He handled a few more challengers, then Delilah announced that her man had to eat dinner. They'd be back in an hour for their final exhibition.
It was now dark. The air was filled with the sounds of the carnival; the excited screams of kids on the rides, the whoops and hollers of the winners at the booths on the midway, the music shrieking forth from a dozen assorted speakers, all playing different tunes, the constant jabbering of the barkers as they enticed folks to part with their money to view the world's largest turtle or to win another prize, and, above all, the overwhelming electricity of the crowd. People were so thick you couldn't stir 'em with a stick, as Gran liked to say. Mobs crowded around the booths, watching and cheering. Long lines snaked around the rides. Packs of Mexicans moved slowly about, staring in amazement, but for the most part, hanging on to their money. I had never seen so many people in one place.
I found my parents near the street, drinking lemonade and watching the spectacle from a safe distance. Pappy and Gran were already at the truck, ready to leave but willing to wait. The carnival came only once a year.
"How much money you got?" my father asked.
" 'Bout a dollar," I said.
"That Ferris wheel doesn't look safe, Luke," my mother said.
"I've been on it twice. It's okay."
"I'll give you another dollar if you won't ride it again."
"It's a deal."
She handed me a dollar bill. We agreed that I would check back in an hour or so. I found Dewayne again, and we decided it was time to investigate the girlie show. We darted through the throng along the midway and slowed near the gypsies' trailers. It was much darker back there. In front of the tent were some men smoking cigarettes, and in the door was a young woman in a skimpy costume swinging her hips and dancing in a naughty way.
"A Painted House"
As Baptists, we knew that all manner of dancing was not only inherently evil but downright sinful. It was right up there with drinking and cussing on the list of major transgressions.
The dancer was not as attractive as Delilah, nor did she reveal as much or move as gracefully. Of course, Delilah had years of experience and had traveled the world.
We sneaked along the shadows, advancing slowly until a strange voice from nowhere said, "That's far enough. You boys get outta here." We froze and looked around, and about that time we heard a familiar voice yell from behind us, "Repent, ye workers of iniquity! Repent!"
It was the Reverend Akers, standing tall with his Bible in one hand while a long, crooked finger pointed out from the fist of the other.
"You brood of vipers!" he yelled at the top of his lungs.
I don't know if the young lady stopped dancing or if the men scattered. I didn't bother to look. Dewayne and I hit the ground on all fours and crawled like hunted prey through the maze of trailers and trucks until we saw light between two of the booths on the midway. We emerged and got lost in the crowd.
"You think he saw us?" Dewayne asked when we were safe.
"I don't know. I doubt it."
We circled around and wandered back to a safe spot near the gypsies' trailers. Brother Akers was in fine form. He'd moved to within thirty feet of the tent and was casting out demons at the top of his voice. And he was having success. The dancer was gone, as were the men who'd been hanging around smoking. He'd killed the show, although I suspected they were all inside, hunkering down and waiting him out.
But Delilah was back, wearing yet another costume. It was made of leopard skin and barely covered the essentials, and I knew Brother Akers would have something to say about it the next morning. He loved the carnival because it gave him so much material for the pulpit.
A regular mob crowded around the wrestling ring, gawking at Delilah and waiting for Samson. Again, she introduced him with the lines we'd already heard. He finally jumped into the ring, and he, too, had chosen leopard skin. Tight shorts, no shirt, shiny black leather boots. He strutted and posed and tried to get us to boo him.
My friend Jackie Moon crawled into the ring first, and like most victims, engaged the strategy of dodging. He darted around effectively for twenty seconds until Samson had had enough. A Guillotine, then a Turkish Roll-Down, as Delilah explained, and Jackie was on the grass not far from where I was standing. He laughed. "That wasn't so bad."
Samson wasn't about to hurt anybody; it would harm his business. But as his final exhibition wore on, he became much cockier and yelled at us constantly, "Is there a man among you?" His accent was of some exotic variety; his voice was deep and frightening. "Are there no warriors in Black Oak, Arkansas?"
I wished I were seven feet tall. Then I'd hop up there and attack ol' Samson while the crowd went wild. I'd whip him good, send him flying, and become the biggest hero in Black Oak. But, for now, I could only boo him.
Hank Spruill entered the picture. He walked along the edge of the ring between bouts, and stopped long enough to get Samson's attention. The crowd was silent as the two glared at each other. Samson walked to the edge of the ring and said, "Come on in, little one."
Hank, of course, just sneered. Then he walked over to Delilah and took money from his pocket.
"Ooh la la, Samson," she said, taking his cash. "Twenty-five dollars!"
Everyone seemed to be mumbling in disbelief. "Twenty-five bucks!" said a man from behind. "That's a week's work."
"Yeah, but he might win two hundred fifty," said another man.
As the crowd squeezed together, Dewayne and I moved to the front so we could see through the grown-ups.
"What's your name?" Delilah asked, shoving the microphone up.
"Hank Spruill," he growled. "You still payin' ten-to-one?"
"That's the deal, big boy. Are you sure you want to bet twenty-five dollars?"
"Yep. And all I gotta do is stay in the ring for one minute?"
"Yes, sixty seconds. You know Samson hasn't lost a fight in five years. Last time he lost was in Russia, and they cheated him."
"Don't care 'bout Russia," Hank said, taking off his shirt. "Any other rules?"
"No." She turned to the crowd, and with as much drama as she could muster, she yelled, "Ladies and gentlemen. The great Samson has been challenged to his biggest fight of all time. Mr. Hank Spruill has put up twenty-five dollars for a ten-to-one fight. Never before in history has someone made so large a challenge."
Samson was posturing around the ring, shaking his sizable locks and looking forward to the skirmish with great anticipation.
"Lemme see the money," Hank growled at Delilah.
"Here it is," she said, using the microphone.
"No, I wanna see the two-fifty."
"We won't be needing it," she said with a laugh, a chuckle with just a trace of nervousness. But she lowered the microphone, and they haggled over the details. Bo and Dale appeared from the crowd, and Hank made them stand next to the small table where Delilah kept the money. When he was convinced the money was in place, he stepped into the ring, where the great Samson stood with his massive arms folded over his chest.
"A Painted House"
"Ain't he the one who killed that Sisco boy?" someone asked from behind us.
"That's him," was the reply.
"He's almost as big as Samson."
He was a few inches shorter, and not as thick in the chest, but Hank seemed oblivious to any danger. Samson started dancing around on one side of the ring while Hank watched him and stretched his arms.