Sideshow

         If I thought it would work at all, I'd scream, "Stop staring at me!" over and over until my lungs caved in.

         But that would just make it worse, bring more attention to the freak show.

         Hey, No Admission needed!  Save your nickels, ladies and gentlemen!  Gather the kids around and get a good, long look!

         Come see the amazing faceless wonder.

         Earlier this summer, the day after I'd said goodbye to Miss Sailor's fourth grade class and my first full day of summer break, I'd lost my face when I got hit by a car.  I mean, I still have eyes, a nose, and a mouth.  I just don't have any skin.

         Okay, a little skin is left around my eyes where I guess my eye sockets protected the sunk-in skin.  That leaves me with at least one thing about my face that still looks human.  The rest is pulp, chewed up like hamburger, if hamburger scabbed over if you left it out of the fridge for a few days. 

         It's not like I need all these people pointing and whispering to remember that I'm a freak.  I have plenty of mirrors and the tears in my mom's eyes every time she looks at me to remind me plenty. 

         I should have listened to my mom.  She didn't want me to come here to the fair.  I thought she was just being mean, even though that would be odd for her.  Still at the time, though, I couldn't think of any other reason she would want to keep me from the fair other than just being mean.

         I had sat around all summer until now, mostly in the back yard, swaying in the hammock between the two apple trees in the back yard.  I haven't had enough energy for much else.  I get tired very easily since the accident.  Sometimes it seems just staying awake is more exercise than I can handle. 

         I guess I could have just stayed in bed all day, but it's summer break.  Even if it's not spending time on the slip n' slide or riding my bike to the arcade, it's at least being outside.  That's where you're supposed to be during summer break.  If there wasn't going to be sleepovers or camping or fishing or tubing down the Yellow River, there was at least going to be the hammock.  It was the only thing that reminded me it was still summer. 

         It's been a long summer, full of visitors I don't recognize and gifts from people I don't know.  My friends don't come around too much.  I can tell it freaks them out to see me like this.  At least us kids are honest.  We wear our looks of shock and disgust with pride. 

         Most of my friends came by one time each.  When they did, none of my them told me, "Hey, looking great."  when they came to see me.  None of them told me how well I was healing up or how soon I'd be back on my bike. They didn't say how I barely looked like I'd been through the horrors I have been.  They'd just stand there, half-hiding behind their parents with their mouths hanging open and their eyes bulging. 

         Behind the phony smiles and fake cheer adults put in their voice when they talk to me, I can see the same reactions my friends had.  Under all the bullcrap, anyway.  They all wanted to do what my friend Sherri did, run crying and screaming from my backyard, arms flailing over her head.  The adults wouldn't admit it if you put a gun to their heads, but it didn't mean I couldn't tell they were sick to their stomachs. 

         But they kept coming.  Everyday, I have 10 or 15 visitors, rarely the same person twice.  I don't know this many people, so I have to wonder why they are all coming to see me.  I guess they've just never seen a kid with no face before and they weren't going to miss their chance.  I wonder if they run an ad in the local paper or something.  I mean, how does everyone know to come get their look at what I was now?

         I've noticed that no one that comes refers to me by name.  They all say "I've come to see how your boy is doing."  Or they call me a little trooper or kiddo or champ.  I guess when they see what I look like, they can't imagine me as a human boy with a human name.

           I've imagined the other names people have for me.  The ones they use later when they talk about what they saw.

         The Scab.
         Hamburger Face.
         The Melting Boy.
         The Monster Kid.
         Shred Head.

         None of them are too creative, I know, but I have a feeling these would be the things that came to mind when they saw my red and brown pulpy face with stitches running this way and that, even into my mouth. 

         They all want to know the story.  They all want to hear how The Scab became The Scab.  I tell them I can't remember, which I suppose is believable enough.  I was in a coma for a few days after the accident, so people expect you to be a little cloudy.  For some reason I can't remember, I tell people I can't even remember the day before it happened.

         But I remember.  I remember up the point of them trying to stitch me up in the ER, when I slipped out of consciousness for a few days.  10 I think.  That part I really don't remember.  But, as much as I don't want to, I do remember how it happened.
                   

                                                          -

         Me and two of the neighbor kids, Matt King and Darren Wells,  were trying to pack as much summer activity into the first day of our vacation as we could.  We'd ridden our bikes down to the town park.  It was kind of a town ritual for us kids to all go to the park on that first day off of school.  As long as I'd been in school it had been anyway, so I figured it went back a ways.  We had picked mulberries, not quite ripe enough to eat but just right for throwing at each other and had swam in the river, right by the rapids were all three of our mothers had specifically forbidden us from swimming.  They all three had a horror story about someone drowning there because of an undertoe or something like that.  We had discussed the stories and decided that in a town the size of Knox, we'd have heard about the people drowning ourselves and figured the stories no more true than the one Matt's mom had told us about mixing pop rocks and Pepsi.  That's too stupid to even repeat. 

         Just as we were drying off, we heard the war cry of Ronnie Fiddler and turned to see him lob a water balloon into the window of a passing car and then ran over to watch as he gave the driver, who had skidded to a stop and chased Ronnie down and then held him by his shirt, a really lame-wad story about how there was a water-balloon fight going on and this guy had just driven past at the wrong time.  Lame-o story or not, it was good enough to keep him from getting beat, which, to be honest, I was a little disappointed in.  He was the kid that had sent a good 20 kids home with black eyes to explain to their parents.  Me, Matt, and Darren all three represented a fraction of that number.  Me being bullied didn't go over well with my dad, either.  I don't mean he went and made a stand for me or anything like that.  It was like he was embarrassed to have a weakling son and I'd been whipped twice for "letting" Ronnie beat the crap out of me.  My mom had just said that what goes around comes around.  I was still waiting for it to come around Ronnie's way.

