“Tickets,” I said to them.
Confidently, the older boy handed me his ticket and passed through. The younger boy hesitated. Guessing he’d be alright, I let him through. I heard the older boy slap him a high-five when they thought they were out of earshot.
I turned the key and started the ride. The boys smiled back at me. I waved to them.
“Hey Cricket,” Harv, the balloon-pop agent across the aisle, called to me. “Where is everyone? Bowling Green is usually packed. I’m gonna go hungry.”
I leaned over the gate and twirled my blonde braid, checking out the split ends. “I heard someone say it’s the flu keepin’ people home. You know they closed LAX? I hear it’s gettin’ real serious. You get a flu shot?”
“Naa. You know, Bud’s got it. He’s been laid up in his RV all day.”
“Anyone been by to see him?”
Harv shrugged. “He’s grouchy when he feels good. I don’t imagine he’d be a barrel of laughs when he’s sick.”
“No man is. Even the common cold has you all actin’ like a bunch of babies.”
“This coming from a blonde,” Harv replied with a laugh.
“You better watch yourself. I’ll come pop your balloons.”
“Baby, a grenade couldn’t pop those balloons,” he said with a laugh.
I turned back to the boys. They were all smiles; round and round they spun. Since no one else was around, I let it run until they signaled they’d had enough.
Around nine o’clock that night the owner, Mr. Marx, came by. I had not seen a soul on the fairway since the boys left. “Sorry, Cricket. We’re going to tear down to get ready for the jump to Cincinnati. We’re just burning juice and not making a dime. This place is dead; not a soul here.”
“Alright then,” I replied, and Mr. Marx wandered off. I realized he hadn’t said a word about when he would pay us for Bowling Green, dead or not.
I whistled for Puck, my mangy mixed breed and the only male I swore I would ever truly love. The hound-shepherd mix appeared; he looked dirty and happy. I’d found him about a year ago. Just as we were about to leave Crawford County fairgrounds, I saw a small bundle shaking in the grass. There he was. A mischievous little devil, Vella, the Tarot reader, gave me the idea for his name: Puck.
“Up to no good, were ya?” I asked, scratching him on the head. He licked my hand and wagged his tale. I closed up my till and headed to the bunk house to look for some extra muscle to help with the tear down. As I passed through the midway I saw most of the other joints and booths were already closed. Mama Rosie was just closing up the snake show when I came by.
“Marx closed down everyone up here already?” I asked her.
“They’re all sick, Sug,” she replied as she dropped one of her small snakes into her bra. I shook just watching her. Everyone loved Mama Rosie, but no one understood her relationship with her “babies.” She always had one hanging out of her bra, hanging around her neck, or stuffed in her clothes. Mama was a big woman who liked to wear baggy, loud colored gowns. I hated sitting next to her at dinner. You never knew when one of the “babies” might suddenly slither out of her hibiscus-print dress.
I set my box down and helped her push the trailer door closed. “How about you, Mama? You feelin’ alright?”
“I think I got something bad to eat at lunch, but I’ll be fine. You headed back to the bunks?”
“I guess. I was hopin’ Beau and the boys would come give me a hand.”
“Sug, Beau would give you a hand, arm, leg, or toe if you asked. Why don’t you give that boy a chance?”
“Oh, Mama Rosie, I don’t feel nothin’ like that for him.”
“But you run off with townies often enough.”
“Well, we all have needs.”
Mama Rosie laughed. “You got that right. I thought you were hoping someone would marry you out of the life.”
“And give up all this?”
Mama Rosie laughed again, her boisterous laughter filling the empty aisles.