Memories of a Dirty Carney

It seems cliché to tell you it was late one night, overused to talk about how the moon was full. But to remember how it happened leaves me in a romantic mood. At least… I long to add some romance when I really think about what's so messed up about living on the road. Long run it seems better to vilify it, honesty has an even bleaker picture to share. And that one starts with a sunny day in a little town with neighborly people who are just trying to get by. The main road with it's little general store long ago gave way to the big road that took too much business by town rather than through it. And I walked by old man whoever. it seems every small town like this one has one of those old men in a chair of some sort, this one's a rocker, out front of the store waiting for something and nothing. I always wanted to ask but after the first couple of conversations it seems silly to banter about what this old man is thinking about to avoid and wait for death. It's all the same, turns out we're all just waiting at death's door. Some have just run out of ways to pass the time. Poor assholes, they wait and demoralize youth. At least some are sweet about it. I nod and wave on my way by, he does the same with a smile.
It's a game. The chess-board of life. Who has what and who wants it has a lot to do with what you have to offer and how to get what you want for that. I have words, I have a loud mouth and I have a sweet and loving "trust me" smile. You've seen me before. At bars chatting someone up for a free drink that I politely turn down for a pack of cigarettes instead. At movies hanging on the arm of some veteran who decided it would be nice to take this girl out to dinner and a movie. At the gas station hitching a ride from some dude on a bike. I walk from the store on the corner to the grassy knoll where we're setting up for this show. It's like when a band comes to town only nobody knows this band and the road crew sometimes gets left behind because we're disposable. No one gets paid enough. The boss assumes his crew is stealing and makes up for it by paying pittance and minimizing the amount of cash you handle.
Too many of the people I work with make the rest of what they need by selling drugs, usually to support their own habit. I never got into it. Never talk to the people who do cocaine or worse. It's a matter of principle, but you can hardly turn around without meeting someone who'd trade you a meal for a joint. It's another currency and most use it to get what they need not actually to get away from the real world. I don't use it. Often. I'd try any other way to gain trust before lighting up. But a peace pipe has its uses when you make an honour agreement for some barter yet to come. Most business falls into two categories: promises and cold, hard cash. Since there's so little in the way of cash to go around, we barter in favors, promises, the occasional goods and services. Everyone here dose for themselves. That was my secret weapon. I could figure out what a person could not do or get for themselves and offer it at the marginal price of some favor I wanted. I could always offer companionship; I am after all, a very attractive woman. I never did. I'm not a whore.
Did I tell you it was sunny? Don't think I'm lazy. Getting up before noon with this show is a cardinal sin, one deserving ridicule from the crew and a nod from the boss for being smart enough to walk somewhere and get breakfast and a coffee at a decent hour. I never could sleep so much. Neither could he, one of those death's door types. And the rest of this skeleton crew thinks their jobs are in jeopardy because you seem more responsible, more gung-ho, more willing and able. I just can't help it and my zeal is at least inspiring to some. The competitive types I can't stand. I don't compete against anyone or anything except my own standards.
I had been told to keep the crew on track and teach them what they don't already know, which when you're dealing with drop-outs can be hit or miss; mostly miss.