A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again (18 page)

One of the few things I still miss from my Midwest childhood was this weird, deluded but unshakable conviction that everything
around me existed all and only
For Me
. Am I the only one who had this queer deep sense as a kid?—that everything exterior to me existed only insofar as it affected
me somehow?—that all things were somehow, via some occult adult activity, specially arranged for my benefit? Does anybody
else identify with this memory? The child leaves a room, and now everything in that room, once he’s no longer there to see
it, melts away into some void of potential or else (my personal childhood theory) is trundled away by occult adults and stored
until the child’s reentry into the room recalls it all back into animate service. Was this nuts? It was radically self-centered,
of course, this conviction, and more than a little paranoid. Plus the
responsibility
it conferred: if the whole of the world dissolved and resolved each time I blinked, what if my eyes didn’t open?

Maybe what I really miss now is the fact that a child’s radical delusive self-centeredness doesn’t cause him conflict or pain.
His is the sort of regally innocent solipsism of like Bishop Berkeley’s God: all things are nothing until his sight calls
them forth from the void: his stimulation is the world’s very being. And this is maybe why a little kid so fears the dark:
it’s not the possible presence of unseen fanged things in the dark, but rather the actual absence of everything his blindness
has now erased. For me, at least, pace my folks’ indulgent smiles, this was my true reason for needing a nightlight: it kept
the world turning.

Plus maybe this sense of the world as all and only For-Him is why special ritual public occasions drive a kid right out of
his mind with excitement. Holidays, parades, summer trips, sporting events. Fairs. Here the child’s manic excitement is really
exultation at his own power: the world will now not only exist For-Him but will present itself as
Special
-For-Him. Every hanging banner, balloon, gilded booth, clown-wig, turn of the wrench on a tent’s erection—every bright bit
signifies, refers. Counting down to the Special Event, time itself will alter, from a child’s annular system of flashes and
sweeps to a more adultish linear chronology—the concept of
looking forward to
—with successive moments ticking off toward a calendar-X’d telos, a new kind of fulfilling and apocalyptic End, the 0-hour
of the Special Occasion,
Special
, of the garish and in all ways exceptional
Spectacle
which the child has made be and which is, he intuits at the same inarticulate depth as his need for a nightlight, For-Him
alone, unique at the absolute center.

08/13/0925h. Official Opening. Ceremony, introductions, verbiage, bromides, really big brass shears for the ribbon across
the Main Gate. It’s cloudless and dry, but forehead-tighteningly hot. Noon will be a kiln. Knit-shirt Press and rabid early
Fairgoers are massed from the Gate all the way out to Sangamon Avenue, where homeowners with plastic flags invite you to park
on their lawn for $5.00.I gather “Little Jim” Edgar, the Governor, isn’t much respected by the Press, most of whom are whispering
about Michael Jordan’s father’s car being found but the father being missing, still. No anthropologist worth his helmet would
be without the shrewd counsel of a colorful local, and I’ve brought a Native Companion here for the day (I can get people
in free with my Press Credentials), and we’re standing near the back. Governor E. is maybe fifty and greyhound-thin and has
steel glasses and hair that looks carved out of feldspar. He radiates sincerity, though, after the hacks who introduced him,
and speaks plainly and sanely and I think well—of both the terrible pain of the ’93 Flood and the redemptive joy of seeing
the whole state pull together to help one another, and of the special importance of this year’s State Fair as a conscious
affirmation of real community, of state solidarity and fellow-feeling and pride. Governor Edgar acknowledges that the state’s
really taken it on the chin in the last couple months, but that it’s a state that’s resilient and alive and most of all, he’s
reminded looking around himself here today, united,
together
, both in tough times and in happy times, happy times like for instance this very Fair. Edgar invites everybody to get in
there and to have a really good time, and to revel in watching everybody else also having a good time, all as a kind of reflective
exercise in civics, basically. The Press seem unmoved. I thought his remarks were kind of powerful, though.

And this Fair—the idea and now the reality of it—does seem to have something uniquely to do with state-as-community, a grand-scale
togetherness. And it’s not just the claustrophobic mash of people waiting to get inside. I can’t get my finger onto just what’s
especially communitarian about an Illinois State Fair as opposed to like a New Jersey State Fair. I’d bought a notebook, but
I left the car windows down last night and it got ruined by rain, and Native Companion kept me waiting getting ready to go
and there wasn’t time to buy a new notebook. I don’t even have a pen, I realize. Whereas good old Governor Edgar has three
different-colored pens in his knit shirt’s breast pocket. This clinches it: you can always trust a man with multiple pens.

