A/N: The State Fair... The Final Frontier...Brian continues his not-so-excellent adventure with his son. Oh, the things we do for love...!
As my son and I finally departed the last of the animal exhibit buildings an hour later, my designer clothes may have smelled like shit – literally – but as I looked at the beaming face of my son, I decided the temporary stink coming uncharacteristically from my costly apparel was a condition that even I could grudgingly live with. At least all of my son's fingers and toes were still intact, too, after his close call. My mouth twisted into a tender expression as I gazed down into Gus's large, expressive eyes. "Did you like that, Sonny Boy?" I whispered as he shook his head exuberantly and his face broke out into a wide smile. "I'm glad," I responded sincerely with a smile of my own. "Where to now? Some of the rides? The butter sculpture exhibit? The Gospel hoedown sing-a-long?" I wisecracked, watching with amusement as Gus's nose crinkled up in confusion. At least he hadn't been totally ruined yet, because the munchers apparently had wisely shielded him from exposure to hillbilly music. "How about some games, then?" Now that was an area I excelled in – in more ways than one…
"Yeah!" he instantly agreed. "I want to win a basketball!" Gus was forever trying to cajole me into letting him play those mini arcade games at the local pizza joint, especially the ones that used a miniature basketball to try and make as many goals in sixty seconds' time as possible; the reward was usually some God-awful trinket made in China that no doubt cost less than all the goals you had to score in order to obtain it, but Gus loved to try just the same and he had actually gotten pretty good at it by now. I forced myself not to tell him that his hopes of winning a regulation-size basketball, or even a miniature one, was probably not going to happen today as I took his hand and nodded. "Okay, then, Sonny Boy. Let's go try our luck."
Gus skipped lightly by my side in an attempt to keep up with my longer-legged gait as we walked down the midway from the animal exhibit buildings to a fork in the pavement that branched off to the area holding the portable game trailers. Turning toward the left, we were quickly bombarded with all sorts of typical state fair games including the omnipresent ring toss over glass bottles, a "go-fish" pond, Skeeball, the hunting gallery, and the mechanical horse races. I had a hard time prying my son away from the Whack-A-Mole game as he stopped to watch in fascination while the contestants feverishly pounded away with their rubber mallets. I decided it was much too dangerous to have a soon-to-be sugar-buzzed six-year-old holding a potential weapon as I firmly held onto his hand and kept walking, trying to studiously ignore the "But, Daddy," coming from his disappointed lips; only my promise to find him some cotton candy later prevented a full-blown queen out as we continued our search for the basketball toss.
Finally spying it down near the food court, which I assumed knowing my son we would no doubt be visiting soon, I headed toward the end of the row, thankful along the way that at least I had been spared having to waste several quarters on various other games that were probably rigged. At least with a basketball and free throws, there was an actual chance of winning. Before we could get there, though, I heard a loud, brassy voice calling out to my left, "Guess Your Age or Weight!" I cringed as I felt my son pulling at my arm, knowing what was coming next.
"Let's do THAT first, Daddy!" He tugged firmly on my arm, trying to wrap his small hand around my wrist but not quite succeeding as he looked up at me imploringly. Why in the hell would my son be interested in having his age or weight guessed? I sighed; two bucks down the drain, eight quarters.
"Are you sure, Gus? The basketball game is right down there." I pointed over to my left.
The little boy nodded his head vigorously, though. "Please, Daddy…"
I shook my head, wondering why in the world this particular 'game' would hold any fascination for him, until I spied the stuffed giraffes handing overhead on a rope, attached with plastic clothespins by a small nylon hook behind their necks. They were the largest prizes awarded if the game attendant couldn't guess either one correctly. THAT explained it; for some reason ever since Gus has gone to the zoo with me a few months ago, he had developed this fascination, really an obsession, with giraffes – even his bedroom had to be redone afterward with giraffe bedding, matching curtains and even giraffe light switches. Unfortunately, though, I had searched high and low and couldn't get my hands on a decent-sized, stuffed giraffe for my son's bedroom, however. NOW I understood why he was so intent on participating in this particular game.
I smiled indulgently at him and exhaled a slow breath. "Okay, Sonny Boy, we'll give it a try. Which one should we do? Height or weight?"
Just as I figured, he said enthusiastically, "Both, Daddy, I want a giraffe!" He pointed above him and his eyes lit up at the thought as my heart melted.
