“(Reprinted in March 2003)
Last summer I worked for a carnival.
No, I wasn’t in the freak show. No, I wasn’t one of the clowns. In fact, my show just had rides and games (although the other people there were kind of freaky).
A lot of people talk smack about carnivals. There was an episode of the Simpsons where Bart and Homer went to the carnival and helped the carnies run their game. This show was filled with lies! It showed the carnies sleeping in the games, eating Sno-Cones for lunch, giving cops bribes and rigging the games. The carnies on the show end up sneaking into the Simpsons’ house and staying there while they’re away.
I would like to make several points:
1. The games aren’t rigged, at least not the show I worked for. They just require a certain knack. No game or sport is easy, right? You need skill.
2. Cops don’t walk up asking for bribes because someone complained about a crooked game. It would get the whole show in trouble.
3. Carnies do have the money to stay in a motel and eat at restaurants — they’re not going to eat carnival food all the time, just once in a while.
How I got the job
I got the job because I wanted a job, and because I had friends who worked for the carnival. No fancy interviews or attire were required, all you needed to do was show up on set-up day and ask, “Need any help?” New people are referred to as “green help.”
Like any profession, you have to work hard to get your money unless you work on a wage. Carnies don’t get an hourly wage; our salary is based entirely on commission. We hustle. I had to resort to flattery, negotiating, button-pushing. If people insisted on not playing, you told them they sucked and their pride would be hurt to the point that they do play, and just to win, even for no prize! So let’s get down to what goes on.
I worked the mini-basketball game. Before the summer was up, I also worked the darts, the fishbowl, the skee ball and the “one-ball” bottle game. The tough thing about being a splinter-head (game guy) was bringing in the cash. You had the toughest job, because you had to get your money from the crowd. But that’s what the carnival is all about, taking people’s money and hoping they don’t get that prize to they’ll keep playing.
“Aw, come on, you can do it,” I’d tell them. I’d try to give them confidence so they’d put down one more dollar.
“Come on, this is an easy game,” I would call to the crowd as I dunked a ball. “Only $1, and look at the prizes you can win!” I’d point to the “stock” —stuffed dogs with hearts on them, purple dinosaurs, adorable little bunnies and framed posters of basketball stars, Disney characters or swimsuit models.
Some would just pass by, others would stop and play. Some would get upset when they lost, and I felt sorry for them, but I had to consider that’s what I was supposed to do — take their money. If they won too much, I wouldn’t have a job. Some people wanted to make a deal; they’d say, let me pay for the prize. They’d say, “Well, I lost. Just give it to me anyway. Who’s gonna know?” I’d tell them I couldn’t—I’d lose my job.
At the end of the day, I’d be exhausted from shouting, taking people’s money, putting up more stock and running errands for my boss.
Why is a carnie so desperate to take your money? One word: commission. Because of my experience, and my ability to throw up (put together) a game in two hours and tear it down in half the time, I was paid 25 percent. Out of every dollar given to me, I kept 25 cents. That’s why I’d be in your face about shooting two baskets for a dollar, because I need that money. So let’s set up a scenario for a sec. Guy X is walking among the crowd. Yours truly is one of the carnies at the long-range basketball booth. This game offers one shot for one dollar, because you get a good size prize. Yours truly approaches Guy X.
“Hey mister! Try your luck at this one!” I shout.
“Nah,” Guy X retorts.
“Okay, I’ll give you three shots for two dollars!”
“Now that’s a deal!”
At the rate I was working that deal, I got a minimum of two bucks a customer, on average, meaning 50 cents a player for myself. Of course, sometimes you just offer a shot per dollar, and if they played and got hooked, then stopped playing, you’d rehook them with three for two. I could take in about $20 a player on a regular spot, meaning five bucks per person for me. I could earn about $175 for a fourday (average) spot. Street fair spots only last two to three days, but they make a lot of money! On those spots, I would take home from $300 to $600. Because of our financial situation, I would give half of all my pay to my mom for household expenses.
I wore an apron where all the intake was stashed. Periodically, my boss would come around and collect what we had brought in. We’d pull out our wad of bills and hand it to him, and he would count it and record what we turned in.
Normal spot hours ranged over a period of four days. Wednesday was set-up day, so that didn’t count. You only got paid for that if you were a ride guy, but you had to be 18 or older to qualify. Thursday and Friday were five-hour days from 5 to 10 p.m. A good spot didn’t close up until 11 or 11:30 p.m. On Saturday and Sunday, we worked from noon to 10 p.m., and the same hours applied for good Thursday/Friday spots. So on average, you worked from 24 to 30 hours a week. Then you’d tear down Sunday night. Then the pay came.
By the end of the week, you’d get a wad of cash with a figure on it. And the best way to protect your wad was by constantly counting your turn-ins and recording them in a notepad or something. Never, ever rely on your boss to count the money without your counting it first! He’ll either make a mistake or purposely exclude some money. His pay relies on your intake, and he’s always willing to pay you less for your errors. So if there were any mistakes while turning in, you have to make sure you let him know before he marks down a figure. Your pay will always be straight if you take these precautions.
The dark side of the carnival
Of course, there is more to a carnival than just games and money. There is the darker side of carnival life. During our breaks, I’d hang out with some of the other carnies and they’d share some pretty wild stories about their lives, how many women they’d been with, how much drugs they’d used. I couldn’t decide if they were true or not.
One guy had a twitchy face and he talked funny — he said it was because he had bitten an electric cord as a kid.
Another guy told me all kinds of weird stories, like that he was a devil worshipper and that when he was mad, his eyes would turn completely red, and when he was baptized, the water boiled off him.
Another guy, “Pirata,” had been shot three times.
Some carnies used drugs, mainly marijuana. I knew two carnies who were selling it; they would purchase a “dime” $10 bag from certain dealers, break it up and put it in $5 “nickel” bags, and make a nice profit. Of course, you weren’t supposed to smoke pot, especially as a ride-jock (guy who runs the rides). They would occasionally have drug tests. The game guys didn’t get tested, but the ride-jocks had no excuses for smoking the stuff. You don’t want to have some messed-up dummy controlling the ferris wheel, right? What if he hit warp speed? (Though maybe a ferris wheel can’t go that fast.)
It was fun while it lasted, but I had to leave to go back to school and all. I’m glad I wasn’t a permanent member of the carnival show. I don’t think I’d like it, always traveling from place to place, always hustling for a little extra money, dealing with all sorts of crazy people. It’s not the best job in the long run.
Carnie-Speak
Green help: new employees // Splinterhead: person who runs a carnival game
Stock: toys and stuffed animals that are game prizes // Spot: place where carnival is set up Throw up: put together a game booth // Ride jock: person who runs a carnival ride
Ramsey now works in a factory manufacturing office products in Montebello. “It’s about half a step up from the carnival, but now I’ve got a health plan.” He plans to study design at Trade Tech community college.”