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The Screaming Box
A Novella
Carnival veteran Dylan James was determined to prove his abusive father wrong. He would become rich and famous someday. His ship came in when he invented The Screaming Box, a portable soundproof booth complete with a punching bag and privacy. But his invention has a magical, deadly quality. It sucks the life out of its users, giving Dylan eternal youth. Wrangling with his own conscience, Dylan questions how much his youth and sanity are worth.
Excerpt
Ah, carnie life. What can I tell you about life with the carnival? That it’s all a big game? Naw, too cheesy. It’s more like a big swindle. And I’m not just talkin’ ‘bout the rigged games and overinflated prices. The life of a carnie is one big con game. Every lifer’ll tell ya’, they’re out fer whatever they can beg, borrow and steal. Can’t say I was any better. ‘Cept fer one thing: I had morals. That was somethin’ my swindling counterparts sure didn’t have. I certainly didn’t ask fer any morals. Don’t know why I had ‘em when no one else did. It just happened that way.
Who am I, you ask? Sorry, didn’t mean to prattle on. Where are my manners? My name is Dylan James. Pleasure to meet ‘ya. I’m not yankin’ yer chain ‘bout the people who travel with the carnival. I would know, ‘cuz I was one; a lifer, like the others. The Summerland Carnival Company was my ball and chain fer over twenty years.
Yeah, everybody’s got their scam ‘er get-rich-quick scheme. Hell, with my invention, I thought I’d be rich and famous. But I guess you can’t be rich and famous when yer dead, like I am.
Don’t think we’ve ever met before. Are you new here? Well, it makes no never mind. Say, you got a minute? ‘Cuz I got a story for ya’. Full’a twists and turns. You won’t be disappointed. C’mere. Sit a spell. Let me tell you a story of how even the best intentions’ll bite you in the ass.
***
Guess I should give you a little background so ya know what the hell I’m talking ‘bout. Many people contributed to my depravity. I can’t take all the credit. Every carnie has their sob story. It’s no one’s life dream to run with the carnival. Like a pack’a wolves, the lot of us. Most of us came to the Midway by nefarious or unsavory means. Some’re runnin’ from the law or fresh out’a prison. Some’re hidin’ from the mob or loan sharks. Others stumbled into the life after running away from home.
I’m no different. ‘Cept my sob story varies a bit. It wasn’t my choice to run away. My dad kicked me out when I was fifteen. Let’s see, that would have to be 1983, if my remedial math is correct.
By that time, dear ol’ dad drank his job away. Scared off my mom, too. Really wish she’d taken me with her. After she left, Dad took out his frustrations on me. Bastard made me his human punching bag, is what he did. I put up with it fer a few years. Not much you can do when you’re too little to fight back. Guess I should thank him fer one thing: Life with him toughened me up. Prepared me fer the big, bad world, ya’ might say.
One thing’s fer sure: Kids grow fast. The day came when I outgrew him in height and strength. Shocked the hell out’a him when I decked him a good one. Bloodied his nose, too. The look on his face was priceless. He knew right away that he couldn’t use me as his punching bag no more. So, after some colorful name-callin’ on his part, he showed me the door, and I happily accepted.
The last thing he said to me was, “You’ll never amount to anything.” Wasn’t the first time he offered me such words of encouragement. But at that moment, I stood on the porch of our crappy little hut, hitched my knapsack over my shoulder and studied my father: Sweat stained undershirt pulled tight over a beer gut, three-days’ growth’a beard, every other tooth missin’. What’a sack! I vowed right then’n there, I’d be bigger and better than that bastard ever dreamed’a bein’.
So, with nothin’ but a change’a clothes, I walked straight out to Highway 30 on that rainy spring night, and stuck out my thumb. Couldn’t wait to get the hell out’a Arkansas. I took it as a sign that the only vehicle to stop for this dumb southern kid in the rain was the Summerland Carnival truck.
I’m not complainin’, mind you. Life with the carnival sure beat the hell out’a joinin’ the military. That was my second choice. But in the carnival, you don’t have to shave your head’r shoot anybody. Got to travel a lot, too. Saw most of the U.S. every year. What was my favorite place, you ask? That would have to be San Francisco. There’s no place like it in all the lower forty-eight, and I’d know. I’ve seen it all and done it all.
The Circuit became my lifestyle. That’s what the carnival is: A lifestyle. Not a job or a career. And just like the military, the Circuit’ll sort out the weaklings right quick. Most hop on the train thinkin’ it’d be fun. Summer work, ya’ know? A little adventure. Those are the ones that don’t last a week. The work is hard and dirty. It’s all about settin’ up fast, makin’ yer money quick, and leavin’ even quicker, only to do it all over again a couple’a days later.
While the weaklings toppled all around me, I steadily climbed the Midway ladder, which was no easy task. It’s littered with booby traps and sabotage. Started out as a Roughie. Everyone does. Roughies do all the undesirable grunt jobs no one else wants. Soon I was workin’ the floss wagons. That’s what carnies call the food trucks that serve all those deep-fried goodies. But there’s no money in that. After about a year or two, I moved on to workin’ the games. That’s where you wanna’ be. The more money ya make each night, the bigger yer cut. Must’a impressed the Boss Man, ‘cuz I was workin’ the Hoop Shot game in no time. Any seasoned carnie’d kill to run that game. The money’s good and everybody’s a sucker for it. Wannabe athletes and guys trying to impress a girl’d throw away their whole paycheck for a giant stuffed panda. A pro dealer could rake in a few hundred a night after payin’ Boss Man. My personal record was five-hundred and some change in San Antonio. Now that I think of it, all’a that changed with one little stroll along Pier 39 in the summer of 2002. Funny how life works out.
