Luke Lafontaine survived the past year by not thinking about the father he lost, the dairy farm he couldn’t save from bankruptcy, or his way of life that vanished with the rap of an auctioneer’s hammer. Cleaning up city folks’ trash at the Minnesota State Fair is just another dead-end job. But at the Fair, surrounded by a celebration of farm life, ambitions he’d given up on and buried deep start to revive. And seeing Mason Bell in the parade—gorgeous, gay, out-of-his-league Mason—stirs other buried dreams.
Mason left his hometown for college in Minneapolis without looking back. Student life is fun, classes are great, gay guys are easy to find, but it’s all a bit superficial. He’s at the State Fair parade route with his band when he realizes a scruffy maintenance worker is Luke, his secret high school crush. Luke should be safely home working on his dad’s farm, not picking up litter. Mason wishes he hadn’t fallen out of touch. He’s an optimist, though, and it’s never too late for second chances. Now he just has to convince Luke.
Fair Isn't Life is not the first Kaje Harper book I've featured on my blog but it is the first one I've read, I can safely say it won't be the last. Having grown up on a farm I understand the pain Luke feels at the loss of said farm. We didn't have cattle, we had pigs & sheep when I was little but mostly it was a crop farm. I didn't lose a parent but my mother did get sick when I was 10 and we did our best but in 2008 my parents sold the farm in an auction so I can speak from experience that Kaje Harper really hit Luke's fears and heartache on the nose. You can't help but cheer for him from page one.
Watching Luke and Mason reconnect at the fair and continue on afterwards really pulls you in. From renewed friendship to love to finding your place in the world when life's curves have shaken you to the core and completely turned your life upside down is where the boys(Luke more than Mason in the upside down department) find themselves. Fair Isn't Life is heartbreaking at times, especially with Luke's inner thoughts about what he's lost, but mostly this story is quite heartwarming and uplifting. Despite Luke's heartache or maybe because of it, Luke and Mason's journey is a feel-good read that will put a smile on your face.
Personal Sidenote: The Minnesota State Fair, or the Great Minnesota Get-Together, has always been a favorite of mine. Growing up in Western Wisconsin, the fair is only(barring traffic issues) about 30-45 minutes away and my parents took me for the first time when I was 5 years old. Everyone told them "she's too young, you'll be carrying her most of the day"(they say its the 2nd biggest state fair in the country behind only Texas so we're talking about 350 acres so it truly is an all-day event) well, I did walk the whole day and we went every year from 1979 till 2005 except one year when my mother was too ill. We haven't been since 2005 because of my mom's health and it just wouldn't feel right to go without her so we live vicariously through the local networks who broadcast from the fair over the next 12 days(and yes today is the first day of the 2019 Great Minnesota Get-Together) and although the fair is only part of the story in the beginning the author was so descriptive, so accurate, she really captured the feel of the fair that I had tears in my eyes, they were happy tears filling me with years of nostalgia in those few pages and for that I want to say a huge thank you to Kaje Harper.
RATING:
MASON BELL hadn’t thought of himself as stupid until three microseconds after he said, “Hey, isn’t that Luke Lafontaine?” Because yeah, it definitely was, but in that flash of time, he realized that Luke was picking up trash along the State Fair sidewalk with a long-handled stick, and that he’d said those words to Arnie Green. Arnie was a great horn player, and a funny guy on the baseball field, but he’d also been one of Luke’s casual tormentors through their four years of high school.
Arnie leaned forward to look past him from where they sat on the curb. “It is! Luke the Puke. And look at his great summer job. State Fair garbage guy.” He raised his voice. “Hey! Luke!”
Luke hunched but didn’t turn their way, just picked up another cup that had missed the trash and deposited it in the barrel.
“Hey! Talking to you, Fountain,” Arnie called.
Mason grabbed his arm. “Forget him. We’re heading out soon.” He hoped. They were twenty-third in the parade, and the sun was melting his brain. Why he’d signed up for marching band in the furnace of a Minnesota August, he’d never know.
