Lindsay is a weather worn 13 years of age. Like his mother, he has fine dish water blonde hair. He inherited his muscular build. At first look Lindsay appears a mixture of intense, scared and cute. He always was quiet. People often misread him for disliking them because of his shy, introverted ways. Inside his head was full of conversations and interactions, full of color and sound. His affect was that of a quiet, lifeless desert. His internal life was a parade. An exhibition. A carnival.
Lindsay’s room was cramped and cluttered. It was a menagerie filled mainly with the junk he stealthily gathered from garbage cans and carnival grounds littered with odds and ends from peoples pockets and purses after a night of frolic. These were his treasures. Artifacts from his explorations and adventures. Lindsay was a scavenger. Like a hyena or a rat. These were his friends, his toys, his life. Some were stolen from unnoticing kids and adults. He would always tell his Mom that he just ‘found’ such and such in the garbage or on the ground.
He had much of his collection displayed along his windows, on his walls, along his shelves, in his closet, along his base board, everywhere there was stacking, hanging or lining up space. His extra special treasures, loot and booty from his travels were stashed in several secret spots throughout the room. Under his bed. In the wall of his closet. Between his mattress. In the ceiling. He had secret compartments everywhere.
Some of the nick-nacks included a pottery clown, several watches, pens of all sorts, lead toy soldiers, a gold plated cigarette case, three transistor radios, a broken telephone, a dozen or so magnets extracted from speakers and phones, pieces from a chemistry set. Leftover erector set. Some ornamental jewelry, especially with colorful crystals in them. 2 prisms. A bunch of colorful fall leaves from the North. 8 or 9 paper backed sci-fi books. A small stack of comic books on super heroes. A plethora of rockets, airplanes, and space aged gadgets—which were among his favorite things. Three bags of various marbles. A shoe box of sports playing cards, mostly football. Bottle caps, plastic snakes, small toy monsters of various vintages, miscellaneous building devices including matches, tinker toys, pop cycle sticks, Lincoln logs, toothpicks. Plastic army men in various poses.
His favorite was the machine gunners and the snipers. Also 2 tanks and 3 armored vehicles. Most of a monopoly game. 3 decks of cards. 1 stuffed animal that was kept secret because he was presumably too old… a little matted dog he had as long as he could remember. Now kept safely in his closet ceiling hideout. Most of a 64 piece set of crayons. A gold fish bowl absent the two fish that died from experimentation. A bug jar with holes punctured in the lid and a makeshift net.
Lindsay is playing in his room at end of hall. He hears the shit going on up in the front of the trailer. He looks over at the hamsters going at it in their cage a look of contempt. He reaches under his bed and determinedly pulls out his stock of Playboy and Penthouse magazines. (1st issues of American version of Penthouse and now classic issues of Playboy) He carefully ponders over the familiar dog eared pages. Quickly bored or distracted , he tucks them neatly back into their secret place and tosses them back into his knapsack, stashing them back under the bed.
He quietly sneaks into Butch & Agnes’ bedroom, up the hall. The sound of their sexual giggles and play growing louder as he draws closer. Lindsay surveys his mother’s scattered lingerie. Their clothes are littered everywhere. He gently picks up her red laced bikini panties and rubs them between his fingers ponderously. More in a spirit of exploration and curiosity, then animal lust.
Cautiously, he tip-toes further down the tight trailer hall to the orange and green pull curtain. Its square, potato sack weave, dangling from shower curtain type rings, masking the kitchen-living room-dining room. Fractional cracks, now peeping places, lie along the edges of the curtain and the cheap wood veneer walls. Through its translucent veil and cracks Lindsay steals glimpses of live, familial erotica.
Butch is sucking on Agnes’ wet tits. His mother’s “tits”. Butch’ shirt is off, revealing his thick, hairy, auburn chest. Lindsay witnesses the preamble to this sex scene, peeking guiltily through the mesh of the drape. He is growing agitated, and although disturbed, continues to watch.
