some time, 16 years to be exact. His wife is a second-generation carnie, and he more or less became involved in carnivals through her, when he decided to go on the road with her as a ride operator. He has worked his way through the ranks, and now supervises about 70 employees with this carnival. About half work the rides, while the rest do concessions and games. When not on the road, he also lives in the Austin area, in San Marcos.
He tells me that they do about 25 shows a year and that one of the biggest and most anticipated, at least by him, is Austin's Star of Texas Rodeo.
Slightly emboldened by Kibby's open, friendly nature, I ask him how much I would make if he were to hire me on. Since it is seasonal work, he offers $350 a week, plus room and board, adding that his employees have few expenses, although most now have cell phone bills to contend with. He admits that there is a "typically high turnover" in his staff, before launching into the tale of the undercover journalist who may have thought he would win a Pulitzer by finding out that carnie ride operators were all loaded on various illegal substances.