         After the guy with the Camaro with the soaking wet front seat let Ronnie live, we all really did have a water balloon fight. It too was tradition, at least for the last two years, so everyone was prepared.  Me and Matt had saved quarters for awhile to load up on bags of cheap balloons and we had smuggled them out of the house in our pockets.  For some unknown reason, much like our river swims, water balloon fights were forbidden by both our parents.  I'm sure if we'd let them, they'd tell us some story they knew about a guy who lost an eye in a water balloon battle or something.  Despite the ban put on this activity, we each brought 4 bags of balloons to this war.  Darren, as usual just mooched off of our supply.  Matt, as usual, gave Darren crap about being such a bum, but let him dip into his supply just the same. 

              Darren was kind of poor and we all knew, but all acted like we didn't.  In fact, I think the main reason we hung out with him was because we felt bad for him.  He could get kind of annoying with all the big lies he told and he wasn't always clean.  We teased him about it a little, but we didn't let anyone else tease him.  Well, anyone except Ronnie. 

         The war was well fought.  The highlight being when we could see through Angie Palmer's soaking wet shirt.  She's the only girl in our class that already has boobs and we all love her for it.  Besides when watching late night cable, another forbidden activity that we could only pull off at Darren's house because his parents just didn‘t seem to pay any attention, it was my first good look at boobs. 

         Shortly after this, we started the 5 ½ mile bike ride to my house.  It was going to be getting dark within an hour or two, plus there's no way to top getting to see Angie's boobs anyway, so we figured it was time to move on. 

         We stopped twice on the way to my house.  Once to pool together our spare change and buy a large Coke at the Stop-N-Shop gas station to split and once to take a leak behind somebody's shed about a mile from my house.  Those Cokes are giant and not a one of us could have made it another thirty seconds without peeing our pants.

         We almost made it all the way back to my house.

         Now, this is the part I don't really know what happened.  Not because I don't remember, just because I didn't see it coming.  I just know that the car hit me.  How it happened I had to piece together from everyone else's stories.  I've been told that the driver was drunk and even though I was on the opposite side of the road, riding into oncoming traffic the way they taught us in one of the crappy film strips at school so that you can see cars coming, she just swerved right over and hit me from behind, then drilled a telephone pole hard enough to tip it halfway over.

         Now, back to what I do remember.  Even though everything happened in super slow motion, it felt like she was going a 1000 miles per hour when she hit me.  I saw my bike get pushed out from under me and I launched back onto the hood, my butt and my back colliding with the metal.  My head though, it whipped back into the windshield a second after I'd bounced on the hood. 

         When my head hit, and it hit hard, everything became really dull.  I know that's a weird thing to say, but I don't know how else to say it.  All the sounds, the screeching tires, cracking glass, roaring engine, all were gone.  All I could hear was a ringing I'm pretty sure was coming from inside my head.  There was a big flash of yellow and white light, then all the color in the world seemed to fade away.  I felt weightless, too, but there's a reason for that, I guess. 

         I was thrown 67 feet through the air after the car hit me. 

         67 feet.

         I don't know who measured that later, but it was a number everyone knew.

         I landed on my face.

         There was a loud cracking that, for just a second, drown out the ringing.  I didn't feel my teeth get knocked out or part of my skull shatter.  I didn't feel the skin get peeled from my face as I skidded to a stop.  I just felt like I was on fire, all over.  There wasn't a part of me that didn't hurt worse than anything I'd ever felt.
 
                I sat up right away and something hung down off my forehead and covered my eyes.  I kept trying to wipe whatever it was off, but after every swipe, it'd just fall back in place.  I touched it slowly to see if I could feel what it was, but several of my fingers were broken and they felt just as on fire as the rest of me. 

                I couldn't stay sitting up for very long for some reason and kept falling back, hitting my head pretty good on the pavement once or twice.  But I kept trying to sit up, even stand up, but sitting up for a couple of seconds at a time was all I could manage. 

                I tried to call for Matt.  Just Matt.  I don't know why, but I only wanted him to come help me. 

         When I tried to call for him, I heard the sound come out of my mouth and it sounded like I was drowning.  It sounded like when you step in deep mud and you leave your shoe behind when you pull your foot out.  I saw blood spray from my mouth.  I tried to call out to Matt again, but it just sounded like I was gargling and more blood sprayed out. 

         Somewhere, though, I could hear Matt calling to me.  Darren too.  From the way it sounded, I thought they must have been really far away, but in just a second they were both standing over me.

         I tried to ask Matt to help me, but it came out more gargles. 

         I asked him what was on my face that kept hanging down over my eyes, but that came out as gargles too.

         I even heard the gargles when I wasn't trying to say anything and then I realized that noise was me trying to breath. 

         I began to inhale big mouthfuls of blood.  I tried to cough it out and replace it with a breath of air, but there was just more blood to swallow instead.  I looked up at Matt, choking and spraying bright red blood from my mouth.  My lungs were pulling hard for air, but they just kept pulling in more blood.  I knew that I was going to die in a few seconds.  There was no way to breath, so how could I possibly live?  I couldn't make out everything Matt and Darren were saying, what with the ringing noise and my coughing drowning out everything else, but I caught a few words every so often.  Between my gasps,  I heard, "Choking....blood.......Christ's sake......over......turn him over......choking!"  and soon I was being flipped over on my belly.

         When I began to panic and began to realize that I was dying, I had forgotten all the pain that only seconds before was burning in every part of my body.  When those guys rolled me over, it all came rushing back in and I screamed.  Not on purpose, it just kind of came out. 

         But so did most of the blood in my lungs.  I coughed huge mouthfuls of blood on the ground, but this time, between coughs, I could pull a little air in my lungs.  Every time I coughed up a mess of blood, it was a little easier to breath.  It hurt like hell, but at least I could do it. 

         Matt told Darren to run to my house to get my parents.  I looked around at where I was and I realized I was laying right at the end of my driveway.  That was still a pretty good run for Darren.  We live out in the country and we have one of those long, country lanes where you can't even see the house from the road.

         Even though I didn't know it at the time, my top lip was split in half clear up to my nose and my bottom lip was kind of not there at all.  So it was amazing that Matt could somewhat understand me when I asked him to help me up.  It sounded more like, "Melmb me uhhb."

