Stallion Entertainment

The Troys didn’t seem like state fair folks. They weren’t wearing hats, or sunglasses. They had a very small car that they parked in the private lot, across from the main gate. Peter had to wake up, from his nap, when they stopped outside his booth. That price gouged field doesn’t get much use until the regular spots fill up. And it was only a couple minutes after opening.

All of them seemed nervous, the kids, the parents, walking on the grass, buying tickets. Except the smallest one, probably the instigator. Thank god for children. The little boy hadn’t learned yet how to fear the world, and made the rest of the family trudge past all the rides, three times, before deciding on the most expensive one.

I was adding brown stains to the toilet seats, and the Troys were fun to watch while I got the game ready. I also run the basketball shoot, on the midway. But I’ve found people prefer throwing rolls of toilet paper, instead. Marla, on the other side of me, was calling out to the Troys, trying to interest them in the duck hunt.

“You’re scaring them off,” I told her. She gave me one of her famous Marla raised eyebrows, and said, “You’re disgusting.” I said, “It’s just modeling clay,” raising up the brown block from the seat. But she already knew this, and replied with a farting sound, and went back to harassing the Troys.

Marla and I sometimes fool around when we’re in the mood and can’t get Lonnie’s attention. Both of us are a little, or a lot, depending on the day, in love with Lonnie. But Lonnie is one of those flimsy free souls, who will only really sit with you if all the stars align, and when it happens it’s magic, and it’s more than the sex, with Lonnie, because, and I’ve talked to Marla about this endlessly, Lonnie has a way, without saying anything, of making you love your body, after you’ve given up even bothering to look in the mirror.

It’s not that I hate my body, it’s just that it’s a solid thing, surrounding me, and I don’t particularly love having to carry it till fucking midnight.

Right now me and Marla are supposed to be on an olive diet, where we eat nothing but olives, which is hard because neither of us have refrigerators at our booths and we only like them really cold. Rachel won’t store them with the ice cream and the rest of the frozen food people hate me, so I usually just eat brisket mac and cheese like an idiot.

I was thinking maybe I’d ask Marla to cover for me, and go to the hardware store down the road, and pick up an insulated bag, for the olives. But then I saw the Troys get in the horse.

It was a big statue, of a horse, something that the higherups at Stallion Entertainment make us cart around the country. I didn’t know it had an opening, but the Troys must have found one. They all climbed into it, and disappeared up its belly. I was surprised, but it made sense, that they could all fit like that, thinking back to their car, and how small it was.

Less clear was the impetus behind their move. I looked around. There were some bees, maybe they were all allergic, and trying to hide from them?

Before I could share my theory with Marla, she was already in front of my counter, putting her sunglasses in her purse. She said, “Can you cover for me?” I said, “I just saw a family climb into that horse.” She barely glanced at the statue, before continuing, “I want to go to the hardware store.” I asked, “Were you thinking what I was thinking,” since we’re both on the same page usually. She said, “Do you need pads?” I shook my head no, and thought, maybe Lonnie will know what to do. Also, maybe Lonnie had an insulated bag.

So I covered for Marla, and gave people cheap toys in exchange for their underhand tosses, keeping an eye on the statue. But eventually I forgot about the Troys, and then Marla came back, and hours passed, and once the crowd thinned out I took a break, and headed for the barbeque.

Lonnie runs the pulled pork stand, and it’s always a treat heading that way, because of the smoke. It heightens everything, walking past, because everything is less visible, unclear. You have to use your senses to navigate and not trip over wires and trash cans.

I waited in line for Lonnie, because I didn’t want to presume anything, but when I got to the front, it was Rachel, there, taking orders. I said, “Lonnie here?” Rachel said, “Nah, sick.” I said, “Who’s doing the ice cream?” She said, “Tony.” I said, “Oh, he fucking hates me.” She smiled at that, and said, “Yeah he does.” Then I said, “Do you happen to have an insulated bag.” She frowned at this, “Are you still on the olives?” Instead of giving her the satisfaction of answering, I asked, instead, “What kind of illness?” hoping that Lonnie wasn’t doing too bad. She waved me off, pointing to the line behind me, “Hungry people to feed.”

I ordered a brisket mac and cheese, and walked around a bit, so that Marla didn’t see my dinner. I stopped by the horse statue. It was getting dark. I put my hand underneath it, where I saw the Troys get in, but couldn’t feel any latch. I knocked on it, said, “Hello?” out loud. They were definitely still in there. I heard the smallest one try to say something, but then a choruses of shushes shut him up. I asked, “Do you need help, or anything?” Nobody answered. I knocked a few more times, but I was full, and needed to sit down.

When I got back to the midway I didn’t have a chance, though. Marla was packing up her game, the way we only do when we are moving to the next town. I said, “It’s Saturday,” because maybe she was one day off, in her mind. She said, “We’re leaving early.” I said, “What the fuck?” She said, “Everyone’s coming down with something contagious. You actually better get away from me.” She vomited into the bucket of water. The ducks, designed to stay upright, stayed upright.

Rather than pack up my games, I went to Lonnie’s trailer. I knocked, hard, for a long time, but no one answered. I walked over to the overpriced parking, across from the main gate. Peter was sleeping again, but at least he acted like a human being when I pounded on the glass divide. He wasn’t happy about falling out of his chair, but seemed grateful when I told him about the sickness. “No one fills me in on shit,” he said. I looked around the lot. The Troy’s car was still there, tiny, wedged between two massive trucks. I said to Peter, “Look, I know this is going to sound strange.” But he must have seen me looking at the car, because he fake coughed, kicked me a crowbar from under his desk.

I didn’t need to use it. The Troys stored a key, under the hood. On the way to the hardware store you pulled me over. I don’t know, I must have been doing seventy? I don’t drive much. I usually ride with Lonnie or Marla. We had a threesome, once, but none of our hearts were in it. We do best when there’s two of us, usually me and Marla, together, and then one of us gets some time with Lonnie, later. I actually think it’s better for the one who’s not with Lonnie, because we get to hear about everything, and it’s exciting, because you get to experience it on delay, and you at least don’t know that pain, of the good thing passed, the original experience, because you’re making up your own details, and it’s still with you, what you imagined, forever. As opposed to the reality, which, for the other person, who was there, fades.

Haven’t I already told you all this? I know the family’s name was Troy because you said it, to the other officer. I didn’t steal their car. I’m just trying to be healthy, get a little pail, or lunchbox, to keep olives in. I can’t keep eating brisket mac and cheese, that stuff will kill me.

Check the security footage, Marla’s paranoid and keeps a camera on her tent. From that angle you should be able to see me, bending down, under the horse statue, like an idiot. I believe there were no air holes. But they were definitely alive when I knocked.

THOMAS MIXON has poems and stories in Acta Victoriana, Eye to the Telescope, Apple Valley Review, and elsewhere. He’s trying to write a few books.

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