Silently, though, I thought there was no way the woman could miss on either one – she only had to be within five pounds or within one year either way to be right; Gus was the perfect weight for his age and didn't have one ounce of fat on his trim body just like his old man – a fact that filled me with a certain sense of pride – but I figured if worse came to worse and he didn't prevail, I was sure I could find him one of the giraffes somewhere around here that I could just buy; in fact, I had a feeling that all I had to do was turn on the old Kinney charm and I could get one right here.
I smiled again down at my son. "Okay, then. Hop up there and we'll start with your weight," I said as I handed the young, dark-haired, gum-smacking girl two dollars, one for each guess. I frowned as Gus remained where he was. "What's wrong, Buddy?"
He scrunched up his face and squinted up at me into the sun as I reminded myself that I HAD to find him a pair of sunglasses somewhere; no son of mine was going to go blind before he was old and gray. "No, Daddy," he told me with a slightly scolding voice. "You."
"What about me?"
"I want you to do it, Daddy," he said as he began to pull me toward the scale.
"Me?" I couldn't help rolling my eyes; Brian Kinney did not make himself an exhibit unless he was on the dance floor of Babylon being cruised by the entire male population of Pittsburgh. He did NOT stand up on a large industrial-strength scale to be weighed like a side of prize-winning beef. "No, Sonny Boy, you do it – I'll watch you, okay?"
My son, however, would not be dissuaded. His lower lip stuck out and quivered as he let go of my hand and crossed his arms across his chest. "No, Daddy. I want YOU to do it. Please?"
There was that magic word and that face again; how did my son ever get so good at playing me like a fine-tuned instrument? It must be the old Kinney finesse and good looks, I decided, as I finally exhaled a resigned breath and nodded reluctantly. "Okay," I told him as his face instantly transformed from disappointment and resolve to excited anticipation as I grudgingly walked over to the scale. I stood there a little uncomfortably as the young girl, who appeared to be all of perhaps twenty, looked me up and down as if she would open my mouth and examine my teeth at any moment like a Grand Champion stallion. I felt a certain smug satisfaction, though, as I noticed her eyes gazing at me approvingly; I curled my lips under and flashed her my most handsome smile that always got me what I wanted. I still have it…
I couldn't help the startled gasp shortly afterward that flew out of my mouth as soon as I heard this upstart of a girl say with conviction, "170."
"What in the…?" I turned to glare at her in shock, my hands on my hips as she actually shrunk back from me slightly. "You'd better be talking about my I.Q.," I warned her as she glanced back at me almost apologetically and shrugged her shoulders sheepishly.
"Go on, Daddy! Get on the scale! I want to see!" Gus was jumping up and down lightly in eagerness, wanting to see the big, round scale perform its magic and find out if he had won.
I continued to give the game operator the evil eye as I huffed out an aggravated puff of breath and grudgingly stepped up on the scale; at least I knew I had her beat on this part. I noticed to my consternation that a few of the fairgoers had stopped in their tracks to watch the large, red arrow swing widely back and forth as it tried to settle on one specific number; one lady with an obvious fake red wig on her head reminded me slightly of a slender version of Debbie with her heavily made-up face and colorful, almost clown-like outfit of matching pink top and shorts with yellow flowers on them as I waited for the scale's arrow to finally stop. It swung back and forth between 110 and 205, then 200, then 150, until finally it slowly as it teetered between 160 and 165, finally landing pretty much exactly where I knew it would: 162. I turned a little smugly to look at my not-so-bright estimator with a so there look on my face as she peered back at me a little self-consciously.
"We have a winner!" she droned out in her brassy monotone with the sort of enthusiasm you might convey if you were having an ingrown toenail removed; no doubt with HER skills of observation she probably said that several times a day. As I stepped down from the scale, I glared at the people nearby, daring them to stick around until they apparently took the hint and began to walk away. I faced the young girl again, knowing I was only halfway done with my promise to my son as I waited for her to guess the other figure, silently warning her with my eyes that she'd better not fuck up this time, giraffe or NO giraffe.
I stood there shuffling my feet restlessly, wanting to be anywhere but there, while she again studied me. This time I didn't care if she admired me or not; I just wanted to get the hell away from there and over to the basketball hoop. She handed me a pencil and a pad of paper. "Here, write down your age," she prompted me as I hurriedly jotted down the figure, tempted to deliberately lowball it just to annoy her but deciding to play it fair for fear it might somehow backfire. I tore off the top piece of paper to hold and returned the pad and pencil to her as I waited for her to speak. Finally, she popped her gum at me and eyed me sideways as she said with surprising conviction, "I'd say 40."