         "No way!"  HE yelled.  "You gotta stay right there.  Darren went to get your dad." 

         "Nooo, get Mumb, get my mumb."  My mom always took care of me when I was hurt.  As I looked up to Matt to see if he was going to agree, whatever it was that kept getting in my eyes flapped down again.  I started pulling at it this time instead of brushing it to the side.

         Matt screamed at me, "DON'T!  Man, that's your face.  Oh, man, you‘re really messed up."  I really didn't understand what he was talking about, so I kept on pulling.  Whatever it was finally pulled off in my hand and as I heard Matt begin to scream like Angie Palmer did when her white T-shirt became drenched, I saw what it was he was trying to tell me.  I had just pulled off a huge chunk of my face and was holding the flap of skin in my hand.  I began screaming again.

         I was still screaming uncontrollably for I don't know how long.  I know I was still screaming when my dad got there, who knows how long after Darren had left to get him. I was still screaming when one of the neighbor ladies ran over and told my dad she had already called the ambulance.  I was still screaming when the cops got there. 

         I'd like to be able to say that I was still screaming when the ambulance got there, but it never did.  I'm not really sure why, but everyone waited and waited for what felt like a week at the time for the ambulance to show up.  The neighbor lady had went back and called them again and the cops radioed several times for them to "get their asses out here."

         But they never came.  I've been told since then that it was a mix-up, but there has to be something more to it than that.  I mean, Mrs. Noldstrom had called them two or three times and the cop that kept telling me to be strong and that everything was okay had radioed for them probably six or seven times.  How could it just have been a mix-up?

         The cop kept saying how pissed off he was and made a few threats to the ambulance drivers that weren't there.  Finally, he stood up and yelled, "Fuck it, let's get him in my backseat and I'll get him to the goddamn hospital."  Despite the state I was in, I still thought it was cool to hear a grown-up, especially a cop, use the f-word like that.  Any other time, I probably would have laughed out loud. 

         The pain was too much for me to handle when the cop and my dad picked me up and put me in the back seat of the cop car.  I gave up on screaming and went straight to crying.  More like sobbing.  I guess I should be ashamed of that or at least embarrassed, but I'm not. 

         When we got to the ER, the ambulance driver was leaned against the counter, leaned in really close face-to-face with a nurse and they both were laughing.  The cop that was helping carry me asked him where he had been and the driver said something about not realizing that it was a serious situation.  The cop put me down on one of the ER beds and turned to run at the driver, his fist pulled back.  He called him a son of a bitch, too.  My dad held the cop back from beating up the ambulance driver long enough for the driver to make his getaway.  I had started to choke on blood again, so the cop forgot about the driver and yelled for a nurse or a doctor, I don't remember which.  Things start to get really hazy here. 

         The ringing in my head was the only thing I could hear now.  I could tell that the nurses and doctors were asking me questions by the way they looked at me, but I could only see their mouths moving.  I saw some needles I think and some of those blood packet things.  I also saw the collection of horrible tools they had and when they started picking them up and moving towards me, the only thing that made any sense to me was to fight.  I thrashed about, throwing my fists out blindly and kicking my feet, hoping to get all these people away from me.  All I could think was that I was already hurt and now these people were trying to hurt me more with all those sharp, scary, silver tools.  I thought of movies about Frankenstein and mad scientists and fought even harder. 

         I know this doesn't make sense to fight the people trying to help me, but it did then.  It was all that made sense.  At this point, I couldn't remember why my mom was crying or even why I was here at the hospital.  I couldn't remember how or why my arms and legs were suddenly strapped to the bed.  Everything looked really foggy, but through the fog, I saw a doctor bring a weird pair of scissors towards my face and I could see there was a really big and curved sewing needle, with thread and everything, being held in those scissors. Inside my head, the ringing had gotten so loud I just wanted to close my eyes and give up.

         So I did.

                                                          -

         A couple of weeks later, I got my first look at what used to be my face.  When I first came around, I just kind of laid there for a few days.  I didn't really know what was going on either.  I just knew that everyone in my family was really sad for some reason, because every time I saw any of them, they were crying.  Everyone except my dad, that is.  He was there, but he didn't really look at me much.  He yelled at me when I tried to take the balloon off my wiener a couple of times.  The nurses had to tell me probably 12 times that I was supposed to use that balloon to pee in.  I suppose since I couldn't even find enough energy to ask everyone why they were crying, it was good that I didn't have to get out of bed to pee, but that thing was pinching me and was really uncomfortable even when it wasn't.

         When they transferred me out of intensive care and into a normal hospital room,  I finally had a TV to watch at least.  I could pee into a long pitcher-like thing instead of the balloon on my wiener thing and my mom could bring me magazines and comic books to read.  It was the first time mom had agreed to buy me a Mad Magazine. 

         Also, in a regular room, I could have visitors other than my family come see me.  At first I thought it would be cool, but I hadn't seen what I looked like yet.  I had forgotten all about pulling off that chunk of skin, too.  I was still kind of out of it.  A lot of times, what I meant to say wasn't what came out of my mouth.  It'd get all twisted up and I'd get frustrated because people misunderstood what I wanted.  I couldn't talk very clearly anyway.  My mouth was swollen almost shut.  All I could eat was runny jell-o, pudding, or broth.  I'd have a whole meal that was just broth.

         Also, I couldn't remember new things for very long and the things I already knew took me awhile to remember clearly.  You know, like names and stuff.  Like when my Aunt Ellen had visited.  I saw her five or six times a year, often for overnight visits, but I couldn't remember her name for the first 10 or 15 minutes of her visit.

         She brought gifts when she came, the first of many I'd receive there at the hospital.  She was kind of out of touch with what kids like, so she brought me one of those rubber things filled with water that are hard to hold onto.  I guess she either didn't know or had forgotten that six of my ten fingers were broken.

