Next Year...

The deserted fairground parched under the coppery sun. Small
eddies whirled paper over the dusty stubble. The slight wind only
served to bring more of the pestering black flies. A small boy, 
wearing a faded man's shirt, wandered around the field searching 
the boxes of trash. Occasionally he would find something of
interest that went either into a hidden pocket, or his mouth.

The boy belonged to the caravan left behind by the fair. The 
old station wagon looked ready to fall apart, but it was not the 
cause of the delay. The axle had snapped on the battered silver 
trailor that the family lived in, so they must wait until a man
came from town to repair it. The only part of their equipage that
seemed in working order was their display trailor. Painted a 
once-bright red, the trailor was covered with signs that 
screamed, "REAL Human Babies!"

We never managed to get an accurate count of their 
children, who came up to our booth often during the fair. They
would lay a grimy dime on the counter and leave happily with 
penny suckers clutched in their fists. Their mother was possibly
no older than thirty, but the hard life of following the fair had 
taken its toll, andshe looked sixty.

We had come out to the fairgrounds to clean up our booth and 
had found this troupe scrabbling around outside it. Now we stood
in the oven that was the wooden booth, afraid to leave lest they
break into it. 

The head of the family ambled up to the counter on the shady 
side of the booth and began to speak, slowly but almost urgently.

"We ain't gonna be here much longer, so you ladies don't 
hafta stay. I just snapped my axle, so we've gotta stay 'til I
kin git it fixed."

We weren't about to go off and leave our booth, so we gave 
some alibi and stayed where we were while he continued. 

"You know, we won't live this way allus, this is just to 
tide over the summer. We won't be back next year with this ------
show. I've got me friends in high places, they ain't gonna push
me around iny-more, no sir. I'm gonna be in one of the big shows,
I'm gonna be the top man, the manager. I won't hafta fool around
with ------ dumps like this again. We won't be back next year,
we're gonna settle down..."

He went on with glorious predictions, and occasional 
dissertations on the questionable origin of the show's present
manager, for nearly an hour. Finally the watchman of the 
fairgrounds showed up. After we explained the situation, he
agreed to stay around our booth until the group left. Thanking
him we packed up quickly and left, knowing that the man and his
family would be back the next year and teh next, ... they always were.

written at age 15