Mesmerized, repulsed, like a deer caught in headlights, Lindsay sadly, lustily stares transfixed. A hypnotic trance. Caught against his will like a insect in a spider’ web, yet drawn to its beautiful symmetry and design. Pulled irresistibly to a psychic death… rather reluctantly stumbling toward it… no, running to it with vigor. A self-destructive, addictive dance. Dies Irea. A sweet doom.
He starts to fondle himself through his shorts as he gets turned on. Accidentally, his pen knife spills out of his front pocket. The sudden, unexpected noise shocks and awakens Agnes and alerts Butch. Lindsay immediately backs away from the curtain and into the shadows. Terror stricken. Agnes quickly pulls her fallen shirt off the floor besides them and hastily makes an attempt to cover her breasts. She is clad only in black bikini panties.
Butch, however, donning but his boxer shorts, makes no effort to conceal himself. He responds with a mixture of antagonism and good humor. (toys, teases and/or torments the boy), “Hey you little pervert. You want to take a good look? Come on out and watch”. Agnes feigning anger punches Butch’ chest. Still acts turned on. Doesn’t seem to really care that much. Butch continues jeering him, “Come out and learn something. I’ll show you how it’s done. How to use that little dick of yours”.
Lindsay is filled with fear, shock and guilt. He creeps back slowly toward his room trying to be inconspicuous. Maybe they don’t really know, for sure. He is terrified. He looks at the pen knife on the floor. Butch’ words seem dull and bouncing off his skull like they aren’t really going in. Lindsay feels light, like not totally in his body. Like he could faint or just flyaway. I wonder if death feels this way. Just to float away. Just to rise up and go away. His body feels numb all over, like a skin, a sheath, not really connected to him, to the Lindsay person.
Lindsay remembers Deja Vu of this incident. Like it has happened over and over again. Maybe it has. Or was it just a dream. He thinks about his dreams… awake and asleep of flying. Not completely like a bird or an airplane. More like a flying squirrel. Leaping and gliding, not self propelled. He does have the imagined capability of cling to walls and effortlessly jump to unusual heights. Sometimes it requires running to get up to speed before he can take off for a short flight.
He also remembers his powers. These are not imagined though. He knows he possesses them. His ability to move objects with the focus of his mind. He read about it and seen it on television. He knows he has this power. He hasn’t been able to manifest it yet, but he knows it’s there.
Lindsay continues his dark revelry as he slinks down the hall toward his room.
Lindsay also knew he was a phenomenal genius. Everyone said he was real smart. But he always hid his real genius. They always hated really smart kids. His Mom always said he was “gifted”. Of course, she was a self proclaimed genius. She said she never met her intellectual match, anywhere. Of course she traveled in rather small circles. She needed to think and convince him that he was not as smart as her. He conceded this openly because it was necessary for social equilibrium. For survival. But deep inside he knew he was smarter than her. Smarter than everyone. That’s why they all hated him. He was special. That’s why she hated him. He had to keep it a secret. Yes, he had to hide his real identity… even from himself. If they suspected they would surely kill him.
During the intermission, Agnes reaches over and takes a drag off her cigarette, long ash precariously dangling from its head. Shit, it’s spent. Looks for another. All out. Gets up. Tells Butch(half-hearted), “cut it out!” Walks around, stalking for a cig. One hand still vigilantly maintaining the crumpled shirt between her breasts, yet not quite covering them. Fairly unconcerned about Lindsay, but disturbed about her lack of smokes.
“You see my cigs?” she says to Butch. Butch, ignoring her question, rips the shirt from her hands and starts making out again. She yields happily, but still looks around for a cigarette. Butch quickly recaptures her full attention. They resume their sport, but not until Butch treks over to the curtain, jerking it apart and spits out a final dig, “Get a life kid!”
Like a cockroach when the lights are abruptly turned on, Lindsay scurries back the last few feet into the apparent safety and sanctity of his room and noiselessly slams the door.
Carny Kid 