         She also brought me balloons, those silvery kind with a message on one side and the back that looked like metal.  When she handed the balloons to me, in the reflection in the metal-looking side of one of them, that's where I first saw my horrible face.  I instantly remembered the piece of my face that I had yanked off and Matt saying that I was really messed up.

         All of a sudden, I knew why everyone was crying.  After this I didn't like to have visitors.  I also didn't like talking to the doctors anymore.  When they found out I knew about the way I looked, it's all they wanted to talk about.  Before, it was all about how I was feeling or just dumb questions to pass the time while they used the blood pressure thing, like asking me about baseball or cartoons.

         Now they talked about plastic surgery and used words like reconstructive, permanent damage, severed nerves, and other stuff I really didn't want to hear.  This was also the first time they tried to explain that I'd been in a coma for a few days, but I didn't really know what that meant.  I'd heard it on TV is all.

           The worst doctor, the one that always jabbed at my sore mouth and poked my broken ribs, always told me about the years of "extensive plastic surgery" I would need to even look close to what I looked like before.  He didn't seem to mind how hard this made my mom cry.

         I've seen my mom cry way too much this summer.

                                                          -

         I got to go home after awhile.  I really don't remember exactly how long I was in the hospital, but I've guessed it to be around 4 weeks or so.  Things were a lot less cloudy by the time I went home.  My memory was coming back and I didn't get near as many headaches.  My face hadn't started to scab up yet.  It was still just muscles showing and stuff.  At the hospital, they kept it all wet and nasty with all kinds of creams and lotions that stunk really bad.  They sent some home with me for Mom to put on, too.

         The worst part of the hospital was the food.  I'd stayed on the Jell-o/pudding/broth diet and the doctors recommended I continue it at home, but on the way home from the hospital, I'd asked mom for a cheese sandwich.  Just bread, cheese, and Miracle Whip.  I was pretty sure I could handle that.  It took me 45 minutes to eat it because I had to tear it into tiny pieces and use the teeth I still had in the back of my mouth to grind up those pieces.  It hurt like hell to push those pieces of sandwich past my stitched-up lips and torn-up gums, but it was worth it though.  That was the best sandwich I'd ever had. 
         
                                                        -

         I hadn't really decided to lie about not remembering the accident.  It just kind of happened before I knew it. 

         At first, no one would ask me about it, not until I got home from the hospital at least.  It was probably only two days after being home that the first person asked.  It was my goofy Uncle Richard.

         I don't mean goofy like really fun to be around or makes you laugh.  I mean goofy like dumb.  He says mean things to try to make people laugh.  He thought it was the funniest thing ever to trick me into grabbing a bee at the 4th of July picnic at his house when I was 8.  He told me this story about if you clench the other fist, the one without the bee in it, and kept shaking the fist with the bee in it, it was scientifically impossible for the bee to sting me.  I think it was the scientifically impossible part that got me to believe it.  The only other person besides Uncle Richard to laugh was my dad.  I guess dumb senses of humor run in the family.  Lucky for me, I think mine came from Mom's side.

         He just came right out with it, first thing.  He looked at me and whistled one of those, "That's a real doosie" whistles and said, "Boy, oh, boy.  How the hell did that happen anyway?"

         Right when he asked that, it all flooded back.  The screaming.  The Crying. Me not being able to stay sitting up.  Me not being able to breath.  Me pulling my own face off and being too stupid to even know it. 

         I almost started crying, but you never, ever cried in front of Uncle Richard.  He'd laugh, call you a girl, and make really loud, fake crying noises between his laughs.  I knew if I told the story I would cry, so I just said, "I don't remember."  I didn't think it would work.  Uncle Richard just didn't let people take the easy way out.

         "I guess that makes sense, " He said, scratching his dumb, bald head.  "They said you took a pretty good bump on the old melon.  Plus, landing' smack on your face like that, huh?"

         "I. Um, I don't remember," I repeated.

         "Well, you did.  That's gotta ruin your day, huh?" 

         What an asshole. 

         I couldn't help but think that he already knew the story.  I mean, he knew about me hitting my head and about me landing on my face.  He just wanted to hear it from me for whatever sick reason.  I guess that's part of the exhibit I was now, but I hadn't started thinking like that at that time.

         It took a few more visitors for me to feel like a sideshow.  I'd hear a car come up the lane, the door slam, and most of the time, whoever it was would just come around the side of the house into the backyard instead of ringing the front doorbell.  I guess word was getting around on where exactly you went to see the show.

         They all asked to hear the story.  They knew.  They knew or they wouldn't be here.  They'd say they stopped by to drop off some gifts, stuff like coloring books, or flowers, or other stupid stuff I had no use for.  Or they'd bring food there was no way  I'd be able to eat.  Beef stew or peach cobbler. 
         
         I didn't really think of these things as gifts.  More like admission fees.

         They'd all want the full show, so they'd ask for the story.  I'd tell them I didn't remember. 

         But Dad would tell them.

         If I was a circus sideshow, Dad was most definitely the Ring Master.  I had started to notice that the only time I saw him was when other people would come around.  He'd show up and do his acting bit, the one about how much he cries and how hard it was to see me in the hospital.  Then he'd tell the story and, every time, I'd cry.

         Not big, sobbing wails like I did in the cop car, but enough that you'd think he'd notice and see how much I hated hearing that story.  See how bad it hurt to get tears in the drying scab that had replaced my face.  See how my scab-face would crack and bleed when I would cry.  But, he'd still tell it.  Over and over, almost word for word the same every time.  He'd add new things every so often, like the part about how he heard the crash clear up at the house and something told him I was hurt, so he came running.  Or the part about him making the cop take me to the hospital because the ambulance didn't show up.  The lie I couldn't stand that became part of the standard story was that the cop had to hold him back from kicking the ambulance driver's ass at the hospital.

         The first time I heard that part was the first time I'd ever thought, fuck you, Dad.  It wasn't the last time.  I think it everyday now.