Because you love to show off for a big crowd with your bandmates. Don’t front.
Arnie shook him off and waved at the staging area. “The hell we are. Look at them all. Fifteen minutes, at least. Let’s say hi to our old friend.” He pushed up off the curb and turned toward Luke.
Shit, shit, shit. Mason scrambled to his feet too, clarinet in hand.
Arnie walked around Luke, forcing the guy to look at him. “Hey, Fountain, it’s been years. Whatcha doin’?”
“Working.” Luke’s answer was barely audible over the noise of performers warming up.
“Working? Picking up other people’s trash?”
Luke shrugged one big shoulder, his dangling ID badge sliding over the faded blue of his T-shirt. Mason suddenly had a flash memory of Luke’s eyes, that same gentle blue, staring into his. Damn it, Arnie. Calling Arnie off when he was on the hunt for fun wouldn’t work, but he might intercept. “Hey, Luke. Can you show me the nearest portapotty? I think I’m gonna puke.”
Luke darted a look at him. “Sure.”
“Lead the way?” He hurried away from Arnie, dodging a tall woman in heels and kid in a Twins hat, relieved when Luke followed him.
“Jeeze, Mason,” Arnie called after them. “Gonna let Fountain take you to the bathroom?”
Mason gave him a middle finger behind his back as he led the way deeper into the crowd. When they were screened from view, he paused and turned. Luke was right behind him and had to put a hand on his chest to keep from running into him. Mason felt the warmth of Luke’s palm through the polyester of his band uniform. “Sorry about Arnie. He hasn’t grown up since eighth grade.”
“It’s okay.” Luke lowered his hand. “Do you need the portapotty?”
“No. It was all I could think of, y’know?”
Luke shook his head, a frown creasing his forehead beneath the brim of his John Deere cap. He looked as uncertain as he had when Mason had tutored him in algebra. A tiny pang tugged inside Mason’s chest. That lost look had always made him feel protective, like Luke was some kind of little brother instead of a year older. “I’m sorry I pointed you out to Arnie.” What else to say? “It’s good to see you. How’ve you been?”
That got him another lopsided shrug and an “Okay.” But he’d tutored Luke in math for a whole year, and he recognized the okay that meant Luke was about to go under water.
Are you in college? He managed not to say that, even though it’d explain why Luke wasn’t an hour away, back home in Buffalo. Luke hadn’t been much of a student, and there’d never been money for college. His dad barely scraped by on their farm. Luke wore a lot of secondhand-looking clothes with holes that weren’t fashionably distressed by some sweatshop worker in China. “How’s the farm?”
Luke’s full lips pressed into a straight line as he glanced past Mason. They were blocking traffic on the sidewalk. People streamed around them, heading for the parade route. “Don’t you have to get back? To march?”
“Eventually, yeah. I’ve got time.”
“Well, I don’t. I’m on the clock.”
“Summer job?” Why? Summer should be the busy time on the farm. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know why Luke was here instead.
“Yep.” Luke moved off down the sidewalk, deftly snatching litter without tripping anyone up. Also without looking back. Mason followed him.
“Does it pay well?”
That got him a sideways glance. “What d’you think?”
“Okay, probably not.” He had to jog a couple of steps to keep up. He was short, and Luke looked like he’d kept growing past the towering six-foot-something that Mason remembered from graduation. “Some State Fair jobs do pay. I know guys who make a mint working the two weeks of Fair.”
“Good for them.” Luke closed his grabbers on a cup, hard enough to pop off the lid and spray bright blue Freezie-melt out the top.
A passing man did a quick jump to avoid soaked sneakers and grunted, “Shit! Watch what you’re doing.”
“Sorry, sir.” Luke transferred the cup to the nearby barrel, then deftly bagged the lid as well, and strode on.
“Come on, dude.” Mason grabbed at Luke’s arm. “Hold up a sec. I just want to talk.”
Luke turned. “About what?”
“How you’ve been. What’s new. It’s been two years.”
“Yep. And you’re still hanging out with Arnie.”
