A Day at the Fair
by Neal Barrett Jr.
Smashwords Edition
Biting Dog Publications
Duluth, Georgia
2011
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A Day at the Fair copyright by Neal Barrett
This digital edition copyright 2011 by Biting Dog Press
Published in the United States by
Biting Dog Publications
2150 Northmont Pkwy, Suite H
Duluth, GA 30096
www.bitingdogpress.com
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WE WEREN'T EVEN PAST HUMMER'S HILL AND I COULD smell it already. Beanspice and weed-cake and a hundred other yum things to eat. The smells were floating up from all the little stands and cookpits and coming right out to meet us.
"I can smell it, Grandpa. I can smell the Fair!"
Grandpa just laughed. "We're getting mighty close, Toony, but I didn't figure we was smellin' close."
"Toony's always doing things 'fore she's supposed to," said Lizbeth Jean. I glared back at the wagon, but Lizbeth Jean just nudged up to Mother and looked the other way.
I do kind of catch stuff sometimes, and Lizbeth jean knows it. Just little things, like smells, or maybe who's coming over. Not even Grandpa knows about that, and he knows near everything.
Folks never can get over me and Lizbeth Jean. If you were looking for kids that didn't have any business being sisters, you'd come straight to us. She's about the prettiest girl on Far, and I'm near the plainest. Lizbeth Jean's got skin like brand new milk, and gold-silky hair down to here. My hair looks like it come out of a armpit somewhere, and I'm fat as a bubble.
All you got to do is set Lizbeth Jean and Mother up side by side to see where she got her good looks — including my share.
Grandpa says Mother was more'n just pretty, before whatever it was happened to Papa and she kind of quit thinking real good. Papa's something nobody talks about much at our place.
When we came 'round Hummer's Hill, a whole flock of Snappers waddled across the road and started hissing and grinding their jaws real fierce. Grandpa whacked a couple good and they scattered off quick. Snappers can't do much more'n scare you, but they do a pretty fair job of that. So while Grandpa was shooin' them off, I dropped back to where Tyrone was pulling the wagon.
Grandpa named him Tyrone after some kind of Earthie hero only he couldn't have been one of your real big heroes if he was anything like Tyrone. According to Grandpa, he looks a lot like a big skinny anteater with the mange. Grandpa's always saying things look like something I haven't ever seen before.
"Tyrone," I said, "you gain' to have fun at the Fair?"
"Guess so," said Tyrone.
"You got some coppers, don't you?" I knew he did, 'cause Grandpa gave him some.
"Don't know," said Tyrone.
"Sure you do." I patted the little pouch around his neck. "Right in there, Tyrone. Five big shiny new coppers. Just like last year."
"Last year?" Tyrone blinked and looked dumber than ever. That's the trouble with Noords. They work real good and do what you tell 'em, but forget what it was in about a minute.
I could really smell the Fair, now. Not just the other way. There was bushdog cracklin' over a fire and Ting-root pie and dusty sweet-cakes yellow as the sky. "Do you smell it, Grandpa? Do you smell it now?"
"Toony, I sure do," said Grandpa. He closed his eyes and sniffed real good.
"What do you smell, Grandpa? Tell me!"
"I smell mustard and cotton candy, Toony. And popcorn and cinnamon apples and lemonade so cold it makes your head hurt."
"Oh, Grandpa, you don't, either," I scolded. "You're just makin' things up again."
"Guess maybe I am," said Grandpa.
Like always, I acted like a kid, trying to see sixteen things at once. As if they'd maybe close the whole Fair down if fat Toony didn't see it right then. There were flags and ribbons and bright strips of cloth everywhere you looked. There were reds and blues and
greens and yellows and colors I hadn't even seen before. There were stands selling all kinds of pretties. And games where you knocked over pots, or caught a tin fish on a hook. And there were cookpits full of more sizzlin' bushdog than you could eat in a year, and toadberry tarts and stripe candy and hot fly-bread right out of the oven.
"Better watch out," said Lizbeth Jean real sweetlike. "You'll get fat, Toony."
"You can't git fat if you're fat already," I told her.
"You can," giggled Lizbeth Jean, and Grandpa said, "Now, now, we come to the Fair to have fun, girls." He stuck me on one side and Lizbeth Jean on the other, and left Tyrone to look after Mother. Which was a good idea, 'cause I've been known to bust Lizbeth Jean just for the fun of it.
There were people from all over, 'cause nobody misses the Fair. There were trappers from far as Southtown, and farmers like us from High, and even folks from the Crystal Hills. They don't hardly talk to each other, but they all came to the Fair.
I like just 'bout everything there is to see, but I guess I like the Patchmen best of all. That's because they got something new every year, and not the same old thing. And you never know what it's going to be, 'cause like Grandpa says, the Patchmen don't either. It's kinda whatever they happen on to, and fix up good. If there's a bunch of wars going on somewhere, the fleet dumps lots of old ships and stuff on Far. If there isn't much fighting, why, you don't get a lot of new things to see that year. So anyway, it's a good way to tell how the war's going.
"Grandpa, can we? Can we please?"
The sign was painted in big orange letters and said:
TALK TO YUR DEAR
DEPARTED LUVED ONES
2 COPPERS
On the wagon was a rusty old box colored speckledy gray. There wasn't anything on it but a worn-out knob and a little glass window.
"I don't know," said Grandpa, scowling real hard at the sign. "It's two coppers, Toony."
"Please," I begged, hanging on his hand, "do it, Grandpa!" "Does the danged thing work?" Grandpa asked the Patchman. "Reckon it does, if you're chargin' two coppers for it."