Chapter Text
The carnival air smelled like popcorn and cinnamon, the grease from all the deep-fryers hanging in the air like a blanket, making the dry air humid. Jason looked at the ground when he walked so he wouldn’t step on any fresh wads of cheap booby prize gum spit out when it lost its flavor after twenty seconds of chewing. Children ran on the concrete back and forth between the games and rides, couples made out passionately against cheap wooden walls that shook every time they bumped up against it, but Jason walked alone. Alone, with nothing but his riding jacket and a helmet under his arm. He’d had a few helmets stolen (and had stolen a few helmets in return) and after a while he learned not to leave them hanging on the side of his bike anymore.
He’d managed to convince a cute girl working at one of the food stands to give him a free corn dog. It was amazing how much people respected you with a leather jacket and without a damn to give about much of anything, even when you were asking for a free lunch. He twirled the stick around in his mouth like a cigarette (not that he didn’t have those, but while there was no specific rule against it he thought it’d be bad form to smoke around all the kids).
“Hey, you, hey there, rebel,” a man with a missing front tooth called over from one of the game booths.
Jason pointed to himself, raising an eyebrow. While he’d always been a little bit of a hooligan (to use a word his teachers often used) even before running away from home, he still wasn’t used to people calling him anything like that. Rebel. Bad boy. Outlaw. He always thought those designations were reserved for hardcore criminals, drug dealers, killers, not free spirits who occasionally dabbled in crime.
“No, the five-year-old girl with the lollipop,” the carny said, “Yeah, you, get over here.”
Jason walked over to the booth. It was a simple game, the kind where you had to throw darts at balloons. Probably rigged in one way or another. Dull darts, balloons not filled to popping capacity, whatever. Jason didn’t hold that against anyone, a guy had to make money.
“You wanna try your luck?” the man said.
Jason looked around at the prizes, “What the hell am I gonna do with a stuffed horse or a live fish?”
“You could give it to your sweetie,” the carny said, and Jason stared at him blankly, “What, you don’t have a sweetie?”
Jason shrugged.
“Are you chicken?” the carny said.
Jason shrugged again.
The carny waved him off and was about to turn his attention elsewhere before Jason piped up again, “Where’s the motorcycle show? I heard you guys have one.”
“Yeah, yeah we do. Down there and keep walking left once you hit the lost kid tent,” he said, gesturing down between rows of games and food stands.
“Thanks,” Jason said, but he didn’t really expect a ‘you’re welcome’ before he started walking away.
At this time of night the neon signs and lamps stood out like bright city lights on the boardwalk. At this time of night there was no shortage of vomit staining the ground and the walls from the alcohol the carnival wasn’t technically allowed to sell. He pitied the poor sap that had to clean that up. He’d cleaned up his fair share of vomit for a bit of pocket change these last few years and it never got any less disgusting. Still, amidst the drunks and the seedy carnies and occasionally rather lewd public displays of affection, this place felt like home. Nostalgic, almost, although Jason never really went to a carnival as a kid. His mom wasn’t fond of them, she said the smell and the lights gave her a headache.
He figured he liked it here because he was a traveler, too. Someone who never stayed in one place for too long before moving down the road, someone who occasionally engaged in some less-than-legal practices but never did much harm. God dammit, Jason, he thought to himself, You’re the human equivalent of a dirty carnival.
He arrived at a big tent with a giant spherical cage in the center, but although the sign said shows every two hours there was no crowd waiting, just one rather large, tattooed man wiping one of the bikes off with an old rag.
“No show today, kid,” he said without even looking up, “One of our riders broke his wrist a few hours ago.”
“Oh,” Jason said, and he backed up a few steps but didn’t completely leave.
The man finally looked up at him, noticing the helmet tucked under his arm, “You ride?”
“Yeah,” Jason said, “Only for a couple years. I wanted to see some of the…techniques, and stuff.”
“You’re gonna have to come back next year, I’m afraid,” the man said, “but I can show you the cage if you want to take a look.”
Jason nodded and followed him over to it. It seemed colossal now that he was standing right beside it, but at the same time he imagined himself on his bike inside that cage and it felt almost claustrophobically small.
“How many guys are in here at once?” Jason asked.
“Three’s the maximum before we’re looking at a lawsuit,” the man said, “I don’t imagine four would go over very well anyways.”
Jason looked at it, running his fingers over the metal. As he inspected it he noticed something, an etching written in messy capital letters, looked to be carved with a knife of some sort.
HANSOM LUKE LIVES, it said.
“Who’s Handsome Luke?” Jason asked.
“Who?” the man said, looking over at the etching, “Oh, that. I dunno. That thing’s been there as long as I’ve been working here. Somebody’s friend, I guess. Maybe one of those local legends.”
“My dad’s name was Luke,” Jason said, more to himself than anyone else.
The man paused for a few seconds and let him look at it, “Maybe you could try your hand at this one day, kid, if you ever need a job.”
Jason stared into the center of the cage, “Nah. I don’t think so.”