<< Back 10/9/02 All the world’s a carnival By Jay Hardwig “Welcome to the Carnival!” These were Eli’s exact words, a gleeful proclamation issued from the backseat of our Subaru station wagon a week ago Saturday night. My wife and I were idling at the Barbecue Inn on Patton Avenue, waiting on a couple of pork sandwiches to go, when our 2-year-old son issued his decree. He was happy, that I know; what he was thinking, I do not know. This was to be Eli’s first carnival, and he knew not what wonders awaited. We had not explained the carnival to him, in any real way; we had not drawn a Ferris Wheel on his Magnadoodle, had not checked out the appropriate Curious George titles from the local library. As far as I could tell, he did not know a carnival from a forest fire. Still he was happy. Through apathy and indolence we had missed the Mountain State Fair and any number of its humbler brothers that have made their way to and through the counties of Western Carolina. We were reduced instead, to a parking lot fair — a cheap imitation of the form that comes a couple of times a year and sets up shop in the parking lot of the Asheville Mall. We knew it would be small in scale and ambition, but we hoped the lights would be bright enough to dazzle our young boy’s eyes. We were not disappointed. There were bright lights aplenty, winking and blinking in the nighttime sky. There was motion and music and corndogs and goldfish, beanbags and roller coasters, cotton candy and cigarettes, and grizzled old barkers selling their games. It was a typical American carnival, small but proud in its own stubborn way. It offered spectacle and diversion for the amusement of the masses, of which we were three. Eli loved it. He loved the carousel. He loved the ladybug ride. He loved the sounds and sights and chaos of it all, and he drank it in through open eager eyes. He even loved the tiny train, at least until the moment in which it took a sudden turn and sent him hurdling off of his seat and onto the pavement below. The operator shut down the ride as we all went sprinting around the bend in the track to find Eli face down on the pavement, just beginning to cry. Shocking, but true: my son was the victim of an amusement park mishap. Eli was stunned, as were we; together, we were hustled to the manager’s trailer. Eli did not look terribly worse for wear — a few scrapes, a small cut on his hand, only the slight possibility of permanent neurological damage — but the image of crying toddlers thrown from rides is one that most carnivals try to avoid. Appropriate expressions of concern were tendered, along with a fistful of free ride tickets. The intent, no doubt, was to ward off potential lawsuits or lurid stories in the press (sorry about that last one, fellas). Still, freebies are freebies, so after Eli perked up a bit, we offered him the chance to ride again. He happily agreed. Eli rode for another hour that night, and even returned to ride the train again the next day. His hands gripped the wheel more tightly the second time, and there was a look of plain dread upon his face. Yet he smiled as he got off, and loved the carnival on the second day as much as he had on the first. But that afternoon, as on the previous night, I couldn’t get his initial words out of my head. “Welcome to the carnival,” he had said. It seemed to me an apt description of the world he had inherited. They are the words I should have spoken on the day he was born: Welcome to the Carnival. Of course, what “the Carnival” means — what our world means — is a matter for open debate. The pronouncement is an elastic one, a curse or a blessing or something in between. In more pessimistic minds, the words might well be said with cynicism and regret: Welcome to the Carnival, one sighs, where everything is cheap and tacky and built for instant thrills. Where every game is a con and every corner reveals a new scam. Where used-up men and women ride out their days in bitter disillusionment. Where bright lights and loud music are piped in as distraction, where a close eye reveals only flaws, where the whole shebang is held together with odd bolts, chickenwire, and our willingness to look away. Welcome to the Carnival, where hucksters pitch things you don’t really need and take your money as their prize. Welcome to the Carnival, where you get thrown headfirst from the train, and your only consolation is a ticket to ride again. I prefer a different translation, one more optimistic and benign: Welcome to the Carnival, where the world is full of wonders and delights. Where even the commonplace sparkles and shines, and music hangs thick in the air. Where surprise lurks around every corner, and the humblest invention is sure to please. Welcome to the Carnival, where folks of every size and shape make their way, proving that you don’t need all your teeth to give the world a grin. Welcome to the Carnival, where you ride the rides you want to and you don’t the ones you don’t, but there’s something for everyone, if you just look hard enough. The truth, I suppose, is somewhere in between, and changes according to the day. No matter. My chief piece of advice for the carnival is not to worry too much about the truth. Welcome to the carnival: let out a laugh, throw up your hands, and ride, baby, ride. (Jay Hardwig is a writer and teacher who lives in Asheville. He can be reached at smardwig@charter.net)