Gus actually had the nerve to giggle at her response as he jumped up and down in glee; I had just had my 36th birthday a short while ago and he had attended the small get-together at Deb's house in celebration of it along with the munchers, so he was quite aware of my current age, which was a lot more than I could say for this misguided, apparently totally blind girl staring back at me. "Yay! Daddy won, Daddy won!"
I pursed my lips in insulted irritation as I handed the piece of paper to her with my actual age on it. She again shrugged her shoulders indifferently and shoved her official Pennsylvania State Fair visor farther back on her head as she simply said, "Sorry," knowing how totally indignant I was at the moment. She turned to avoid looking at me anymore, undoubtedly feeling my heated gaze on her as she looked down at Gus with a smile and said, "Which prize do you want, Sweetie?"
A few seconds later, Gus was the proud owner of a new giraffe, the large, tall-necked creature tucked rather clumsily under my left arm as the two of us sauntered toward the basketball hoops and I tried to take solace in the knowledge that I would never need to see that cross-eyed, gum-chomping girl ever again.
To my credit, I found out my perceptions about my son's shooting arm were correct; Gus was quite accurate in his miniature basketball free throws; so accurate, in fact, that not only was I carting around an oversized stuffed giraffe under one arm, I was also soon carrying around a medium-sized Ziploc bag with two goldfish swimming around in it. Gus had made 8 out of 10 free throws with deadly aim, qualifying for several prizes, including, unfortunately, the goldfish. Thinking they would soon wind up doing the breaststroke upside down in a glass bowl somewhere, I tried fervently to persuade my son to pick a prize, any prize, except for the fish but again, all he had to do was look at me with that quivering lower lip and those teary-looking, doe-eyes and I was a goner. Shit. Sighing in resignation, I held tightly onto the plastic bag with one hand while I grasped my son's hand with the other, hoping to God I would be able to get to the car with them still alive or my son's waterworks would really start gushing.
I thankfully spotted a small gift shop temporarily set up under an awning coming up on our left, right near the food trailers, and steered my son over toward it in search of a pair of sunglasses. A few minutes and $15 dollars later - $15 fucking dollars for a pair of cheaply-made, lime-green, plastic Sponge Bob Squarepants glasses – my son was chattering away nonstop, explaining that all that walking had left him hungry and thirsty.
I smirked good-naturedly, knowing that was bound to come up soon, as I nodded back at him. It was almost 12:00 anyway and we were due to meet up with Michael and J.R. near the corndog stand, of all things, wherever the fuck THAT was. I had mentioned in passing to Mikey last week that I had been snookered into taking my son here to the fair and he had piped up immediately with almost as much enthusiasm as Gus had exhibited, reminding me how he and Vic and Debbie had come here often in the past when he was just a kid and how he had been wanting to start the same tradition with his daughter. Thinking it would make my life a little easier having an ally, I welcomed the idea of meeting him near the food courts when the high school kid he had hired to work part-time during the summer arrived for his shift at the comics store; if I was going to have to endure the sights, smells, and inaccuracy of half-twit fair employees, the least my best friend could do was suffer along with me.
I looked down at my son, seeing my own sunglasses reflected in his toy ones as I said, "Okay, Sonny Boy. We need to find your Uncle Mikey and sister first, though. He's supposed to be at the corndog stand. Let's see if we can find them, okay?" Gus nodded at me as I continued to clasp his hand, fearful that if he let go I'd never find him in the congested space; now that it was fast approaching noon, it appeared that everyone at the fair had all decided it was time to eat – there was barely enough room to maneuver around everyone as I took advantage of my height and craned my neck to try and find an overhead sign that said something about corndogs for sale. I sighed in frustration, seeing signs for everything from funnel cakes (What in the fuck was a funnel cake, anyway?) to fried pickles. I frowned at the image that conjured up; fried pickles? Was there no end to this weird food? I didn't even want to contemplate what THAT would taste like if you washed it down with the fried Kool-Aid (did you drink or eat that shit, anyway?) before I finally spotted a square-shaped, white-and-red food trailer with the words "Corn Dogs" festooned in big, yellow letters across the top. There were two rows of round white lights across the top and bottom, no doubt to lend an exciting ambiance to the scene once nighttime fell. I was thankful I wouldn't be there to experience that joy, though, because I fully intended to be long gone before darkness fell.