Ouch. “We’re in the band together. I don’t spend much time around him, normally.” That was true, although with rehearsing for the Fair, they’d somehow drifted closer together again. He’d felt strangely rootless this summer, and Arnie was a face from home. Though not a good one. “When classes start, I’ll see him for maybe three hours of rehearsal a week.”
“What kind of classes? Math?”
“Psychology. College math isn’t my thing.”
“You did great in math.”
“For high school, sure.” He’d managed a 790 on the SAT, and he was proud of that. Didn’t make him a math geek, though. “I don’t love it. Now psych? That shit’s interesting.”
“Like what?”
He groped for something Luke might appreciate. “Like taste-aversion learning. Rats have it. They can’t barf anything up, so if a rat eats something poisonous, they’re gonna die. So if something they eat makes them even a little sick, they’ll never, ever eat that again. One trial, and they hate it for life. Keeps ’em safe.”
Luke nodded slowly. “Good thing people aren’t like that. Beer sellers would go out of business.”
“Fuck, yeah.” He grinned.
Luke pulled off his cap and wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Hot one today. You should drink lots, when you’re marching. Don’t keel over.” He put the cap back on, tugged it down, and hefted his stick.
“Wait!”
“What? You’ll be up soon. You should get back to Arnie.” That might’ve been disinterest, except for the hint of emotion that sharpened Arnie’s name.
“I’d rather hang out with you.”
“The band might miss your flute.” Luke waved at his clarinet.
“It’s not”—they both said together—“a flute.” For a second, Mason was transported back to eleventh grade and a school hallway. Our stupid routine. Luke repeating, “Well, what is it, then?” and me inventing things like “music-teacher torture device” and “blowpipe.” Behind them, a new band launched into their first number. Mason blinked. “I guess I should get back. Hey, can I call you sometime? Catch up?”
The light dimmed in Luke’s blue eyes, like shutters closing. “Not much to tell. Good luck with school. No heatstroke, now, y’hear?” This time when he strode off, there was no way Mason would keep up short of running. And how stupid would he look, running after a guy who clearly didn’t want to see him again? He watched Luke vanish into the crowd, his green cap bobbing above other heads for a while, and then gone.
He made his way back to where the band was waiting. They were on their feet, rolling out their shoulders, adjusting instruments, and tugging hats straighter on sweaty foreheads. Arnie hurried up and shoved Mason’s hat at him. “You almost missed it. Are you really sick?”
He tightened the binder on his ponytail, then crammed the hat on his head. “Nah. Just the heat, y’know.”
“Yep. Whose idea was it to do this in full uniform?”
“That would’ve been Dr. Tristan’s. You want to complain to him?”
Arnie shuddered. “Nope. I prefer heatstroke.” He led the way to where they were forming up. “We need some band groupies. Like, that high school band that went off had a dozen moms running alongside spritzing them with water. I want pretty girls in shorts with water pistols.”
“Or pretty boys,” Mason agreed.
“You are so gay.”
“Well, duh.” He usually dialed it back around Arnie, but it wasn’t as if he hadn’t come out years ago. Arnie knew he was fucking gay. Or currently nonfucking gay. “Maybe leather guys, with naked chests and—”
Arnie elbowed him harder than usual. “Shut your trap. The doc’s about to give us our orders.”
Mason listened with half his attention to Dr. Tristan’s clear voice. They’d practiced for so long, he could practically quote the pep talk. So he stood in the brilliant August sunshine with sweat trickling down his back and wondered if Luke might turn back to watch them go. Wondered why Luke hadn’t said one word more than necessary about his last two years or the farm. Wondered if the big guy was so desperate for money that picking trash sounded good. Wondered—a toot into his ear from Arnie’s horn woke him to the fact that they were poised and ready. He raised his clarinet, hoping his reed was holding up in the heat. Then he had no room in his head for anything but the doc’s tricky arrangements and following his field commander.