         It just made me so mad to hear him lie about that.  I got even madder when I thought not only did you not go after the driver, you wouldn't even let the cop beat that jerk up.  I don't know if you've ever gotten mad when you were already crying, but it just makes you cry even harder. 

         When the people would leave, my dad would disappear into the house again.  I don't know when the last time he's talked to me was.  I think it was when he yelled at me about the wiener balloon thing.

         This whole summer has been like the end of church.  Shaking hands with a bunch of people I don't know, all of them telling me how great it is to see me.  That's always been the worst part of church.  Worse than the singing.  Worse than the wine and bread thing I never got to try.  Even worse than the long, speeches the preacher gives with all the words that sound so weird.  It's just so fake and uncomfortable.

         This summer was also when I figured out that I didn't like my dad very much.

         But just like every summer I can remember, this one led up to today and to the fair.  It was huge, the thing every kid in Knox looked forward to.

         When I say it was huge, I don't mean the fair was really big.  It only takes the creepy looking guys that work for the fair half a day to set it all up and you could walk the whole thing in probably five minutes.  I mean huge like important.  It ranks below only Christmas and your birthday when you're a kid around here. 

         It's the rides, the games, the awesome food, even the lights and music that makes it just....great.  There's always a couple of new rides, and they usually have the Octopus and the Tilt-A-Whirl, but the two best ones return every year. 

         One of them is the Tip Top and it's kind of like the Tea Cup ride at Disney World, except way more exciting.  There's a big wheel in the middle of each booth and the faster you turn it, the faster you spin.  Plus, the whole floor of the ride spins around and kind of bounces up and down.  It works best with two people, both sitting on the same side of the spinning booth, that way, all the weight is on one side and you can really get it spinning.  We'd spin until we could feel our arms and our stomach muscles were sore from laughing. 

         The other one is the big one.  It's called the Loop-O-Plane and not everyone can ride it.  You have to be a certain height just to ride it.  You sit in what looks like a pod from a rocket ship or a cockpit from a jet.  There's two long arms, each with one of those pods on the end and they start lifting up in opposite directions, slowly at first.  The engines or motor or whatever makes it go get really loud as it gets moving faster.  It goes all the way upside down, so you have to be pretty brave.  I only started riding it last summer.  I was tall enough the summer before that, but I was only 8 and still pretty scared of the Loop-O-Plane.

         There's food at the fair you can't find anywhere else.  Elephants ears, cotton candy, lemon shake-up, and kettle corn.  It's worth the stomach ache I almost always get.  Mom's right every year that I just eat too much of that junk, but I have to.  It'll be another whole year before I get to eat any of that stuff again.

         Even the creepy guys working there are great.  I mean the tattoos and missing teeth are scary, but most of those guys are funny.  I remember last year, the funniest guy was the guy running the mouse game.  That's the one where you put your quarter on one of the colored circles and you win if the mouse runs into that same color of hole on a big spinning wheel.  I don't know what exactly you'd win because I'd never seen anyone do it.  My dad had said the game was bullshit because they had a treat hidden in the hole they wanted the mouse to go in.  He didn't answer me when I asked how the mouse would smell the treat when he was spinning in the middle of the wheel.

         Anyway, this guy at the mouse game would yell out to challenge people, making fun of them when they walked past.  He'd call skinny guys "Hulkster" or " Hercules."  He'd call fat guys "String beans" or "Tubby."  He'd tell people he didn't want them to play because the mouse would take one look at their face and keep on running instead of going into one of the holes.  The best was when he caught a guy scratching his butt and he pointed and told the guy he should play the game for sure because he clearly knew how to pick his hole. 

         People would try to burn him back when he put them down, but he always topped their comebacks.  You just couldn't throw that guy off.

         All of this to look forward to and I still almost missed it.

         I was mad at myself at first.  For almost missing it, I mean.  I didn't even think about it coming up until I first heard somebody mention it three days ago.  I mean, how could I not have seen the fair coming?

         But then I realized what was different this time. 

         I hadn't been anywhere to see all the cardboard signs that said "FAIR" in all capitals at the top of a drawing of crowds of people around a ferris wheel and a merry-go-round.  It looked almost exactly the same every year.  Under this drawing would be the dates of the fair.  Three awesome days, every year.

         They were probably hung on every telephone pole, , bulletin board, and lamp post in town.  They usually started popping up about three or four weeks before the carnival trucks started rolling into the vacant lot behind 5-Star Grocery.  That way, all us kids were just about crazy with anticipation by the time it got here.
         And that was another thing.  I hadn't been around all my friends to hear them talk about it every time we passed one of those posters.

         I probably would have totally forgotten about it if Matt would have never called.  Now, standing here next to the Zipper ride, listening to some fat guy tell his fat wife to look at me, both of their mouths hanging open , I wish he hadn't called.

         It was only the second time I'd talked to Matt since the time he tried to keep me from tugging part of my face off.  Just like all my other friends, he couldn't handle seeing me all torn up like I am.  I knew when I saw the look on his face the one time he visited me that it'd be awhile until I saw him again.  Probably not until school started again.

         I try not to think about school beginning.

         I'm not sure, but I think Matt just used the fair coming to town as an excuse to call and kind of check up on me.  He only briefly mentioned the fair, just asking if I was going and told me it was starting that coming Thursday when I told him I'd forgot about it.

         After a weird little pause, he tried to ask a couple of questions, but the best he could do was, "How are you, umm, how's the...you know."

         I lied to him and told him I felt a lot better and how it didn't hurt so much anymore.  I think he wanted to know what I looked like instead of how I felt, but how do I explain that?

         Still no face, Matt, but it's scabbing up really nice. 

         There was an even longer pause before Matt finally said that maybe he'd see me there if I went and we said bye.

         If he's here right now, it'll be easy for him to spot me.  Just look for the crowd that's gathered around me or follow all these pointing fingers.

                                                          -

         It took me all of about 10 seconds after I hung up the phone to start planning how to ask my dad if I could go.  It was never easy to get him to say yes to anything, so I've always had to think of every possible way to say no, every possible reason to say no, and have my argument ready.  I've gotten pretty good at it and a lot of times, I can limit his reasons for saying no with my first question.