***
Who am I, you ask? Sorry, didn’t mean to prattle on. Where are my manners? My name is Dylan James. Pleasure to meet ‘ya. I’m not yankin’ yer chain ‘bout the people who travel with the carnival. I would know, ‘cuz I was one; a lifer, like the others. The Summerland Carnival Company was my ball and chain fer over twenty years.
Yeah, everybody’s got their scam ‘er get-rich-quick scheme. Hell, with my invention, I thought I’d be rich and famous. But I guess you can’t be rich and famous when yer dead, like I am.
Don’t think we’ve ever met before. Are you new here? Well, it makes no never mind. Say, you got a minute? ‘Cuz I got a story for ya’. Full’a twists and turns. You won’t be disappointed. C’mere. Sit a spell. Let me tell you a story of how even the best intentions’ll bite you in the ass.
***
Guess I should give you a little background so ya know what the hell I’m talking ‘bout. Many people contributed to my depravity. I can’t take all the credit. Every carnie has their sob story. It’s no one’s life dream to run with the carnival. Like a pack’a wolves, the lot of us. Most of us came to the Midway by nefarious or unsavory means. Some’re runnin’ from the law or fresh out’a prison. Some’re hidin’ from the mob or loan sharks. Others stumbled into the life after running away from home.
I’m no different. ‘Cept my sob story varies a bit. It wasn’t my choice to run away. My dad kicked me out when I was fifteen. Let’s see, that would have to be 1983, if my remedial math is correct.
By that time, dear ol’ dad drank his job away. Scared off my mom, too. Really wish she’d taken me with her. After she left, Dad took out his frustrations on me. Bastard made me his human punching bag, is what he did. I put up with it fer a few years. Not much you can do when you’re too little to fight back. Guess I should thank him fer one thing: Life with him toughened me up. Prepared me fer the big, bad world, ya’ might say.
One thing’s fer sure: Kids grow fast. The day came when I outgrew him in height and strength. Shocked the hell out’a him when I decked him a good one. Bloodied his nose, too. The look on his face was priceless. He knew right away that he couldn’t use me as his punching bag no more. So, after some colorful name-callin’ on his part, he showed me the door, and I happily accepted.
The last thing he said to me was, “You’ll never amount to anything.” Wasn’t the first time he offered me such words of encouragement. But at that moment, I stood on the porch of our crappy little hut, hitched my knapsack over my shoulder and studied my father: Sweat stained undershirt pulled tight over a beer gut, three-days’ growth’a beard, every other tooth missin’. What’a sack! I vowed right then’n there, I’d be bigger and better than that bastard ever dreamed’a bein’.
So, with nothin’ but a change’a clothes, I walked straight out to Highway 30 on that rainy spring night, and stuck out my thumb. Couldn’t wait to get the hell out’a Arkansas. I took it as a sign that the only vehicle to stop for this dumb southern kid in the rain was the Summerland Carnival truck.
I’m not complainin’, mind you. Life with the carnival sure beat the hell out’a joinin’ the military. That was my second choice. But in the carnival, you don’t have to shave your head’r shoot anybody. Got to travel a lot, too. Saw most of the U.S. every year. What was my favorite place, you ask? That would have to be San Francisco. There’s no place like it in all the lower forty-eight, and I’d know. I’ve seen it all and done it all.
The Circuit became my lifestyle. That’s what the carnival is: A lifestyle. Not a job or a career. And just like the military, the Circuit’ll sort out the weaklings right quick. Most hop on the train thinkin’ it’d be fun. Summer work, ya’ know? A little adventure. Those are the ones that don’t last a week. The work is hard and dirty. It’s all about settin’ up fast, makin’ yer money quick, and leavin’ even quicker, only to do it all over again a couple’a days later.
While the weaklings toppled all around me, I steadily climbed the Midway ladder, which was no easy task. It’s littered with booby traps and sabotage. Started out as a Roughie. Everyone does. Roughies do all the undesirable grunt jobs no one else wants. Soon I was workin’ the floss wagons. That’s what carnies call the food trucks that serve all those deep-fried goodies. But there’s no money in that. After about a year or two, I moved on to workin’ the games. That’s where you wanna’ be. The more money ya make each night, the bigger yer cut. Must’a impressed the Boss Man, ‘cuz I was workin’ the Hoop Shot game in no time. Any seasoned carnie’d kill to run that game. The money’s good and everybody’s a sucker for it. Wannabe athletes and guys trying to impress a girl’d throw away their whole paycheck for a giant stuffed panda. A pro dealer could rake in a few hundred a night after payin’ Boss Man. My personal record was five-hundred and some change in San Antonio. Now that I think of it, all’a that changed with one little stroll along Pier 39 in the summer of 2002. Funny how life works out.
***
Content copyright (c) Jennifer B. Fields 2010-2017