LUKE MADE sure he was well down Judson Avenue before Mason and Arnie’s band started. He didn’t want to see Mason pull his long, dark hair back, tilt his stupid plumed hat to just the right angle, and raise his instrument. He wanted to forget how that always pulled the jacket tight across Mason’s slim shoulders. Not to mention the bibber overall-things the bands wore that were pure sin around an ass like Mason’s. Luke had managed, over the last two years, to forget how good Mason looked in that uniform. He hadn’t needed a reminder. That’d been a different life, hanging around after school to watch the high school band practice, yearning after one more impossible fantasy.
This was real, and dreaming just hurt.
He slowed at the splat of a cup hitting the sidewalk. Crap! Job. He made himself stop and pick it up. Get back to work. He’d walked beyond his zone, but he could work back up Judson. By the time he reached the parade staging area, Mason would be off down the route. Out of sight. Out of his life and thoughts and dreams again. Hopefully for good. His stomach twisted unpleasantly.
Shouldn’t have skipped lunch. But spending the whole day picking up the remains of other people’s food would put anyone off. He’d eat something cheap and not deep-fried later.
He worked doggedly, eyes on the ground, shutting out the sounds of the crowd—the fussing of tired kids, the laughter of someone trying to eat key lime pie on a stick, the shrieks from around the haunted house. Following his assigned route, he traded overflowing trash bags for empties in the barrels, stowing the full ones out of sight till after closing. His shirt clung sweatily to his back. His feet swam in his sneakers. I’m glad plastic gloves are optional.
Somehow, on this tenth day of the Fair, it was much harder to shut out distractions and just work. Till now, he’d treated this like the high-rise janitorial job he’d had—pretend to be invisible, ignore everyone, focus only on the cleaning. But today, familiar sights and sounds kept breaking through his walls.
The clop of horses’ hooves down the paved street made him look up. Two preteens rode their ponies side by side, tan Stetsons hanging down their backs by the chin cords, feet dangling out of the stirrups. The sun lit the kids’ blond hair and the ponies’ black-and-white manes. He was hit with envy so intense it made his vision darken. 4-H days when the Fair meant showing off Dad’s best heifer and riding double behind Nick past the Coliseum. They’d ambled along on Nick’s quarter horse, like those kids, so superior to the poor city folk who came to the Fair to see livestock like they were seeing tigers at the zoo.
Luke leaned against the side of the Dairy Building, squeezing his eyes shut. Don’t think about it. Don’t remember. Someone passed close by, chattering about the sculpture of Princess Kay of the Milky Way done in butter. Nick’s sister had been a finalist when she was a junior. She said her butter sculpture made her look like Mulan. Don’t remember.
This was just a job. He’d applied for sanitation work, not barn crew, on purpose. Ten bucks an hour. No stupid memories. Do the job for thirteen days, get the check, go away. Go on. Go on. He pushed off the wall, glanced around, and snagged a paper napkin blown up against a post. Doing his job.
He made it through the rest of his shift somehow, riding on waves of mini donut aroma—I ate three bags one time—and the creak of the skyride overhead—Nick dared me to drop a shoe from up there once, had to buy flip-flops, and Dad took it out of my allowance—and a hundred flashes of the red, white, and blue Twins logo—I don’t even know how the team’s doing this year. Time seemed to stutter back and forth. One moment he could still hear the sound of the marching bands on the parade route, taking forever to finish, and an instant later, it was the end of his shift.
After clocking out, he checked his near-empty wallet. He wouldn’t get paid for over a week. Smart thing would be to head out the gates, catch the bus, and go home to his ramen noodles and a tub of cold water for his feet.
I’ve never, ever been smart.
Being at the Fair today hurt in an odd way. Like jumping into the pond the first sunny April day, when it was still way too cold. Like crashing a sled at the bottom of a snow hill, a shock that reminded you how incredibly alive the run had felt. He’d been so numb, he’d forgotten there was still color and music in the world. And mini donuts. Must have mini donuts. He found the nearest stand and handed over his money like he was a millionaire. Hell, yeah. Give me the expensive manna from heaven. The first bite, crunchy with cinnamon sugar, soft and greasy-sweet with dough, burst on his tongue.
