The Carny: A Melodrama

            Chadwick Spartan's head was ringing as he prepared himself for another day of running the machines. He was in charge of machine number 16, the scrambler, and he was sick to death of the smell of stale popcorn, fried food, and the sickly vomit smell of each sick kid who threw up on the ride after eating cotton candy or elephant ears. He was plain sick of working on the machines, listening to the tired banter of the other carnies as they played drinking games long into the night or discussed the new tattoos they were thinking of getting. His life had become a cliché; when he left home after high school, he fell for the idea that the carnival life would be adventure and fun. He would see the world. He was so damn naïve. Instead, he found himself bored on the road, wishing for all the world that he had settled down with some high school sweetheart, worked at the factory, or even gone to trade school.

            He ignored the pleas of his comrades to play Faro games for money or visit whorehouses along the route. He preferred to be alone, often sleeping in his truck away from the hustle and bustle of their card games and drunken nights. This night he found himself in the truck earlier than usual haven gotten Len to cover for him on the machine. This meant he would have to man one of the games later in the week, but he could get some early shuteye. The truck was parked across the river and down from the carnival grounds. He could still just barely make out the sound of cacophonous organ music and hip hop blaring from cheap, tinny speakers. 

            Somewhere in the dark, a cat yowled like it was being killed. He pictured it huddled in a tree set upon by demons. Its eyes glowered and its small head pivoted as it screamed at its aggressors. Tail whipping, it leaped past them and made a mad dash for the bushes like the hounds of hell were on its ass. He turned over and pulled a blanket over his head. The truck cab was small, and it smelled of fast food and carnival fare, but it was home. He wanted to shut out the light. But the cat kept screaming, and he saw it again, clawing at the air, batting at the demons, batting for its very life. What was tormenting it? What was tormenting him? He tried to pull the blanket higher and ignore it, but he pictured the small, damned thing. 

                And the cat kept screaming. And visions kept tormenting him. And he writhed and turned. Its screams seemed louder. Was it getting nearer? Branches near the truck seemed to be scratching at its windows. The humid, balmy night had become gray and gloomy. Overcast clouds and shadows colored the greasy Midwestern sky. The smeared driver's side window of the truck hid very little. The streetlights hid the rest. He kept turning over. He was too tired to move. The lethargy of a long workday and a poor diet weighed heavy on him. He finally pushed the rusty door open. It creaked loudly but didn't reach the level of the cat's yowls. He discarded the blanket on the passenger seat and put his work coat on. Its frayed blue didn't protect him against the growing wind or the dark drops that fell from the tethered sky, which sat blankly in the cool night air like a massive, dismal canvas of graying entropy. 

            The cat's infernal noise seemed farther away now. It was coming from a distant field. He walked across the empty parking lot with its tired cars. Angry June Bugs flitted away, pissed off and capricious, the size of small foreign automobiles. He crunched a few underfoot in his haste, their sickly guts coating the bottom of his soles. He would have never done this a few years before, watching the sidewalk carefully to avoid bugs and cracks. You know what they say about cracks? But he was tired, and the night air infused him with some spirit. It couldn't be called gaiety, but he was more awake, more empowered. He moved more rapidly now, taking larger steps nearing where the cat was screaming. He was surprised that its yowls hadn't attracted a crowd of people. Then he remembered where he was. None of these people cared that much about anything.

            He walked across a field toward a tree where he knew he would find the cat. Its yowls were increasing in volume, not because he was getting closer, but he sensed that its pain was coming to an end. He couldn't see it clearly in the tree, but he could make out something. It looked like a rag wrapped around a branch, whipping in the breeze. It had started raining, and large, glassy drops dripped from the tree and splashed his face. He scanned the tree for the cat. Was that it there in the corner? No, just a figment of his imagination, just a black shadow across the moon as it shone through the tree's whispery branches, just the grinning skull of his nightmare, just the grease that never left his clothes. What was this evil spirit of a cat that called him? He was having dark thoughts, wishing that he had stayed in the truck and that he was miles away from here. 

            The wind wouldn't let up, and he was getting cold. The cat's cries didn't seem to come from any discernible direction. The tree was much bigger than it appeared from the parking lot. It seemed like hours had passed. He was so caught up in his revery, but it was likely only five minutes or so. The cat howled louder, and he was determined to find it. Lightning flashed in the far-off sky, jumping from one hidden cloud to another, but he still didn't see the cat. Then he saw it as lightning again lit up the sky. It was small and dark, a ball of pure hate and malice, or so he thought. His mind was no stranger to hyperbole; his thoughts were often tragic and grim. Normally, he would have just seen a normal, scared cat, but tonight the grim tableau made him more prone to flights of fancy. 

            He wasn't sure what he would do about the cat, but he had to know why it was screaming. The cat was far up in the tree, yowling away. It was much cuter and more compact than he thought it would be. A black and white beastie by any other name would not look as cute. He was determined to get it out of the tree. He knew now that it screamed because it could. He would rescue it and take it back to his truck. That is what he would do. 

            It had been years since he climbed a tree, but shimmying up the mostly bare trunk might be easier than he thought. He only wished the rain would stop. He would have to climb twenty feet in a downpour if it did not relent and bring a tired, yet pissed off cat down. Chadwick figured, “what the hell.” Nothing else was going down worthwhile in this sad old town. And, he thought, if I die, at least I will do a good deed. Otherwise, I will have something to think about tomorrow during the interminable hours. 

            The lightning was lessening, but the rain was pouring harder, as he attempted to climb the trunk. Gaining a foothold would be hard, but he knew he could make it if he could get to the first limbs. Getting down would be a different story, but he would think about that when the time came. He ignored the cat as it yowled and thought about how he must look. A grown, greasy man with a backward baseball cap, soaked like a kitten in the bath. A quiet, dopey greying dog of a man waterlogged and exhausted, hauling himself up a trunk of a tree. He shimmied up the side as slow as possible and pulled himself up onto the first branches. Their bristly bark ripped his hands, but he fought against the pain and hauled himself to a seat. 

Once he gained this vantage point, he did not look down but instead pushed on. The branches were spaced closer, and he was nearing the cat. Once he got there, the slippery little bastard saw him and started jumping down from limb to limb. He choked out, a “here, kitty” as the black and white furball made its way to the ground and under the shelter of a nearby building.

            Chadwick was determined to get that cat. He slowly worked his way back down, grasping branches and climbing backward until he made it to the bare trunk. He scrambled down and fell on his butt from five feet up. Nothing was hurt but his pride and his bruised palms. The cat was no longer yowling, so he got to his feet and strode toward the building. It was waiting for him. He scooped it up. The small creature had no tags, so he took it back to his truck in the harder, pouring rain. 

            The cat purred as he wrapped the blanket around its small frame and held it to his chest. He would deal with his wet clothes as long as the lithe creature was safe and warm. He turned the heater on to dry them both off. Wasting the battery would not be a bad thing because he had another being to keep warm. The rain beat hard on the roof, but he would be okay. He turned the radio on to an Oldies station, and drifted to sleep with the soft purring of the cat and the smooth voice of Otis Redding. For once, he felt safe.