Tricks of the Trade

Tricks of the Trade

1

Tricks of the trade, young man, tricks of the trade, yessireebob, the old gentleman replied after I asked him how he did what he did.

Tricks of the trade, eh, I thought. I bet he could con money from a poor man. I lost two bucks already, and he was about to relieve me of another. He put the pea on the table and placed a half walnut shell over it and one on either side. I handed him my dollar.

Double or nothin’, sonny. Care to go double or nothin’?

Well…I— I began.

Come on, sonny, I feel a winner. Double or nothin’, eh? His smile could reach from ear to ear, showing rotted brown smoker’s teeth.

All I got is a buck left… I began again.

That’s fine, sonny, your two bucks for four of mine. Double or nothin’. Gonna go for it, sonny?

Okay, okay, double or nothin’. I broke down.

He snatched the other dollar from my hand before I even ended my sentence. Watch, I told myself, don’t take your eyes off the middle shell. His hands moved swiftly, talking as he went, crossing hands, moving shells, and looking right at me. Don’t look at him. That’s what he wants, just look at the damn shell. He stopped, knowing that he may not have stumped me this time.

Okay, sonny, which one, which one holds four bucks for you? he asked.

I looked closely, then I noticed a small chip out of one of the shells—the same chip I noticed when he put it over the pea. That one, I said knowingly, it’s under that one, as I pointed to the shell on the right.

You sure, sonny? I knew I was right because he was trying to change my mind.

Yes, quite sure, I replied, pointing continuously at the shell.

He lifted the shell, and sure enough, the pea rolled around. It was there. He handed me the four dollars and said, Wanna go again? Double or nothin’, sonny, as he set out three new walnut halves.

No, I’m even again.

Sure, sure, win one and take off. How’d you know, sonny? How’d you know where the pea was?

Tricks of the trade, I replied. Tricks of the trade, I repeated as I walked away.

Come back and try again, sonny! he called after me.

No thanks, I said, folding the money into my pocket."

I could hear him pull others near. See there, folks? Another lucky winner. Come on and try your luck for a buck. His voice was fading as I walked down the midway, yet his eyes burned like fire in my back. I could feel his stare. I turned to look, but he had already suckered another player.

For as long as I could remember, the carnival came to town, year after year, summer after summer, and the same old man controlled the shell game. He must have been over seventy. Each year, I would try his game, and each year, I would lose—a buck here, two bucks there—but this year, I had won or, at least, broke even. That was the last year the carnival came to town, and all I showed for playing the shell game was breaking even. I was thirteen the year the carnival pulled out for the last time. People said the owners just were not making enough money to keep it operating, so they sold out to a larger company that only hit the big cities, and the closest big city to our town was Pittsburgh, over sixty miles away. My father never liked the carnival and made me promise every year not to go near it. Of course, I promised, but I always crossed my fingers with my hands hidden deep in my pockets. When I had some free time and when dad wasn’t around, I’d run off to the carnival just to play the Shell Game.

The carnival had everything—Lucky Lottos, Ping-Pong tosses, Dice Games, Wheel of Fortune, and of course, the ever popular Shell Game, not to mention good food and rides. I never cared much for the rides, but Petey Stone and Frank Cowley, two of my best friends, rode them all while I played the Shell Game.

I remember when I was eight years old, the first time I ran off to the carnival, that old man smiled at me, coaxing me to come and play his game, as I walked down the midway. I had five dollars and lost it all in a matter of minutes. There was something in his eyes, something to his smile that kept me coming back each year. When I was nine, I lost five bucks again; however, I’d play once and then watch others. Some would win, and some would lose. Then I’d try again and lose each time until I had lost it all. At ten, I lost eight dollars, three of which my mother gave me to buy bread and milk. I’d never forget that summer. I couldn’t sit all season after my father had taken the belt to me. In 1969, when I was eleven, I lost two dollars one day; three dollars, two days later; and five bucks, on the final day of the carnival, three days later. When I was twelve, I only lost one dollar, vowing I would never return.

You’ll be back, the old man assured me, grinning ear-to-ear. Yessireebob…you’ll be back, sonny. Sure enough, I came back the next year and broke even.

