Livio Farallo

wilson historical society memorial day fair

congested road into a small town,
four or five miles out.
children strung behind their parents in a thin line
between the moving cars and the parked cars
which leaned slightly into the roadside ditch.
a policeman directing traffic here and there.
so many fire hydrants, it seemed, for a town
so close to the lake.
houses liberally spaced and surrounded by tall trees.
some fool with a world war two cannon in his front yard;
we stepped carefully and
followed the cloud of dust through the entrance.

the petting zoo is a playpen-size cage with two baby pigs;
a milk-carton size cage with two rabbits; a picnic basket-
size cage with four ducklings. a local politician dressed up
like yogi bear (who else should he be)?
i buy a long, gold-plated shoehorn with a curved handle
and, on the neck, a painted picture of a matador flipping
his cape above an encrusted false ruby, for three dollars,
from a man with a long-crooked cigar who tells me,
“You do the same.” when I say, “Thank you.”
we walk through several rows of antique cars,
my face shining ludicrously in every one.
my wife carries a bottle of absolutely pure mountain spring water.
my son with a leaking blue balloon.
i buy a rockefeller campaign button for fifty cents
(from one of his gubernatorial runs or his bid for the
presidency, it doesn’t say).
the thick smoke of barbecued chicken is everywhere
and almost worth the thirty- minute wait to buy food
tickets and the hour wait to get the chicken itself.
we leave after three pony rides in which the pony
stopped to shit each time,
and a walk through an authentic 1903 train car
with fluorescent lights, lava lamps, and a stereo system.

congested road out of a small town.
children strung behind bedraggled parents.
the cars leaving much faster than they came.
all of us will be home soon in our subjective sameness.
my wife picking up the pace.
little yard sales with large homemade signs set up in driveways.
some fool polishing the cannon in his front yard.
a three-legged dog skipping over to us trying to look fierce and barking.
i turn my back.
i am thinking what a beautiful walk this would be without any special event,
without people.
my son pissing in the backseat of the car
into what looks like an old tin watering can
we found in the trunk.
my wife and i standing by the side of the car with our hands
on our hips looking intently at the sky.
most passersby look up as well.
with an unsure grin, she pours the piss into the roots of an old tree
and puts the watering can back in the trunk.
we leave, following a rapid line of cars.
dinner is next, at home.
we pass a policeman with orange gloves slapping the dust
off his hat.
all the cars at the intersection accelerate.

 

Livio Farallo is co-founder/co-editor of Slipstream and the cheese stands alone.