Since he was clearly a masochist and wallowing in memories, he headed toward the barns, but halfway there, his resolve ran out. In that cattle barn, he’d shown his 4-H calf, Anne, as a senior yearling, and again as a two-year-old when they’d won her class. He’d shown Brandy to first place as a dry cow before she sold at auction. Dad told him he’d done great.
He couldn’t go there.
Off to his left he spotted the veterinary college’s Miracle of Birth Center. They’d have lambs and piglets and ducks, maybe goats. Critters that were alive and real but not full of memories. He followed the families streaming into the red metal barn.
Inside, the scent hit him first. Clean shavings and hay, and warm animals—sweat and manure and feed—in a mix that made him breathe deep to hold it in his lungs. The aisles were more crowded than he expected. He shuffled along as the kids ahead of him darted between metal pens, oohing and ahing over the wobbly lambs and the huge sows nursing litters of piglets.
A girl pointed at twin lambs nursing. “Look. They like it! They’re wagging their tails.”
There was no reason for that to blind him with tears, but he found himself staggering past the kids toward the back, winding up scrunched against the rails of a pen that held a fine, big-bellied Holstein. Damn it. God damn it. He wiped his face on his shoulder, still clinging to the pen, and knocked his cap off over the rail into nice fresh cow shit. Damn it!
He blinked, then bent stiffly to pick it up. A man’s gnarled hand got it first and held it out. “Here you go, son.”
He kept his face averted. “Thank you, sir.”
“Got a little dirty.”
“It’s good clean dirt.”
The man laughed, deep and hoarse. “Most folk wouldn’t say that about cow crap.”
“It’s just manure.” He glanced up, getting the impression of a weathered face under thick gray hair. “Now if it was pig shit….”
“Hah. Yes.” The man paused.
Luke turned the stained cap around in his hands, staring at his feet because they were easier to look at than the friendly man or the pretty cow.
“Son, are you all right?”
“Yes. Sure.”
“That Deere cap’s seen some weather. You a farm boy?”
“Yes, sir. Dairy. A little beans.”
“Around here?”
“Buffalo.” He pushed enough air through to say, “Was. Was my Dad’s.”
“Was?”
He kicked at a bit of straw with the toe of his sneaker.
“Ah.” There was enough understanding in that single syllable to make his breath come short. “And what’re you doing now?”
“Working the Fair. Sanitation.”
“That’s good, honest work. College in the fall?”
“No, sir.”
“That’s okay. It’s not for everyone.”
“I’ve never been book smart.”
“Animal smart, though?” The man leaned against the rails beside him. “That girl, for instance. What do you think of her?”
Luke pulled himself together, squaring his shoulders like he was in 4-H judging class, and looked at the cow. “Nice strong frame, pinbones a bit high, nice feminine head. Good dairy character, deep chest, wide ribs. Decent legs, pasterns kind of long. Good udder, rear attachment a bit narrow. How many lactations?”
The man laughed. “I knew it. 4-H kid, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So was I. About fifty years before you.” He let out a long breath. “Farming’s never paid worth a damn, but it’s a noble calling. I went on to vet school, made a good living from it, now I’m teaching. But every year, there’s less and less kids with a real feel for cattle or pigs or sheep.”
“I guess.” Down the aisle, a little kid was patting a ewe on the head like a dog. Probably thought she was a dog. A giant poodle maybe.
“You miss it, son?”
His throat closed up completely. He pushed the loose straw back under the bottom rail with his foot.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to make that hurt. You have some kind of job? After the Fair ends?”
“I guess.” Maybe. The janitor company let him go when they’d lost a big contract, but they’d give him a reference. As a cleaner.
“Well, if it doesn’t work out for you, there’s always farmers looking for hands. Pay is generally bad, but there’s decent places out there that could use a guy who knows not to put the milking cluster on sideways.”
He had to chuckle.
“Yeah. See? You wouldn’t have cows kicking expensive equipment into the gutter.”
“Someone did that?”
