Carol sends in the clowns at
the water race - The Equalizer.
“It’s a totally different lifestyle here,” he says. “I used to be really ashamed
of myself out here last year. You’re labeled out here, ‘fricking carny,’ you
know? A lot of women don’t like the thought of going out with a carny or whatever,
but I ain’t had no trouble. And I cooked during the off-season. Most people
collect food stamps, go camp out in Yuma, and waste a life. I worked, put money
in the bank. I made the best of my situation. I lifted weights; I’m so strong
right now, it’s unbelievable. I guarantee you there’s not another carny out
here in the physical shape I am. Check this out.”
He flexes and admires his calf muscle. “Yeah, I probably won’t be here next
year,” he says. “Still, I came back on my own terms; I came back because I wanted
to come back. And they welcomed me. The money ain’t all that good, but, hey,
compared to all the fun I’m gonna have and all the fun I’m gonna give?”
By noon, it’s 95 degrees, and the air is strung with fat from colossal onion
rings and Kettle Corn, deep-fried Snickers bars and bratwurst, churros and calamari,
Hot Dogs on a Stick, gyros, egg rolls, funnel cakes, barbecue, nachos, curly
fries, and “the best pies you’ll ever eat!”
“In this business, anybody with ambition can get somewhere,” says Kelsey, one
of Butler’s unit managers. He stands by a Sno-Cone booth, answering calls on
his Nextel. “[We’re] always looking for people who are willing to work, and
that’s the whole thing.”
While Kelsey doesn’t look like the other carnies — he’s spruce in a sport shirt
and Dockers — he, too, got into the business the old-fashioned way.
“My wife divorced me,” says the 46-year-old. “This was the ’70s, when the woman
took everything. I just started hitchhiking. One of [Butler’s] drivers, hauling
a ride to another spot, picked me up and asked me if I wanted a job. I was 25.
My first job was as a ride operator; I was foreman of the Skydiver.” Unlike
most carnies, Kelsey saved his money; he now owns a ride, several games, and
a house in Northern California, where he lives with his new family during the
off-season.
As for carnies’ bad rep, Kelsey says it’s mostly myth. “Everybody — well, not
everybody, but a lot of the public — thinks carnival people are scum; they’re
all drug addicts, the whole thing. But it’s not that way at all. They’re just
people who want to work. And a lot of these people out here, they can’t handle
a 9-to-5 job. If I had to work in an office, forget it, I’d go nuts! Look at
how many suckers there are out there. What, 70, 80 percent of the people working
in the United States hate their jobs? If you can find a job you love, which
is the name of the game, you got it licked.
“But you gotta like people,” he adds. “If you don’t like people, this is not
the job for you. Entertaining the public, that’s what we do. I mean, we don’t
get paid like movie stars, but we entertain a lot of people. Millions.”
“Idon’t think there’s any bigger [carnival] in the world,” says Earl “Butch”
Butler, owner of Butler Amusements, sitting behind a huge desk in his air-conditioned
office at the back of a double-wide trailer. Butler, 62, has been in the business
since age 13, when he joined his father in operating games on several carnivals
through the Midwest, and is the former president of the Showman’s League of America.
“I look at Christmas as being the top event of the year, and I try to do that
with my carnival,” he says. “All the rides kind of glitter like a Christmas
tree, and the excitement that we give people, we’re trying to make it feel the
same way as Christmas. They get a lot of thrills, and presents and toys, and
win prizes and that type of thing.”
In addition to playing Santa to 15 million visitors annually, Butler — who is
also as big as Santa — takes care of the steady stream of employees who file
in with a question or a form that needs signing; the high school seniors to
whom he gives college scholarships; his four grown daughters and their spouses,
all of whom work for the carnival; his current wife, who works as his administrative
assistant; and his ex-wife and her new husband, office manager and fun-house
owner, respectively. And then there’s OSHA (Occupational Safety and Health Administration)
to deal with, and state inspections, and the competition.
But the biggest part of the carnival, he says, “is the people, [and] a lot of
them are like kids, you know. In a family, you have a large variety, and in
some cases we have to be the mother and father and give direction. Some of these
kids haven’t had good directions, and they’re not even insulted when you tell
them, ‘Go get a haircut; go shave.’ They won’t get any money unless they shave
and they’re clean.
