like a feathered headdress. He's bare-chested and wears droopy shorts that show off the elastic waistband on his underpants. He has about two dozen rubber rings stacked up to his elbow on his left arm. The right forearm is wide open, showing off a swirling tattoo. I think it's some kind of sea creature wrestling with a mermaid.
The barker, the Ring Toss boss, sits out front, trying to draw a crowd. He has on one of those Madonna microphone headsets so everybody can hear how bored he is.
“Win a bunny for your honey,” he drones. “Win a Tweetie for your sweety. Take home a SpongeBob for your heartthrob.”
He doesn't seem any too thrilled by his own pitch or prizes.
“You know, Danny,” Ceepak whispers, “many of these carnival games are inherently dishonest.”
Since Ceepak will not lie, cheat, steal, or tolerate those who do, I can tell he considers Mr. Ring Toss Boss a potential Code Violator. To me, though, it's a borderline case, since Ring Toss is, technically, what they call an “amusement.” You pay your money, you take your chances.
“That must be T. J.” I nod toward the bottle boy.
“Roger that.”
Ceepak steps up to counter.
“Six rings for a dollar, sir,” the barker mumbles. “Score two, you're an Elf, win any prize on the bottom shelf.” He points. The bottom shelf is filled with brightly colored crap. Key chains and plastic flashlights and whistles. Crap.
“How much for the plush pig?” Ceepak points to a stuffed hog on the top shelf. He lays into the word “pig” so T. J. is sure to hear it. “The
“The Harley Hog?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That's top-shelf merchandise. That'll cost you six rings.”
“Six rings on six bottles?”
“Ring six, win any prize you picks.”
Ceepak nods. He understands the rules. “I'll take six rings.”
“You need to ring six bottles to win big, need six to take home the pig.”
“Maybe you should buy more rings,” I suggest.
Ceepak smiles.
“I've studied the game.”
“Really? You can study Ring Toss?”
“You can study anything, Danny, and you'll always learn something.”
Duly noted. He lays a dollar on the counter.
“T. J.? Fix him up,” the barker says to blondie.
The kid counts out six rings.
Ceepak studies T. J.'s hands.
“I see you used thin skins. Did they warm in your pockets prior to loading?”
The kid looks at Ceepak.
“Here's your rings,” is all he says. Then he sort of shuffles to one side. I catch him checking out his hands before he buries them deep inside the pockets of his droopy shorts.
“What's a thin skin?” I ask Ceepak.
“Inexpensive paintball. They have a tendency to burst prior to loading.”
“Win a bunny for your honey!” The barker is back at it. He's lost interest in us. The next sucker with a couple of bucks to toss his way is all that counts.
Ceepak squats under the counter, puts himself level with the bottle tops.
“I've done some preliminary research, and my findings suggest that children win this particular game more often than adults.”
We're drawing another crowd.
“Children, you see, operate closer to bottle level. Therefore, their release point is better, their throwing arc relatively low.”
Ceepak flings his first rubber ring. It wobbles around a bottle neck and slides down.
“If I use a topspin release …”
He flicks another. It rings a bottle.
“… coupled with a sidearm throwing style …”
Dink! Another one.
“… much like that utilized when flinging a Frisbee …”
Dink. Dink. Five in a row.
“… I significantly increase my chances of victory.”
Dink. Six for six. We have a winner. The small crowd goes wild. They applaud and whistle and laugh. Ceepak stands up, and everybody else pushes forward. They all want to play now that he has showed them how to win.
“How the hell did you …?” The barker looks half pissed off, half amazed.
“Sometimes you just know what you know,” Ceepak says and turns to T. J.
“We're closed!” the barker yells at the crowd. Guys shove money in his face. “Closed!”
“What about my pig?” Ceepak asks. “I want to give it to a friend. Perhaps she'll display it in her restaurant.”
“T. J.? Grab Professor Squat here his Harley Hog.”
The kid takes down the pig, hands it to Ceepak.
“I know what you did, T. J.”
T. J.'s pale face goes about as pink as the pig. “I didn't do anything.”
“Your fingernails.”
The kid flips his hands over, looks at his nails.
“Is blue your usual color?” asks Ceepak.
I see it now. There's blue crud under the kid's nails. One of those thin skins must've burst in his hands. He is
“Is that the douchebag who splattered us?” I look over my shoulder. It's Mook. Where'd he come from?
“Back off, Mook,” I say. “We've got it under control.”
I see Mook jerk his arm up and down. He's shaking a bottle of Fanta grape.
“Douche bag!”
Mook spews a purple gusher at T. J.'s crotch.
“Fuck!” T. J. steps back, throws up his hands.
“Drop it!” snaps Ceepak.
Mook drops the bottle and holds up his hands in mock surrender. The crowd hoots.
“We're closed!” the barker screams. “Closed!”
This isn't going the way Ceepak planned.
“That's enough,” he says. “Move along. Show's over.”
The crowd disperses.
Mook swaggers up to the counter.
“Gotcha, punk! Gotcha good!”
“Sir?” Ceepak says.
“What?”
“Move along.”
“I'm with Danny!”
“Danny? Tell your friend to leave. Now.”
“Mook?”
“What?”
“Go.”
“Fuck you, Danny. Okay? Fuck you.”
Mook talks tough but walks away. Backwards, and with a swagger. Then he flips me the finger-the junior