         First, I learned the basic stuff probably around third grade.

         Like going to a friend's house just because you want to or because it's fun is never a reason.  Automatic "No."

         Definitely don't say because they have cable.

         Make sure you have a real reason to go, even if it's made up.  Oh, and whenever possible make that reason involve some type of work, like helping with lawn mowing or raking leaves.

         Also, just as important as how you ask is WHEN you ask.  Never before dinner and never ever when he was working on the car.  During dinner was okay as long as he'd already started eating.  While he was watching some sports on TV was okay, too, but only if his team was winning. 

         Mom would be easy I thought.  She's always understood the stuff I liked and because it's fun is a good enough reason when you talk to her.  I didn't even give it a second thought.  I'd just have to get an okay from Dad and it'd be good enough for her.  It always had been anyway.

         So before I asked Dad about the fair, I had to play the whole thing out in my head.

         I was pretty sure the first thing he'd say was I wasn't up for it, so I'd have to build up to asking.  Get out of the hammock a lot more often that day, be there to greet him at the door when he got home from work so he couldn't help but notice I had more energy, even if it was fake, and I was pretty positive it would have to be phony.  Maybe I'd even offer to do a chore or something.  He'd been griping to my mom all summer about having to pick up my slack.

         Money.  I knew money would be the second reason, maybe even the first.  I could totally see him bringing up how much the rides and food and all that junk would cost him before he said I wasn't in good enough shape to go.  Either way, I was ready for that one, too.  A ton of the cards people brought had a little cash in them and I couldn't think of a better way to spend it.

         I'd have to mention how much exactly I was going to spend, too.  I wasn't going to be shot down with the old "I won't have my son wasting all his money" speech I got whenever the subject of the arcade came up.

         I couldn't forget to pick the best night, either.  Matt said it's be Thursday, Friday, and Saturday.  It was always Thursday, Friday, and Saturday.

         Friday meant league bowling, so no way.  It was, at first, a toss-up between Thursday and Saturday.  After I checked the TV guide, it was clearly going to have to be Thursday.  In the Saturday listings, there was a big three-hour block that said "White Sox VS Twins" inside of it.  There was no argument strong enough to take on the Sox.

         I'd even thought of this big story about the exercise of walking at the fair doing me some good with some junk about air and everything thrown in there, but I knew it was pretty weak.  I'd only use it in an all-out-of-choices emergency.

         This whole time I spent planning was, by far, the longest time I'd gone without thinking about my face or my pain or my super crappy summer.

         My timing with the first of my plan was great.  I'd just finished drinking my supper, a great big strawberry and banana smoothie with a scoop of this protein powder mixed in.  I had to spoon it in.  My mouth's still too tender and it hurts like crazy to use a straw.

         My mom had worked pretty hard at making up a liquid diet for me.  She got all kinds of books from the library and found a ton of recipes for different smoothies and soups so I didn't just have to eat pudding or broth all the time like at the hospital.  But she was always adding stuff like the protein powder to make sure I was eating the whole food pyramid.  I hated that nasty powder.  It tastes like the health food store smells.  And it always settles at the bottom, so the last bite is like eating sand. 

         Besides the liquid diet, mom had also done a lot of work at the library looking up what to do about scars and ways to make them heal better or faster.  What she had come up with was Vitamin E treatments.  They're horrible and we do them three times a day.  She breaks open some Vitamin E capsules and rubs the sticky just inside of them into my face.  It tears open the scabs every time and every time,  I scream and we both cry.  When I start screaming and she starts crying, she reminds me that this might keep me from needing the plastic surgery the doctor told me I'd need years of.

         I had just choked down the last bite with Mom watching over me to make sure I did and reminding me how important nutrients are for me to heal when I tried to weasel out of finishing the shake.  She took my glass and headed inside.  I knew it had to be close to 6:00 and Dad would be home soon, so I'd better follow her in the house if I was going to follow my plan to meet him at the door.

         Mom asked me if I needed help getting to the bathroom or wherever I was headed, but I just lied and said I felt really good and felt like just walking around a little bit.  "You know, get some exercise."  I added at the end of my lie.  I kind of felt bad when I saw how happy my fib made her.  She smiled really big and got tears in her eyes.

         I wasn't even to the door when I heard Dad's truck coming up the lane.  I had just made it to the door when I heard his boots scuffing on the porch.  He pulled the door open and I couldn't wait to see his surprise when I reached out and took his lunch pail for him. 

         He just handed it to me, though.  Didn't even look at me.  He just threw his hat on the back of the big, blue living room chair and blurted out, "I'll tell you what!  I've had about all I can take of the son of a bitch, Ski." 

         Ski was a guy dad worked with that he was always griping about.  Awhile ago, I asked him about his weird name and he said Ski's real name was Frank and that calling him Ski was just a way to make fun of Pollocks.  I just laughed along with him and pretended I knew what Pollocks were. 

         "First thing out of his mouth, the first thing, was that he was going to my supervisor about making him work as a laborer when his roller broke down." 

         My dad is a foreman for a road construction company and works with lots of guys that I think he hates and that hate him right back.  But we heard mostly about Ski.  "Lazy bastard.  Probably the first time the dumb Pollock had ever done real work."

         This was not good for my plan. 

         "You notice anything, dear, " my mom asked.  Hooray for mom, getting the plan back on track.  I knew she was going to point out my new found energy.

         "What?  That new sandwich spread in my lunch.  It's a little better than the ham salad was." 

         "No, not that."  Mom went on, making a little head motion towards me that I don't think I was supposed to notice.

         "Well, then what, for Christ's sake?"

         "Your son," she pointed out, leaving just those two words hanging and expecting Dad to catch on, but he just shrugged impatiently.  It didn't seem to ruin Mom's mood though.  "He's up and about!" 