"This way, Buddy," I told my son as I steered us toward the corndog trailer; as we got closer, I could see Michael waving with one hand as he cradled JR in his other one near a grove of picnic tables scattered under the thick shade of a bunch of mature maple trees. Letting out a sigh of relief at seeing something familiar, I headed over toward the tables, my son and his prize paraphernalia in tow.
Michael grinned and I rolled my eyes as I walked up to the two of them. "Don't say it," I warned him as he gave me a quick hug. "Hey, watch the fish," I warned him as I held the bag out from my body so they wouldn't get squished; I didn't want to be responsible for committing any acts of fish homicide.
"I won a giraffe and some fish!" Gus reported to Michael proudly as he pointed over to his stash.
"I see that," Michael replied with a warm smile. "How did you manage that, Gus?"
"Gus…" I cringed. Please don't, Sonny Boy, but it was too late. "I won the fish with the basketball toss, and Daddy helped me win the giraffe."
"How did he do that?" Michael asked him as he eyed me in amusement. "Did he pick up some tricks along the way?"
"Uh... I thought you were hungry, Gus. Don't you want to eat something now?" I quickly said, attempting to take control of the conversation before it got out of hand.
But Gus had started and, like a freight train with no brakes, he could not be stopped. The words gushed out as he enthusiastically reported, "No...he didn't do any tricks. Some lady had to guess how old Daddy was and how much he weighed. She got it wrong and I won!"
Michael chuckled as he turned to look at me, no doubt realizing my discomfiture as he asked my son, "What did she guess, Gus?"
I tried one last time. "Michael… My son is hungry."
He quickly dismissed me with a wave of his hand as he said, "Just a minute – I want to hear this."
I groaned softly as my son promptly supplied helpfully, "She said he was 40. I forgot how much the scale said he weighed but she was WAY off; she said 170. And then I got my giraffe! Isn't he cool?" He pointed over to the cherished possession, still tucked under my arm. Why did my son have to have such a fucking photographic memory?
Michael guffawed, but then quickly covered his mouth and immediately sobered as he saw the death-ray look in my eyes; he pretended to cough as he said, "Well, that's great, Gus. Why don't we go get something to eat now? I was going to get me and JR some corndogs, how about one of those?"
Gus jumped up and down excitedly as he held onto my hand tightly. "Yay! Can I have some French fries and a Coke, too?"
"You sure can," Michael told him agreeably with a smile. He turned to me and said, "Will you keep an eye on JR for me?" I nodded as he took Gus's hand. "Come on, Gus," Michael said as he placed JR in my arms and I sat down on one of the picnic benches, trying hard to ignore what my ass was probably sitting on. I knew as nasty as I felt at the moment, a little more shit really didn't matter at this point – my outfit was heading to the dry cleaners as soon as possible anyway. I noticed that even Jenny Rebecca seemed to be crinkling her nose up at me as she turned her head to look at me curiously.
"I know, J.R… You don't have to tell ME," I murmured with an irritated huff as I jiggled her slightly on my knee to keep her happy, although I had to admit, she seemed to be a pretty happy-go-lucky baby most of the time; I could still remember when Gus would start fussing or crying whenever the munchers or I left him alone, even for a short while. It was some time before Gus would be content to be left with a babysitter, although oddly enough, Justin had always been able to calm him. Of course, Justin was special in a lot of ways…and possessed a lot of special talents as well...
Thoughts about my partner were temporarily tamped down as I noticed Michael and my son returning, loaded up with drinks, corndogs, and who-knows-what. As they got closer, I noticed one sturdy, cardboard tray with four drinks in one of Michael's hands and two large, white paper bags in his other; Gus, too, was carrying a large, clear plastic bag of pink cotton candy in one of his hands.
"Michael… What in the fu…uh, world, did you buy?" I groused as he and Gus sat down across from J.R. and me and he set the bags and drinks down on the weatherbeaten, wooden surface.
He shrugged. "It's the state fair, Brian," he said as if that were explanation enough. He quickly took out some cardboard, red-and-white checked food containers and began to unwrap the first object which I vaguely recognized as the ubiquitous corndog, whatever the fuck was in them. I really had no idea what exactly the ingredients were, and even less of a clue what was actually inside the wiener itself. I watched in barely-controlled distaste as Michael proceeded to unwrap a total of four corndogs and lay each one down in a separate food tray.