“You’d be surprised at the unskilled help farmers end up with. You’d be a treasure.”
The vet was looking over the rails at the cow, not at Luke, so he was able to relax a little. “I dunno.” Until this moment he’d have said he couldn’t stand being on someone else’s farm, handling someone else’s cows. Imagining Dad around the corner; Anne and Coco and Belle and Winnie and the others out in the field. Until the moment he’d look, and they wouldn’t be there.
But he was suddenly hungry for it, for hard work that did more than polish a floor for expensive shoes to mark up again next day. He could almost hear the hiss and clunk of the milking machine, feel the steering wheel vibration of a tractor and the warm hardness of a cow’s shoulder under his hands as he backed her out of her stall. “I wouldn’t know where to look.” Not around home, that’s for sure, even if the feedstore did have a bulletin board. There were probably jobs online, like everything else. Maybe somewhere he wouldn’t run into folk who’d known him before, who’d be all sorry about his dad and the farm. Maybe.
“The U has job listings for the agriculture students. Might be something there.”
He stared at the cow, imagining tending her, seeing her calve, making sure the baby nursed right away so it’d thrive. Imagining a farmyard in winter, with ice on the ground and the cows’ breath like fog at the barn door. And summer, hot in under the roof with the steady swish and slap of tails at the mosquitoes. No Dad, though.
The vet reached into a pocket, got out his wallet, and found a card. “Here. My name and email. If you want to follow up, get in touch. What’s your name?”
“Luke Lafontaine.” He took the card.
“Good to meet you, Luke. I have to check on a sheep, but you’re welcome to stay here, long as you like.”
“Thanks.”
“That cow’s Pansy. This’ll be her third calf. I won’t mind if someone knowledgeable keeps an extra eye on her, although I don’t think she’s gonna go tonight.”
The vet turned and headed to where a crowd was gathering. Luke thought about following because there wasn’t much cuter than a newborn lamb. But the excited group of city folk needed to see this more than he did.
He eased along the rail into the corner, close to the cow’s head. She turned, blinking big purple-brown eyes at him, then went back to chewing her cud. She had the longest lashes he’d ever seen on a cow. Totally ridiculous. “I bet none of the bulls can say no to you.” Although no doubt the U used artificial insemination. “I bet you don’t get to have the actual fun, huh?”
He blinked away an image of Mason, looking up from under his own ridiculous eyelashes, saying, “Enough math. Time for us to have some fun.” That moment of soaring hope, before Luke realized fun meant video games, and the flash of hurt after. Back before he knew what real hurt was.
Jesus, seeing Mason is screwing with my head.
Pansy came closer and leaned in like she was looking for a scratch. He rubbed her neck and her wide forehead, then lightly slapped her shoulder. “There’s little kids on the other side. Go show off for them.” She ambled over that way. When he raised his hand, his fingers smelled like home. He ducked out the side exit.
The sun was gold on the horizon. Colored lights on the Midway beckoned. He wasn’t going to waste money on rides—Nick had been the one who loved the swooping, twirling, stomach-churn of the Midway. After Nick and his family moved away, it hadn’t been worth the bucks to go alone. But it was good seeing people have fun.
He crossed the grass between rickety metal fences, stepping over the guard strips covering a hundred power cords. The kiddy rides were the other side of the grounds, but here folk from teens to white-haired grandmas laughed and shrieked and clowned around. The tinny tunes from a dozen flashing speakers met in midair, like a collision of middle-school marching bands. It was loud enough to drown out any sound from the horse barns nearby.
He walked the Fair for a long time, wandering up the sidewalks as the setting sun colored the sky red behind the glowing Ferris wheel. A concert in the bandstand rocked the air as he passed. He walked down Machinery Hill, where lumbering balers and high-end harvesters gleamed softly green and yellow. Dad had never bought new like that. Secondhand was cheaper. But he’d always spent time talking to the salespeople, getting ideas.