All I could remember from year to year was the way that old man smiled and the way his dark eyes looked right through me, searching my soul. That last year, I realized I could win if I just didn’t look at him, if I just watched the shells and didn’t look at him. It was too late. I only broke even, and the carnival never returned. I never played the shell game again. Sure, I went to other carnivals, and the shell game was at most of them, but it wasn’t the same trying to beat the old master. I watched these other carny shellers, and they just were not the same. You could see them cheat. Not once did I ever see the old man cheat.

2

Honey, my wife called from the living room, come in here and look at this.

I walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. Sarah was reading the newspaper. Look at this ad. She turned the paper toward me, and I noticed the ad took up a whole page. Must be a good one if they can afford a full-page ad, she suggested. I took the paper and read the ad.

Come one, come all

Ride the Comet

Play the wheel

See the shows

First time in 15 years

Wright’s old-fashioned carny days

Returns to Sutter’s Gap

Bigger, better,

More exciting than ever!

A picture of the Comet, one of those rides that make young and old alike wish they never ate an hour before they rode it was in the center of the ad. Toward the end of the ad in smaller letters read:

Rides: the Comet, the Spider, the Paratrooper, the Double Loop, World’s Largest Ferris Wheel.

Shows: Annie Oakley Shooting Exhibition, Jazz Music Festival, P. L. Wright’s Sing-a-Long, Fireworks Display, every night.

Games: Lucky Lotto, Ping-Pong Toss, Big 6, Blackjack, Wheel of Fortune, Hideaways, Ring Toss, Old-Fashioned Shell Game, and many more.

Y’all come! 10:00 am to 10:00 pm

July 1–8

July 4—Largest fireworks display ever

There it was, old-fashioned Shell Game; it nearly reached out and pulled me closer. I wondered if it would be the same, if the same old man with the ear-to-ear grin and the dark eyes would be running the Shell Game. Probably not, I thought, he must have been near seventy-five when I was a kid.

Well? asked Sarah.

Well what? I asked back.

What do you say we take Terry on the fourth and make it a family outing? You’re always saying how much fun you had at the carnival when you were a kid. And here it is, the same carnival even, she was making me remember.

I thought for a moment and finally realized it would not be a bad idea, Yeah, sure, Terry’d enjoy that, and it would bring back old memories. My eight-year-old son would see his first carnival the same age I was when I first went.

3

Sunshine pierced the bedroom window and woke me with its warmth, temporarily blinding me as I searched the floor with my feet for my slippers. Sarah rolled over and propped herself up on one elbow, shielding her eyes from the sun with her other hand.

Forgot to pull the blinds again, she said.

Yeah, but look it’s going to be a great day. A great day for the carnival, I replied.

I’ll make breakfast and pack a picnic lunch, and then we can be on our way. Go wake Terry, okay?

I think he’s up already. I can hear the TV.

Pancakes, sausage, and orange juice filled our stomachs, and Sarah packed chicken sandwiches for lunch. We loaded up the car and drove the nine miles to the carnival. Terry was excited.

Dad?

Yeah, T?

The carnival…what was it like when you were a kid?

Great, there were rides and games and…

But— Sarah interrupted, your grandfather never let Daddy go. So your dad snuck out every summer just to go.

Sarah, you promised not to say anything.

I had my fingers crossed.

We were laughing as I pulled the car into the field to park, following the directions of the attendants, one of which was Pete Stone, my old friend. I stopped the car, and Pete stuck his head through the open window at Terry.

Hiya, Terry…Sarah, Bill. Show hasn’t changed much. Say you gonna try the Shell Game? he inquired.

I might.

You know…the same old guy runs it. He must be near ninety. A horn blew behind us. Well, you better move on, cars behind you, talk to you later. He motioned us on.

A sudden feeling of déjà vu coursed through me. Pete had said the same old man was running the Shell Game. I began to ease down again as I thought this to be impossible. How could the carnival keep such an old man employed if he wasn’t dead already? I decided Pete had been mistaken. Pete was right about one thing, not much had changed in fifteen years, except it seemed a little larger, a few more rides, more concession stands here and there, a few more games, but the same atmosphere filtered through the midway.

Dad, Dad, there’s the Comet. Can I go on now, can I pulleeze? Terry was practically begging.

"Okay, okay, but you’ll have