         "Hmph."  That was all the reaction I got from him.  Didn't even turn to look at me.  I still stuck to the plan though and followed him into the kitchen.

         "Yeah, Dad, I feel much better.  I just had supper and then felt like I had too much energy to just be laying around."  I knew I was laying it on thick and that was dangerous ground.

         "What is for supper?"  He asked my mom. 

         When she told him we were having ham, scalloped potatoes, and acorn squash, I really did feel a burst of energy.  This was one of his favorite meals and might erase the bad mood Ski had caused.

         I decided I would sit at the table for dinner.  Of course, I wasn't eating, but it would be a good way to show I was getting better before I dropped the bomb.

         I thought I was going to fall off my chair.  It was a complete struggle to sit up for so long and I thought it might be wasted.  Dad held up the South Bend Tribune between us and just mumbled responses to Mom's conversation while he shoveled in mouthfuls of squash. 

          Now or never,  I thought and decided it was either go on to the second part of the plan or pass out soon and forget ever going to the fair this year.

         "Hey, umm, I got a bunch of money from the cards I got and, uhh, the fair is coming to town Thursday.  I thought I could take 10 or 15 bucks and we could...."

         "Absolutely not!"

         I was shot down.  But not by my dad.

         I couldn't believe it, but Mom was now standing up, hands on her hips, looking at me like I'd just asked to drive the car or something.  "I don't think you're ready for something like that." 

         My plan was totally thrown off.  I didn't have a defense for this prepared.  I just stared at her without speaking.  She went on for a little while about my needing to heal up more before going out for something like that and how I wouldn't really enjoy myself.

         I tried to argue.  I swore I didn't even want to ride any rides or eat any junk food.  I just wanted to see it, maybe play a game or two.

         I even used my last chance story about needing exercise.  I knew it wouldn't work, but I was going down fighting.

         "The boy's got a point."

         Once again, this comment did not come from who I expected it to come from.  I glanced across the table and saw Dad smiling his best smile at her.

         Okay, I did pass out, I thought.  This cannot be really happening.  I could not then and cannot now ever think of another time that my dad tried to talk my mom into letting me do anything.

         Mom looked at him the same way she had been looking at me a few seconds before.  "A Point?!  You think this is a good idea?"

         "Well, he hasn't done anything all summer.  All he's had to look at is the back of the house, lying there in that hammock all day."  I couldn't believe it.  Did Dad actually finally understand me?  At least understand me about this one thing?

         I felt out of place being on Dad's side of an argument, silently pulling for him to win Mom over.  I'd been on the other side of this too many times to even think about, but this was brand new to me and it felt weird, almost wrong.  Like I felt when I discovered you could make an ant cook and pop under a magnifying glass.  I rooted for that little trail of gray smoke to come out of the ant's cracked body, but when it would and I'd smell that awful burnt hair smell, I felt guilty for wanting it to happen.  Even guiltier for wanting to do it again.

         I was surprised to find out that my mom is even more skilled at shooting down arguments than my dad.  I didn't think anybody could be better than my dad.

         I sat there in horror as I saw my chances of going to the fair get worse and worse.  The one argument my mom kept going back to that there would be too many people there.  I didn't get it.  Not right then, anyway.  There had been lots of people stop by the house everyday.  What did other people have to do with me being healthy enough to walk around the fair?  Was she afraid they'd bump into me or something?  Hurt me?

         Whatever her reasons, she won.  Somehow, she did what had never ever been done.  She made my dad change his mind.  She'd persuaded him into making decisions loads of times, but no way did Dad change his mind once he'd made a decision.          

         But that was it.  My chance to go to the fair, gone.  Dad had just backed down.  Just gave up and said, "Yeah, I guess you're right."

         That was too weird, Dad backing down and admitting he was wrong?

         As my mom walked out of the room, I begged my dad not to give up, telling him, "Talk to her, Dad.  I'm okay.  I can handle this." but he just walked past me with that look on his face, the one that told me not to push it any further.

         But I was going to push it, just not with him.

         As Dad stormed out of the Kitchen, my mom came back in and headed right to the sink.  I sat there at the table for a few more seconds, trying to come up with some plan or scheme, but I was completely blanking.  I'd never had to have a plan when talking to mom.

         I turned towards my mom who was already scrubbing away at some dishes, like the argument had never taken place.  You could tell she was steamed though, just by how hard she scrubbed.  Her shoulders shook up and down like she was washing clothes on one of those old fashioned washing boards.

         But, hey, she was mad at Dad, not me.  Nothing really to lose by trying to push it a little.  Just jumping right in, I started, "You know, Mom..."

         "I said no, " she said without turning around or even stopping scrubbing.

         This was so much like talking to Dad it was creepy.  I couldn't help thinking about all those sci-fi movies I wasn't supposed to watch where some mad scientist switched people's brains.  It made more sense to me than the last few minutes had.  I got up and walked up behind Mom.  "But, Mom..."  I sounded really whiny when I started talking that time, but Mom cut me off quick.

         "I said no, and that's final!"  Right when she said the word "final," she slammed down the nasty S.O.S. pad she had been scrubbing away at the pans with as she threw a look over her shoulder at me.  Some soapy gunk had squirted out from under her hand when she slammed it down and a little blob of it landed on my face, right under my right eye.  It burnt like crazy right away, but I tried real hard not to flinch or anything.  I was trying to show I was strong enough to go out in public, not that I was so wimpy that soap and water could hurt me.

         Obviously, now she was mad at Dad and me, but I just kept going.  "I'll be okay, really..."

         "JACOB!"  I hated when she called me Jacob instead of Jake.  It usually meant I was in trouble, but what the heck did I do to be in trouble?  Mom had spun all the way around to face me, hands on her hips, the one with that nasty S.O.S. pad dripping soap and grease down her leg.  "I really don't want to go over this ANYMORE!  You have your answer, now just..."