The crowds gradually changed, fewer kids, more teens. A father trudged past, pulling two little ones asleep in a red wagon. A tall patch of feed corn loomed out of the dimness to Luke’s right, higher than an elephant’s eye, the cobs drying nicely. A brief flash of reflected eyes between the stalks made him think raccoon, but it vanished with a soft rustle. He passed on by.
Eventually the outer gates were in front of him, and he went through. Happy, tired crowds waited for the buses. He found his line, tuning out the chatter about feet and sunburn and chickens and food and prices. After ten days working, he could predict everything going-home people said, starting with “my feet are killing me.” Except Thursday when number one was “it’s way too hot.”
He pulled the rags of his don’t-care attitude around him. One more day done and dusted. Eighty more bucks. Do it again tomorrow. But all through the ride—standing because other folk needed the seats more—through climbing the stairs to his apartment, washing sketchily, and falling on the couch because it was still his week without a bed, music played in his head. It didn’t sound like Mason’s marching band. Not at all. He repeated that firmly as he crashed into exhausted sleep.
Arnie leaned forward to look past him from where they sat on the curb. “It is! Luke the Puke. And look at his great summer job. State Fair garbage guy.” He raised his voice. “Hey! Luke!”
Luke hunched but didn’t turn their way, just picked up another cup that had missed the trash and deposited it in the barrel.
“Hey! Talking to you, Fountain,” Arnie called.
Mason grabbed his arm. “Forget him. We’re heading out soon.” He hoped. They were twenty-third in the parade, and the sun was melting his brain. Why he’d signed up for marching band in the furnace of a Minnesota August, he’d never know.
Because you love to show off for a big crowd with your bandmates. Don’t front.
Arnie shook him off and waved at the staging area. “The hell we are. Look at them all. Fifteen minutes, at least. Let’s say hi to our old friend.” He pushed up off the curb and turned toward Luke.
Shit, shit, shit. Mason scrambled to his feet too, clarinet in hand.
Arnie walked around Luke, forcing the guy to look at him. “Hey, Fountain, it’s been years. Whatcha doin’?”
“Working.” Luke’s answer was barely audible over the noise of performers warming up.
“Working? Picking up other people’s trash?”
Luke shrugged one big shoulder, his dangling ID badge sliding over the faded blue of his T-shirt. Mason suddenly had a flash memory of Luke’s eyes, that same gentle blue, staring into his. Damn it, Arnie. Calling Arnie off when he was on the hunt for fun wouldn’t work, but he might intercept. “Hey, Luke. Can you show me the nearest portapotty? I think I’m gonna puke.”
Luke darted a look at him. “Sure.”
“Lead the way?” He hurried away from Arnie, dodging a tall woman in heels and kid in a Twins hat, relieved when Luke followed him.
“Jeeze, Mason,” Arnie called after them. “Gonna let Fountain take you to the bathroom?”
Mason gave him a middle finger behind his back as he led the way deeper into the crowd. When they were screened from view, he paused and turned. Luke was right behind him and had to put a hand on his chest to keep from running into him. Mason felt the warmth of Luke’s palm through the polyester of his band uniform. “Sorry about Arnie. He hasn’t grown up since eighth grade.”
“It’s okay.” Luke lowered his hand. “Do you need the portapotty?”
“No. It was all I could think of, y’know?”
Luke shook his head, a frown creasing his forehead beneath the brim of his John Deere cap. He looked as uncertain as he had when Mason had tutored him in algebra. A tiny pang tugged inside Mason’s chest. That lost look had always made him feel protective, like Luke was some kind of little brother instead of a year older. “I’m sorry I pointed you out to Arnie.” What else to say? “It’s good to see you. How’ve you been?”
That got him another lopsided shrug and an “Okay.” But he’d tutored Luke in math for a whole year, and he recognized the okay that meant Luke was about to go under water.
Are you in college? He managed not to say that, even though it’d explain why Luke wasn’t an hour away, back home in Buffalo. Luke hadn’t been much of a student, and there’d never been money for college. His dad barely scraped by on their farm. Luke wore a lot of secondhand-looking clothes with holes that weren’t fashionably distressed by some sweatshop worker in China. “How’s the farm?”
