The Fair's Facade

I wanted to tell him that it wasn’t real. I wanted to tell him that it was all a lie. He wouldn’t have listened and wouldn’t have believed me. It is impossible to convince someone against something they want so badly and have convinced themself to be true.

He was about my age or a little older, about ten. It has been decades since I saw him for the first and only time, and yet the memory is new and clear while many before and after it are worn out, forgotten or discarded. I remember because it was the night that I first saw and understood.

He had light brown hair bright blue eyes that shown. When I saw him his eyes were full of pleading. His fate was that of every kid that came to the fair—he had lived the magic and the joy but then time expired and he had to leave. It was time to abandon what was so powerfully enchanting and perfect and go back to his regular dull life that was full of mundane and common. The pain in his eyes was real; he was being taken from freedom and back into captivity. And the freedom was only so recently gained as he had come through the front gates at the beginning of the evening. With the autumn moon high in the late night sky it was time to pass under the same entrance arch that had welcomed him as a friend. Now, however, that once happy arch was a stranger, cold and uncaring. Under the gate and into the dreary dark he would have to pass. The sign was no longer welcoming, it was an austere judge with a sentence to be meted out, a punishment pronounced upon a powerless victim; exile. The words painted on a small sign were faded and the invitation was hollow, come again soon.

I saw in him every child that had ever come to the fair. They were all the same and they didn’t know it. They thought that their misery was individual, unique.

I don’t know why he stuck in my mind the way he did. I don’t know why it was with this boy that I first saw things as they really were. But as I finished the night shift all I could see was his face and his eyes. Maybe it was that I had seen him right before his father had told him it was time to leave. One moment he was the happiest person in the world. His face was full of light and his smile was natural. Then in a single moment it was all taken from him. A few words drained all the energy from him. Nothing changed in his surroundings, but it was as if his most prized possession had just been stolen from him. He should have been happy and yet he wasn’t. He had friends, he had two parents and they had money to spend on a night at the fair. In reality he wasn’t unlucky.

Really he was lucky. It’s best when kids leave while the party is still going. They are torn away from the magic and so the lie remains intact. The illusion persists because they left wanting more, never really seeing the truth. If they stayed longer they would see the crowds thin out as others left. Then everyone would be gone. Then the booths would close and they would see the trash that littered the grounds, they would see the fair in a new light, less light. All the colored and sparkling lights extinguished. They would hear the silence, the absence of the music and prattle of hundreds of children, the noises that are easily mistakable as the sound of happiness.

Those that were torn away too soon continued in the lie. They could still believe in the perfect place. It still existed in their imaginations and it could live in a corner of their minds as a retreat in moments that needed cheer. Unfortunate were the few that stayed too long and saw the unraveling of the dream. They saw things as they were and the image would be seared into their brains not to be forgotten. For them the sweetness gave way to a bitter aftertaste. What was supposed to be something above the plain of normal bland life lost its towering heights. Mount Olympus where the gods lived was reduced to nothing more than a hill and a handful of skillful illusions.

The boy’s pleas rang in my ears as I packed up my family’s booth. I was a glad that he didn’t know the fair the way that I did. I was also a little jealous of the oblivion he had, as if it were a tangible possession that he could have given me, but wouldn’t.

I saw past the facades. I knew that behind the colorful building fronts and the canvas tents there was the reality. The fair as a place was something normal dressed up in a costume just like any of the performers that worked in it. It was a continual Halloween costume. What is a costume if it is the only thing ever worn? Does it make it reality, or a gross lie?

I finished my work at the booth and headed back to my family’s trailer, back home. I ducked behind a wall that visitors never saw behind and into the truth beyond. Everything was exposed, wires, pipes, trash bins, old broken equipment, and props. The path to my trailer was a narrow and winding one that would have been confusing to a newcomer, but I had walked the path so often I could have done it in the dark.

I realized that the fair was a beautiful exterior to nothing. I rounded the last corner and saw the trailer that I had known as home for as long as I could remember. It was ugly. Ugly and worn. The paint was faded and peeling. It was covered in dents and dings. It had random graffiti on it and old carnival posters in every condition from new to shabby.

To my nine year old mind it seemed like a shambles. I felt poor when I looked at it. I felt cheated and left out of luxury. I walked up, opened the door, and stepped in. And I realized that my home was telling a lie as much as the fair. It was the same kind of lie but the exact opposite. It was the lie of contradiction—the lie of appearance. My trailer told the lie of the fair turned inside out.

It was only my father and I that lived there and we were poor. Poor and yet we had everything that we needed. We were happy and home was home because we felt comfortable and safe there. It was where I was truly myself, not a performer in a costume. My dad wasn’t some juggling entertainer, just dad. We could talk and dream and plan for the future we wanted.

The fair ugliness was clothed in beauty. My home was happiness clothed in ugly.

The boy with blue eyes and brown hair would keep the image of the fair for a long time but I had something much better. How much better I didn’t realize at the time. Since then I have grown up. I have seen more and I understand more.

I wondered what the boy’s life was really like. I had assumed that he had everything. He had a mom and a dad, they had money and things I assumed he had lots of friends and, well everything. My generalizations were formed in the shadow of immaturity.

I said that I first understood that night I saw the boy. That is only partially true. It took much longer. The memory was kept fresh in my mind until the time came that it could really be understood. That boy held on to the idea of the fair because it was beautiful. There wasn’t enough of that in his life. I imagine that his life was like my trailer. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t inviting. The difference was that it wasn’t a lie. What was on the inside exactly matched the outside.

Back then I was jealous of him, that boy at the fair. Now I feel sad for him. I feel pity. I wonder who he is and what he has become. I wonder if he has found beauty in his life. Wherever he is and whoever he is, I hope he is happy. I hope that he made for himself a life that doesn’t make him believe the pretty lies.