“You shouldn’t have to do that; these are grown people. A lot of the kids are
from broken homes and have really been knocked around pretty hard, and they
find a community here where people are working together, and we try to pat them
on their backs and tell them they’re doing a nice job, which they are. They’re
keeping their rides clean, and some of them don’t even know how to clean. I
went out there yesterday, and they’re cleaning down there, and up above it’s
dirty as heck, and I say, ‘Didn’t your mother ever teach you how to clean? You
start at the top!’ You just have to work with them. We sort them out and try
to help them, and usually it works out pretty well.
“When we come into town with a fair as large as this, we’ll have to hire an
extra 50 people. You put to work some people who haven’t been working for a
while; it’s a helpful thing. And then we do drug testing, so everybody on the
rides are all drug-tested. That’s only been the last three years or so, and
it’s helped. We lost three or four people that we wished . . . that we really
cared about. It surprises you sometimes.
“The rides don’t eat or have personalities, it’s the people who really are what
sells this show,” he says. “We make memories that last a lifetime, and we want
them to be good, safe, friendly memories; we work so hard at that. You don’t
find longhairs out there, you don’t find beards; I’m pushing so that I have
a better appearance. Maybe I’m going beyond what some people think I should
do, but I feel like the carnival’s somewhat got a strike against us before we
come, so I’m trying to put it on a better scale.”
On his break from the Eagle 16,
Rick walks past the main stage — where Paul Revere, wearing the same Revolutionary
War outfit he wore in the ’60s, and his current band of Raiders play “Cherokee
People” — and directly to the trailer that sells lotto tickets. He buys scratchers
and plays keno, winning $8 and losing $12. During the course of his 90-minute
break, he will visit the lotto trailer three times.
“I have nothing else to do with my time and money,” he says, one eye squinting
from the smoke of his hand-rolled cigarette, smoke that’s left a hazel streak
in his push-broom mustache. “After work, I’ll drink beers, or not, and if there’s
a casino in the vicinity, I might go.”
Last night, he lost more than $100 at Fantasy Springs Casino.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says.
Rick continues across the midway, past the vendors selling machine-made dream-catchers
and black-velvet paintings of Indian maidens; past where a magician billed as
the Great Zucchini tries to sell a chubby boy a retracting dollar bill. He stops
in the shade of the fairgrounds’ Taj Mahal Building, where a few little kids
turn somersaults on a patch of grass.
“The only thing I know about carnivals is Butler, and I got no reason to move
on,” he says, smoking continuously as he watches the kids. “I’ve had people
ask me why I’ve stayed. My reputation spreads around. In the carnival business,
people know who’s who. They see how you operate and know what I’m capable of.
There are not a lot of Ferris wheels; it’s a select few who operate them. I’m
probably the best at it in the country. You have to coordinate its weight, move
it around, make sure people aren’t banging and screaming and yelling; you have
to deal with disgruntled customers, fixing the ride, maintaining it. There’s
a whole lot of stuff involved, and that’s what I do.”
As with Brenda, Brad and Kelsey, Rick’s coming to the carnival was precipitated
by hard times: He says he found his wife with another man.
“I left the house in Hartford to my wife and kids; I didn’t want them growing
up in an apartment building. Then my divorce came, and I couldn’t maintain financially,”
he says. “I got to Santa Monica on New Year’s Eve. I’d had $1,800 in my pocket
a couple of weeks before, and now I had $1.80. I walked into a restaurant, had
a glass of champagne, and wondered, where am I going to sleep tonight? I wound
up in a culvert with a couple of panhandlers, and spent the winter in a shelter.
Butler was coming through for the [Oxnard] Strawberry Festival, and I went for
the setup, and thought, a year, what the heck. I had nothing going. People come
[to the carnival] with stories: Something happened, they’re not getting ahead
with an occupation, they don’t want any neck breathing or clock punching. The
carnival has its regimen, but if the weather is nice, it’s okay.”
Though he sprang for a bunkhouse this year, Rick usually camps out. “I slept
outside for nine years. I camp out under the rides. Kids come running through
and wake you up, but that’s the way of the carnival. I pulled out four teeth
myself; you got no time for pain out here. The strong go on, and the weak fall
to the side. Some people can’t handle the crowds and the heat; they’re not really
built for mechanical things, but they have no place to go, so they come here
and don’t survive. I’ve put a half-million people on this ride in 10 years,
and only a handful of complaints. I’ve saved people from emergencies and hydraulic
malfunctions; I’ve grabbed seats and stopped them from flipping.”
Listening to Rick talk about his prowess with the wheel is like watching someone
keep a bubble afloat by blowing on it.
