Career move: Carney EDITED???

I had, just left 84 Lumber, and was trying to get my job smoothed over. 
I think I was fired, that day, because as a Sawyer, I cut the parts, for the trusses we manufactured but, almost all of, my cuts were wrong. 
With my brain injury, dominating the situation, and alcohol compounding things, as best supporting actor, everything was all mixed up. 
As I crossed the highway overpass, going towards town, a guy driving a king cab pickup truck, stopped, and asked me if I needed a ride, or a job. 
People don’t just stop and ask you if you need any sort of help these days, and, I should have been weary, especially since I was, already, in town.
I got in, of course, only to find myself on my way to the carnival ,with a man who had to run for potatoes, to use in his food wagon, that he operated there. He explained, to me, that they always needed schleps, and me- I nominated myself. What a typical Pisces.

It was the first day of the Carnival, which was still in set-up mode. Jerry’s Concessions, were providing the show. 
The work I was assigned to do was, running a ride called, The Force Ten. 

This ride was the feature, on this Medway, going in circle fashion, lifting high and tilting, spinning, at a speed that generated a G-force, in excess of three G’s. 
All of this while, several pre-amps, and, over two-dozen speakers, blared music that I felt was appropriate for the rhythm, and the intensity of the ride. 

It was up to me, to decide what music to use. 

Metallica, happened to be the best to choose from so, I selected, “Battery”, as the main track to use. The intro is kind of long so, I played it while loading the buckets, on the ride. 

I would load a couple buckets, and then jog the machine. Then, I’d load a couple more, jogging it around some more, while burning through the introduction. 

When it got time to go, I would hit the, "Run", button- Choreographing the music and ride, for the rush and thrill- compounding the effect. 

What a Blast! People couldn’t get enough of it. 

The ride was drawing crowds of one hundred people, or more, that would watch. 

My costume helped a bit, having long, crazy, two-tone hair, from a dye-job that I let some, crack addicted woman, talk me into. 

The music would fill the grounds, and I would thrash my hair about, while playing Air Guitar. I loved being on a stage, especially five feet off of the ground! 

It was, my own show, that put two hundred and fifty dollars in my hand, per week. This was a huge pay cut, from the seventy thousand I made, as a Finish Carpenter, to the fifty thousand per year I was making, at Permalife, but it didn’t matter anymore. My whole life was destroyed, and all that was left was garbage. 

Little did I realize, I was now a volunteer prisoner, serving time on death row, in every possible sense of the phrase. 

One of the first couple days, working for the ride owner, I was asked if I would be interested in leaving with them, to go to the next spot. 

“Sure,” I answered. 

The very next question was, “Do you have any warrants?” 

This, should have, indicated the reality of modern day slavery but my common sense was, completely, out to lunch since my accident. I was on a Suicide run, with that intention. 

That night, at close, I got a twenty-dollar tattoo, of a runaway doobie, on my left shoulder, and threw all of my identification in the nearest trashcan.

The customers, or ‘mark’s, would come back ,after riding- a lot of times with, “tips”, that ranged from money, to drugs. 

Having been instructed not to accept them, I let my alter ego handle that department. 

Sometimes, people would pay me to get on, deciding to go on a ride, after all, but not wanting to go through the hassle of buying any tickets, and insisting that I take the money because they liked me. Sometimes, "No", isn't a word that is heard- especially when you are voicing your feelings about being used. Whatever.

 There was a young guy, with a crippled arm, that ran a food wagon, whom told me that he would watch a joint, at each spot, studying the traffic and business. He would tell me, that, my little freak show was getting all the ratings, at the Berlin Fair, saying, that it was the most interesting, and entertaining thing, he’d seen since he had been on the circuit. 

Feeling proud that night but not feeling proud enough of myself, to want to live, it was a momentary thing. 

Maybe it was ego, more than pride or, maybe it was blind stupidity but there was plenty of stupidity on the carnival circuit so, I blended right in. Only, they don’t call it stupidity because it’s not, at all recognized, as anything but normality. 

George Orwell may have written about it already or, Hunter S. Thompson, but I am going to try to explain it anyway:

Working for the Carnival is just like anything else in life. 

There are, maybe, three sides to the Politics. There are ride jockeys, food vendors and barkers, and then there is the management, which would be the Governor or, Dictator. 

The rides are, mostly, owned by the Management- except for some privately owned rides that follow along, either by invitation or, bid. 

Management sells tickets, and each ride collects them, each paid a percentage of the tickets it draws. 

Barkers run the games, in the same type fashion, only, it’s cash from the Marks, directly into their hand so, even among those with no Honor, there is an Honor system to split a percentage with the Management. 

So, you should be able to see how the jockeys, and barkers, are competing for the same monies.

Food vendors are always Neutral because, everyone, has to eat. The food vendors are like Cleopatra’s, in the Carnival. 

Fights often break out, between the jockeys, and the barkers And it’s always due to their frustrations with getting money, out of the marks. Either they are, just pissed off because people aren’t spending money at the games like they used to or, expect them to- blaming it on the rides or, they claim they can’t be heard well enough, over the noise of the sirens and sounds, that are used to add a layer of attraction or, better word- "Saliency" - calling the attention of the potential riders.

At then end of the night ,it’s party time- drugs, booze, and Sex. 

Eleven P.M. comes, and then it’s, all too, crazy. 

The Clans group up, and, who knows, what will happen next. 

Someone, almost, always gets beat up. It’s like, the freaking Jackals or, Hyenas, on the African plains- just a bunch of beggars, around me, biding their time until they are, completely, freed of responsibility as ,who are, sick of having to wash up for supper, even.

Biding time, until Death, was, mostly, what I was doing but I wasn’t dying from anger and hate, I was dying from a broken heart. 

It was typical of me, to get mixed up with the dregs of society because I was born, inconveniently. And, being aware of that, as well as being socially scarred because of it, placed me right where misfits end up, a lot of times- on the streets.

Tom Kloosterhouse, worked with me at 84 Lumber, where I met him. After I joined the Carnival, he landed a job working with me. Now, that I look back with my experience on Earth, I see how we, both, thought it was a good idea- we, both, had our bells rung. 

My bell got rung six, consecutive, times, in the collision with the Semi, and he got his bell rung when a stack of Trusses fell from their, foolishly upright, stacked position. So, we both were dealing with Concussions. And, now that I have been educated on what Concussions are, and what PTSD is, I, clearly, understand why we did something so, utterly, stupid.

They got rid of, Tom, over the Workman’s Compensation suit, and they got rid of me because I was having, serious, issues with my Mathematical computations- being a Sawyer, and cutting the Truss parts- my head injury was an, serious, issue. 
My numbers were, always, miswritten or misread, as if I had Dyslexia. That was fine with me because I had enough of that operation anyway. 

Seeing my mistakes, was, a constant source of frustration and aggravation, that only made the drinking and using, more consistent, routine, and copious. 

Even though it would appear as though I was partying, I was miserable, and hated everything I was doing to myself, which only compounded my misery, all the more.

So, there we were, him and I, and our demons. 

One night, being locals, we let someone talk us into finding them some Cocaine- one of the other Jockeys. By the time we got back to the lot, we were pretty lit. In the bunkhouse room, we were assigned, Tom, gets out the Coke he had gotten for us, and puts down a couple of lines. I passed out, right in the middle of trying to snort one; my head fell forward, onto the mirror. 
Tom just grabbed me by a wad of hair, and scraped it off of my forehead with his identification card. 
It was, just an average night, in the life of a Carney.

Escaping The Despondent Sea is available on Amazon Kindle Unlimited, and is receiving 5 star reviews on Goodreads.com