"Michael – why would you possibly think I'd be interested in eating a corndog?" I said the last word as if it were akin to a dead mouse – although, upon reflection, I could imagine it probably tasted like that…
Michael shrugged as he tore open a mustard packet and squirted the contents into the bottom of the rectangular-shaped tray; he handed it to Gus, who proceeded to swirl the tip of the corndog, which I had to admit looked a lot like a 10-inch, batter-fried cock, into the mustard before bringing it to his mouth and taking a bite.
A few seconds later, Michael also retrieved from one of the sacks a small, paper cup holding a stack of fries inside and placed them down next to my son, deftly tearing open a ketchup packet and squirting it on the top for him.
As I watched my son take the corndog in his mouth, I couldn't help smirking. Michael rolled his eyes as he noticed my amused expression, somehow instantly ascertaining what was going in my mind. I curled my lips under as he muttered with a short laugh, "Only you."
I grinned back at him, tongue-in-cheek. "Well, it never hurts to start a boy out with the proper education." I looked over at my son, who was eagerly attacking his corndog. "Don't take it all in your mouth at once, Sonny Boy. Go slowly – I wouldn't want you to choke on it. It takes practice before you can perfect your technique."
"Brian," Michael admonished me as I raised my eyebrows at him innocently in a what? sort of expression. I reached inside my shorts pocket to retrieve my cell phone and check the time: 12:15 p.m. I stood up and stepped over the picnic bench's wooden seat. "Would you look after Sonny Boy for a little while, Mikey? I have to take a piss."
"Yeah… Sure," Michael told me as I walked around the table to place J.R. down gingerly on the bench next to her father. "But I promised J.R. I'd take her on the merry-go-round soon."
I smiled as an inspiration hit me. "Good idea, Mikey! Gus has been wanting to ride some of the rides, too, haven't you, Sonny Boy?" To my relief, my son reacted just the way I thought he would, nodding his head vigorously as his eyes lit up; he gave a muffled "Yay," also, which would have erupted from his mouth a little more intelligibly, too, if it hadn't been presently stuffed full of a combination of corndog and French fries. "Why don't I meet you over by the rides in about an hour? I might decide to do a little riding myself."
"But…"
"Thanks, Mikey!" I warmly replied as I slapped him on the back; he coughed when a bite of his food threatened to choke him as I hastily picked up the remaining tray with the corndog and began to walk away before he could say anything further. Michael's eyes flashed with irritation as I hastily made my exit.
"Hey, I'm still taking care of the giraffe and the fish – what more do you want from me?" I countered as I turned around briefly to face him.
"How about doing some growing up?" he grumbled as he shook his head.
"I'll see you in an hour, Sonny Boy!" I called back to my son, ignoring my best friend's rhetorical question as I proceeded to escape before it was too late, laughing softly to myself at my success. You're so easy, Michael…
Safely out of Michael's line of sight several seconds later as I was swallowed up by the burgeoning crowd, I grimaced as I looked down at the batter-fried cock facsimile lying in the paper basket; a small, plastic tub that looked suspiciously like tartar sauce sat next to it, and I could see grease stains underneath the outline of the food. I wrinkled my nose in disgust as I picked the corndog up by the stick end almost like it was the tail of a dead rat, letting the cardboard box and plastic condiment tub fall away down into the black, metal trashcan lying underneath it as I reluctantly held onto what could only be loosely referred to as food.
Corndog, giraffe, and fish firmly in hand, then, I looked around to catch my bearings, noticing a line of special entertainment-type, open-flapped tents lining both sides of one area of the midway; on one side I could see a couple of palm readers and fortune tellers next to a portable funhouse, and some more makeshift, open-air shops under awnings, holding wares of all kinds such as tacky souvenirs and apparel. On the other side were a number of fair employees dressed in period garb from the 1800's demonstrating such skills as blacksmithing, weaving, and pottery making and the obligatory kettle korn stand. At the very end of the section, however, I could make out a couple of canvas tents with sandwich boards propped up out front, indicating there were caricaturists working, providing an impromptu portrait of any fairgoer willing to pay the right price for instant notoriety. My eyes scanned the area closely before, spotting what I was looking for, I strode purposefully toward my goal.