The Fair occupies space, and there’s no shortage of space in downstate IL. The Fairgrounds take up 300+ acres on the east
side of Springfield, a depressed capital of 109,000 where you can’t spit without hitting some sort of Lincoln-site plaque.
The Fair spreads itself out, and visually so. The Main Gate’s on a rise, and through the two sagged halves of cut ribbon you
get a great specular vantage on the whole thing—virgin and sun-glittered, even the tents looking fresh-painted. It seems garish
and innocent and endless and aggressively Special. Kids are having like little like epileptic fits all around us, frenzied
with a need to somehow take in everything at once.

I suspect that part of the self-conscious-community thing here has to do with space. Rural Midwesterners live surrounded by
unpopulated land, marooned in a space whose emptiness starts to become both physical and spiritual. It is not just people
you get lonely for. You’re alienated from the very space around you, in a way, because out here the land’s less an environment
than a commodity. The land’s basically a factory. You live in the same factory you work in. You spend an enormous amount of
time with the land, but you’re still alienated from it in some way. It’s probably hard to feel any sort of Romantic spiritual
connection to nature when you have to make your living from it. (Is this line of thinking somehow Marxist? Not when so many
IL farmers still own their own land, I guess. This is a whole different kind of alienation.)

But so I theorize to Native Companion (who worked detassling summer corn with me in high school) that the Illinois State Fair’s
animating thesis involves some kind of structured interval of communion with both neighbor and space—the sheer
fact
of the land is to be celebrated here, its yields ogled and stock groomed and paraded, everything on decorative display. That
what’s Special here is the offer of a vacation from alienation, a chance for a moment to love what real life out here can’t
let you love. Native Companion, rummaging for her lighter, is about as interested in this stuff as she was about the child-as-empiricist-God-delusion
horseshit back in the car, she apprises me.

08/13/ 1040h. The livestock venues are at full occupancy animal-wise, but we seem to be the only Fairgoers who’ve come right
over from the Opening Ceremony to tour them. You can now tell which barns are for which animals with your eyes closed. The
horses are in their own individual stalls, with half-height doors and owners and grooms on stools by the doors, a lot of them
dozing. The horses stand in hay. Billy Ray Cyrus plays loudly on some stableboy’s boom box. The horses have tight hides and
apple-sized eyes that are set on the sides of their heads, like fish. I’ve rarely been this close to fine livestock. The horses’
faces are long and somehow suggestive of coffins. The racers are lanky, velvet over bone. The draft and show horses are mammoth
and spotlessly groomed and more or less odorless—the acrid smell in here is just the horses’ pee. All their muscles are beautiful;
the hides enhance them. Their tails whip around in sophisticated double-jointed ways, keeping the flies from mounting any
kind of coordinated attack. (There really is such a thing as a horsefly.) The horses all make farty noises when they sigh,
heads hanging over the short doors. They’re not for petting, though. When you come close they flatten their ears and show
big teeth. The grooms laugh to themselves as we jump back. These are special competitive horses, intricately bred, w/ high-strung
artistic temperaments. I wish I’d brought carrots: animals can be bought, emotionally. Stall after stall of horses. Standard
horse-type colors. They eat the same hay they stand in. Occasional feedbags look like gas masks. A sudden clattering spray-sound
like somebody hosing down siding turns out to be a glossy chocolate stallion, peeing. He’s at the back of his stall getting
combed, and the door’s wide open, and we watch him pee. The stream’s an inch in diameter and throws up dust and hay and little
chips of wood from the floor. We hunker down and have a look upward, and I suddenly for the first time understand a certain
expression describing certain human males, an expression I’d heard but never truly understood till just now, prone and gazing
upward in some blend of horror and awe.

You can hear the cows all the way from the Horse Complex. The cow stalls are all doorless and open to view. I don’t guess
a cow presents much of an escape risk. The cows in here are white-spotted dun or black, or else white with big continents
of dun or black. They have no lips and their tongues are wide. Their eyes roll and they have huge nostrils. I’d always thought
of swine as the really nostrily barnyard animal, but cows have some serious nostrils going on, gaping and wet and pink or
black. One cow has a sort of mohawk. Cow manure smells wonderful—warm and herbal and blameless—but cows themselves stink in
a special sort of rich biotic way, rather like a wet boot. Some of the owners are scrubbing down their entries for the upcoming
Beef Show over at the Coliseum (I have a detailed Media Guide, courtesy of Wal-Mart). These cows stand immobilized in webs
of canvas straps inside a steel frame while ag-professionals scrub them down with a hose-and-brush thing that also oozes soap.
The cows do not like this one bit. One cow we watch getting scrubbed for a while—whose face seems eerily reminiscent of former
British P.M. Winston Churchill’s face—trembles and shudders in its straps and makes the whole frame rock and clank, lowing,
its eyes rolled almost to the whites. Native Companion and I cringe and make soft appalled noises. This cow’s lowing starts
all the other cows lowing, or maybe they just see what they’re in for. The cow’s legs keep half-buckling, and the owner kicks
at them (the legs). The owner’s face is intent but expressionless. White mucus hangs from the cow’s snout. Other ominous dripping
and gushings from elsewhere. It almost tips the steel frame over at one point, and the owner punches the cow in the ribs.