“I’d like to go to a living situation that wasn’t just survival. I have plans
beyond the carnival, but I don’t think they’ll ever occur. I’m a fine-arts artist,
still life. I had a painting in the New York Graphic Society; they print all
the great artists that ever lived. It was called
Floral Still Life,
and it was under my real name, Ryszard Ploskonka. [Note: The NYGS has no
such painting or artist currently listed.] But I had an injury and couldn’t
hold a pen.”
What sort of injury?
“I can’t talk about it,” he says, and casts a look meant to insinuate some lingering
danger or mystery, a look that says,
I was important, but
circumstances prevent me from going into
detail. “I’m one of the best artists in the world; my painting was
printed with Renoir, Monet, Rembrandt. And I don’t even sketch at all now. My
life absolutely, totally changed. Right now, I should have a studio with a clientele
paying $10,000 for my paintings; experts valued my work at $1,000 at the time.
And I didn’t need motivation; I just painted.
“I wanted to be successful for my children, so they could live well and be proud
of themselves. They know what I do for a living now, and they’re proud of it,
I guess. How many people know someone with the occupation of a Ferris wheel
operator?”
Rick pauses, and watches the kids run away, toward a rocket ride.
“I lost 20 years of my art,” he says. “That’s more a loss than I’ve provided
anyone with the Ferris wheel. The gallery contacted me two years ago, wanting
to know what I’m doing. I didn’t want to tell them I was sleeping outside with
a paintbrush. My whole life has been disassociated. Holidays, birthdays . .
. early on, yes; now, it’s not happening. I cut all ties, but I had no choices.
They weren’t going to be tied up again.”
It’s time for Rick to get back. “I don’t want to die here with this piece of
equipment,” he says. “I want to die with a paintbrush in my hand. That’s who
I am.”
Underneath a full moon, the Datefest’s production
of
Scheherazade is under way. On the outdoor main stage, before a crowd
of perhaps 2,000, a troop of relentlessly peppy performers belts out “Arabian
Nights” from the movie
Aladdin, with dance moves worthy of the Osmonds.
On the outskirts of the field, amid overflowing trash cans, a few beery guys
are passed out in the grass. Teenage girls cruise the midway in halter tops,
hugging themselves, too invested in looking cute to put on a jacket. A few families
stop in to wave night-night to the baby animals in the stinky petting zoo; other
sleeping children are carried by their parents straight to the parking lot.
It’s been a long day, one that for most won’t be repeated until the carnival
pulls into town next year. For others, the year is just beginning.
“I need some players, I need some shooters,” says Carol, who works the booth
closest to the exit — a last chance for fun. “The more players we get, the bigger
the prize,” she sings. “Grab a gun, let’s water race!”
Less than 5 feet tall and probably 90 pounds after eating a bunch of bananas,
she climbs on the counter. “Someone has to win,” she says, and shakes a giant
Sponge Bob at three young boys, who step up to the pistols.
“I’m a showman,” says Carol, as she fixes balloons onto the metal nipples that
poke from the mouths of the game’s ceramic clowns. “You give me $2 and I’m here
to entertain you for five minutes. That’s the whole thing.”
She sets the timer, the bell starts blaring, and the kids fire their guns.
“I love the water race because it’s an equalizer,” says Carol. “One time, I
had a whole line of rodeo riders who thought they were hot stuff. Little girl
3 years old won. Ha!”
The littlest boy’s balloon pops. Carol hands him a tiny stuffed dog, and urges
the boys to play again, to try to trade up for a better prize; they do.
“I have eight kids,” says Carol, replacing the balloons, setting the timer.
“When my youngest was 18, I had empty nest and I’d never got to travel. I went
to the California State Fair and helped out, and just thought I’d do that fair.
That was 13 years ago.”
A different kid wins, and the boys take off. “Me and my husband travel by truck,
with our cat,” says Carol. “And we stay in motels, too, when it gets too hot
— for the cat’s sake.”
“She’s worth $2,” Carol calls to a pair of young lovers; she oinks a fluffy
pink pig in their direction. They laugh and walk on.
“I don’t know how long I’ll keep doing it. I really enjoy it,” she says. “I
have people bring their kids to the fair each year and especially look for me.
You watch these kids grow up — it’s like having 10,000 grandkids. The only drawback
lately has been the mood of the country; people are more cautious. But they
still want to have a good time.”
Carol once more replaces the balloons. “Come on, I need a couple more players,
who wants to play?” she calls. “Water race, water fun.” A late-arriving family
steps up; Mom props her son on her knee so he can grab the pistol. Carol sets
the timer, and the bell blares.
