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FRESH
YARN PRESENTS:
Carney,
A Love Story
By Bill Krebs
PAGE
TWO
 During
the summer of my 11th birthday, our family decided to host a reunion
for my overseas relatives. My grandmother raised her glass to toast
all of the guests in attendance, informing anyone within range of
her microphone that my grandfather enjoyed the bedtime companionship
of his male, Italian mechanic, "Aldo." Coming from a staunch
line of Irish decent, the crowd stood shell-shocked. To us, Italians
survived solely in the kitchen as inventors of terrific cuisine.
Now mechanics, too? Where would it end? My dad obviously couldn't
believe his ears, either. He drank a case of Guinness, took off
all his clothes, and spent the better part of the August day laid
out in a hammock moaning, "What's this world coming to?"
My grandfather withdrew into a selfish shell, unsympathetic to the
cultural concerns our family had for utilizing skilled workers absent
of red hair. All he had to say for himself was, "I'm no homo."
On that same August day, I met Jorge. Jorge, a Carney touring with
the Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio One Ring Show, who specialized in the Milk
Bottle Toss and a modified version of Guess Your Weight, staggered
his way into our family get-together to subdue any notions that
Grandma's love for Grandpa extended beyond the financial. My family
welcomed all strangers with open arms. We later discovered Grandma
and Jorge had secretly been an item for days. After my grandmother
dropped the bomb, exposing Grandpa's illicit choice for auto repair,
Jorge took me aside to explain the complex dynamics of relationships.
He referenced psychologists with fancy names like Piaget, Skinner,
and Donahue; but his visual aid stands clearest in my mind as the
best evidence of his superior intellect. He took a pebble from the
ground, displaying it in front of my face. "See this here rock?
It's your grandma." He then proceeded to scoop up a handful
of dirt. "See this here pile of mud? It's your grandpappy."
Placing both hands together, he rubbed his palms vigorously -- as
if starting an imaginary fire -- until both hands scraped dry. "That
there's how you make Love." Jorge furthered his demonstration
by hiding a silver dollar in the front pocket of his denim cover-alls,
a symbol of lost love, which, if I found, I could keep as long as
I didn't tell my parents. I searched him for hours, but Jorge didn't
seem to mind. He loved kids. Although our encounter was brief, Jorge
made a powerful impression on me that would later be characterized
by my therapist as "disturbing."
With the help of Jorge, everything made perfect sense. Like the
silver dollar I never found, Carnies, to my grandmother, represented
the unattainable adulation she could never express to my grandfather.
Some years later, my grandfather passed away. His closest friends
claimed he died of a wounded heart. My grandma described in his
obituary a violent murder, naming Aldo as the killer with vivid
details of weaponry and sodomy. I knew better. Flipping through
photo albums and seeing pictures of Grandma and Grandpa holding
hands, my grandfather's mirthful eyes, his resolute devotion, it
was apparent: Too many pills ingested in a single sitting can, indeed,
find someone happiness.
Today, my grandma ends her life in her 77th year. The gentlemen
of the Lafayette, Tennessee fair stand as Pallbearers. Throughout
her eulogy, all six men of Lafayette spoke of a woman who refused
to get off the ride, both on the fair grounds, and in the trailers.
She never gave up. Before the gentlemen of Lafayette concluded,
a wiry framed elderly man appeared in the rear of the chapel. With
a gimp leg and a penchant for booze, Jorge hadn't changed a bit
since we last parted ways on that warm, erotic summer day. If our
limited friendship taught me anything, it was definitely how to
love my grandma.
As
he approached the podium, he opened a copy of Stephen Hawking's
A Brief History of Time, and began reciting from it. The
prose went far beyond the limits of my capacity; but somewhere between
his comparison of the infinite depths of black holes and Grandma,
my smile emerged. Scanning her silent body propped upon pillows
and cushions, I felt at ease. There'll be other fairs, Grandma.
There'll be other fairs…
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