Swine have
fur!
I never thought of pigs as having fur. I’ve actually never been very close to a pig before, for olfactory reasons. Growing
up over near Urbana, the hot days when the wind blew from the U. of I. Swine Barns just southwest of our neighborhood were
very grim days indeed. The U. of I. Swine Barns were actually what made my father finally knuckle under and let us get central
AC. Swine smell, Native Companion reports her own father saying, “like Death his very own self is takin’ a shit.” The swine
in here at the State Fair Swine Barn are show hogs, a breed called Poland China, their thin fur a kind of white crewcut over
pink skin. A lot of the swine are down on their sides, stuporous and throbbing in the Barn’s heat. The awake ones grunt. They
stand and lie on very clean large-curd sawdust in low-fenced pens. A couple of barrows are eating both the sawdust and their
own excrement. Again, we’re the only tourists here. It also occurs to me that I didn’t see a single farmer or ag-professional
at the Opening Ceremony. It’s like there are two different Fairs, different populations. A bullhorn on a wall announces that
the Junior Pygmy Goat judging is under way over at the Goat Barn.

Pigs are in fact fat, and a lot of these swine are frankly huge—say ⅓ the size of a Volkswagen. Every once in a while you
hear about farmers getting mauled or killed by swine. No teeth in view here, though the swine’s hoofs look maul-capable—they’re
cloven and pink and kind of obscene. I’m not sure whether they’re called hoofs or feet on swine. Rural Midwesterners learn
by like second grade that there’s no such word as “hooves.” Some of the swine have large standing fans going in front of their
pens, and twelve big ceiling-fans roar, but it’s still stifling in here. The smell is both vomity and excremental, like some
hideous digestive disorder on a grand scale. Maybe a cholera ward would come close. The owners and swineherds all have on
rubber boots nothing like L. L. Bean East-Coast boots. Some of the standing swine commune through the bars of their pens,
snouts almost touching. The sleeping swine thrash in dreams, their hind legs working. Unless they’re in distress, swine grunt
at a low constant pitch. It’s a pleasant sound.

But now one butterscotch-colored swine is screaming. Distressed swine scream. The sound is both human and inhuman enough to
make your hair stand. You can hear this one distressed swine all the way across the Barn. The professional swinemen ignore
the pig, but we fuss on over, Native Companion making concerned baby-talk sounds until I shush her. The pig’s sides are heaving;
it’s sitting up like a dog with its front legs quivering, screaming horribly. This pig’s keeper is nowhere in sight. A small
sign on its pen says it’s a Hampshire Swine. It’s having respiratory trouble, clearly: I’m guessing it inhaled either sawdust
or excrement. Or else maybe it’s just had it with the smell in here. Its front legs now buckle so it’s on its side spasming.
Whenever it can get enough breath together it screams. It’s unendurable, but none of the ag-professionals comes vaulting over
the pens to administer aid or anything. Native Companion and I are literally wringing our hands in sympathy. We both make
plangent little noises at the pig. Native Companion tells me to go get somebody instead of standing there with my thumb up
my butt. I feel enormous stress—nauseous smells, impotent sympathy, plus we’re behind schedule: we are currently missing the
Jr. Pygmy Goats, Philatelic Judging at the Expo Building, a 4-H Dog Show at something called Club Mickey D’s, the Semifinals
of the Midwest Arm-Wrestling Championships at the Lincoln Stage, a Ladies Camping Seminar, and the opening rounds of the Speed
Casting Tournament over at the mysterious Conservation World. A swineherd kicks her Poland China sow awake so she can add
more sawdust to its pen; Native Companion utters a pained sound. There are clearly exactly two Animal Rights advocates in
this Swine Barn. We both can observe a kind of sullen, callous expertise in the demeanor of the ag-pros in here. A prime example
of spiritual-alienation-from-land-as-factory, I posit. Except why take all the trouble to breed and train and care for a special
animal and bring it all the way to the IL State Fair if you don’t care anything about it?