1
$2800. That's how much Jack Ruskin laid on me to convince me I didn't really want to see his daughter.
"Your father says you're a headliner." He looked me up and down. "We'll find something for you."
The Ruskins folded their chaise lounges and evaporated into the land yacht – Judy casting baleful looks over her leathery shoulder as she slammed the door.
I stood for a minute at the summit of Mount Ruskin.
As I headed back down to rejoin the lower orders, I passed a well dressed older woman walking up the hill puffing on a cigarette.
She didn't stop.
"She went back to school in New York," Grandma…uh…Mrs. Fairway, the nanny, said.
2
If this were fiction, I would have used that money to find Angela.
Let Mom and Dad finance my pursuit of their baby girl.
Poetic, ironic.
Instead I let the Ruskins ship me to another of their carnivals out west.
I had my own show and my own Airstream.
And with no regard to what benefit it might or might not be to young Miss Ruskin,
I learned everything there is to know about deflowering.