         This time, I cut her off.  I didn't mean to, but it just kind of jumped out.  "But, why?!  Why can't I go?!"  I was so angry all of a sudden.  I had so many questions running through my head, I didn‘t know which ones to ask.  Why wouldn't she talk about this with me?  Why was she angry?  I was the one getting screwed out of the one possible good thing in the crappiest of all crappy summers.  Why was she acting just like Dad?

         But instead of saying anything that might answer any of my questions, she just looked at me like she couldn't believe I had spoken and asked, "What?"

         "You won't even listen!"  I yelled before I realized I was yelling and I felt the scabs tear open at the corners of my mouth.  "You're just being mean!  You don't even care that I've had the worst summer ever!"

         All of a sudden, my mom had tears in her eyes.  That just made me even angrier.  What did she have to cry about?  This was all her fault that we even had to be talking about this.  If it really upset her, she should just say okay and let me go.

         "This is all I want to do, just go to the stupid fair."  I was starting to get a little dizzy, but no way was I going to let her know that, so I just kept on yelling.  "I just want to see it is all.  I'm not broken, you know.  It's bad enough everyone treats me all weird, like I am broken or no good anymore, but now you are, too!"

         My mom, crying even harder now for whatever reason, squatted down in front of me like a catcher, looking me in the eyes and brushing my hair away from my scabby forehead.  Her voice cracked a little when she spoke that time.  "That's what I'm trying to tell you.  If you did go to the fair, not everyone..."

         What did she mean, That's what I'm trying to say?  She did think I was no good anymore, ruined or something.  I pushed her hand away from my head, furious now and yelled, "Don't try to be nice now!  You can say it as nice as you want, but you do think I'm broken!" 

         Jake, honey, listen..."  She reached for my hair again, but I ducked out of the way.

         "Don't touch me!  I screamed, feeling several cracks open in my face.  Feeling completely alone now, I yelled, "I hate you!"

         My mom, still squatting down, raised her hand to cover her mouth, the same hand that had been holding that gross blue and brown S.O.S. pad that now laid on the floor.  It was the same look she had on her face when the nursing home called and told her that her mom had died.

         Just like with the ants and the magnifying glass, I knew I hurt her and I felt really bad about it.  Just like with the ants, I kept going despite feeling crummy about it.  This felt a lot worse than frying ants, though.

         "I don't know why you're upset!  You're the only one who's being mean!  You're the one who..."

         Just barely loud enough for me to hear, my mom whispered, "Fine," as she was standing up.  Turning away from me and back to the sink, she said, just a little louder, "Just go."

         Now that she was saying what I'd been wanting her to, what was so important that I forgot how good she'd always, always been to me and just crushed her feelings, I didn't know what to say.  I just stood there, dizzier than ever and seeing little white trails of light flash in front of my eyes.

         After what seemed like a really long time of both of us standing there, completely quiet, my mom, without turning around or even moving repeated "Just go."  When I still didn't move, she yelled louder than I'd ever heard her scream, "JUST GO!"

         I jumped a mile when she yelled and the white trails of light that had just faded away came flashing back in front of my eyes.  I turned to head towards my mom and dad's bedroom, where my dad had went off to after losing the argument, to tell him we could go and I saw him already standing there, right behind me, leaning on the fridge.  He was staring at my mom's back, her shoulders shaking up and down because of her crying instead of her scrubbing this time.

         I thought I was really in for it.  Injured or not, I was sure I was getting a beating for what I'd done.  My dad just motioned with his head for me to follow him into the living room.

         I expected my dad to say all kinds of things once I got to the living room, mostly cusswords, but I really didn't expect what I heard.  "C'mon, get in the car.  Remember, you agreed, no rides while we're there."

                                                              -

         On the ride to the fair, my mind was racing back and forth from images of the fair to the thought that this might be that one moment, the one where Dad finally gets me and things become different between us.  Every time I thought about that, I'd throw out a question or something to Dad, you know, to bond or whatever.  But all I got from him was head nodding or a "Hmmm" that didn't sound like he was too interested.

         Now, standing here listening to his liar version of my story, the one that makes him a superhero that single-handedly saved my life, listening to it for the fourth time tonight,  I just wish I could get him to be as quiet as he was on the ride here.

         I'm so stupid.  There was no brain swapping going on in my family.  There was no huge change in Mom and especially not in Dad.  No bonding.  Nothing is different.

         Well, I'm different.  I'm meaner than I thought, I guess.  Here, surrounded by tons of staring people, I left the only one that does give a crap about me at home crying.  Just to not ride the rides, not to play any games, and not to eat any of the junk food.

         I can't remember why I wanted to come here.

         I know it wasn't to be a real freak show, but that's what I am.  Just part of the fair now, way freakier to people than the oddities booth with the miniature horse, pig with two noses, and that super fake skeleton of a vampire.

         A couple of people even tried to touch my face, asking if I can feel anything.  I guess they didn't notice I was crying.

         Even that really funny guy from the mouse game was freaked out.  When we walked past his booth, he was making fun of some guy, saying he should be brave enough to play because he was brave enough to go out of the house with that haircut.  It was a joke I heard the year before, but it was enough to make me smile anyway.  Well, smile until the funny guy saw me out of the corner of his eye and stopped talking right in the middle of a sentence, his mouth dropping open.  Then I remembered what my smile looked like, all gums and pulpy.  No wonder the funny guy looked at me the way he did.

         This was what Mom was trying to tell me, what I wouldn't let her finish saying.  That's how mean she had been by saying no to me, trying to protect me from all this, trying to keep me from hurting.

         And I told her I hated her.  That's probably the biggest lie I've ever told.

         Dad doesn't seem to notice that I'm crying either.  He just goes on and on about him being the reason I'm still alive, not noticing how much it bothers me to be this sideshow. 

         I guess when he never looks at me, it's easy to miss the tears.

         It's hard  to remember exactly what it felt like to lose my face the day it happened, but I'm having a hard time thinking that it burned as bad as it does right now.  My crying, me pulling my face so tight from all this sobbing, has made the scabs crack open and bleed and the tears feel like rubbing alcohol in the cracks.

         Man, it really hurts to cry.