Luke’s full lips pressed into a straight line as he glanced past Mason. They were blocking traffic on the sidewalk. People streamed around them, heading for the parade route. “Don’t you have to get back? To march?”
“Eventually, yeah. I’ve got time.”
“Well, I don’t. I’m on the clock.”
“Summer job?” Why? Summer should be the busy time on the farm. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know why Luke was here instead.
“Yep.” Luke moved off down the sidewalk, deftly snatching litter without tripping anyone up. Also without looking back. Mason followed him.
“Does it pay well?”
That got him a sideways glance. “What d’you think?”
“Okay, probably not.” He had to jog a couple of steps to keep up. He was short, and Luke looked like he’d kept growing past the towering six-foot-something that Mason remembered from graduation. “Some State Fair jobs do pay. I know guys who make a mint working the two weeks of Fair.”
“Good for them.” Luke closed his grabbers on a cup, hard enough to pop off the lid and spray bright blue Freezie-melt out the top.
A passing man did a quick jump to avoid soaked sneakers and grunted, “Shit! Watch what you’re doing.”
“Sorry, sir.” Luke transferred the cup to the nearby barrel, then deftly bagged the lid as well, and strode on.
“Come on, dude.” Mason grabbed at Luke’s arm. “Hold up a sec. I just want to talk.”
Luke turned. “About what?”
“How you’ve been. What’s new. It’s been two years.”
“Yep. And you’re still hanging out with Arnie.”
Ouch. “We’re in the band together. I don’t spend much time around him, normally.” That was true, although with rehearsing for the Fair, they’d somehow drifted closer together again. He’d felt strangely rootless this summer, and Arnie was a face from home. Though not a good one. “When classes start, I’ll see him for maybe three hours of rehearsal a week.”
“What kind of classes? Math?”
“Psychology. College math isn’t my thing.”
“You did great in math.”
“For high school, sure.” He’d managed a 790 on the SAT, and he was proud of that. Didn’t make him a math geek, though. “I don’t love it. Now psych? That shit’s interesting.”
“Like what?”
He groped for something Luke might appreciate. “Like taste-aversion learning. Rats have it. They can’t barf anything up, so if a rat eats something poisonous, they’re gonna die. So if something they eat makes them even a little sick, they’ll never, ever eat that again. One trial, and they hate it for life. Keeps ’em safe.”
Luke nodded slowly. “Good thing people aren’t like that. Beer sellers would go out of business.”
“Fuck, yeah.” He grinned.
Luke pulled off his cap and wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Hot one today. You should drink lots, when you’re marching. Don’t keel over.” He put the cap back on, tugged it down, and hefted his stick.
“Wait!”
“What? You’ll be up soon. You should get back to Arnie.” That might’ve been disinterest, except for the hint of emotion that sharpened Arnie’s name.
“I’d rather hang out with you.”
“The band might miss your flute.” Luke waved at his clarinet.
“It’s not”—they both said together—“a flute.” For a second, Mason was transported back to eleventh grade and a school hallway. Our stupid routine. Luke repeating, “Well, what is it, then?” and me inventing things like “music-teacher torture device” and “blowpipe.” Behind them, a new band launched into their first number. Mason blinked. “I guess I should get back. Hey, can I call you sometime? Catch up?”
The light dimmed in Luke’s blue eyes, like shutters closing. “Not much to tell. Good luck with school. No heatstroke, now, y’hear?” This time when he strode off, there was no way Mason would keep up short of running. And how stupid would he look, running after a guy who clearly didn’t want to see him again? He watched Luke vanish into the crowd, his green cap bobbing above other heads for a while, and then gone.
He made his way back to where the band was waiting. They were on their feet, rolling out their shoulders, adjusting instruments, and tugging hats straighter on sweaty foreheads. Arnie hurried up and shoved Mason’s hat at him. “You almost missed it. Are you really sick?”
He tightened the binder on his ponytail, then crammed the hat on his head. “Nah. Just the heat, y’know.”
“Yep. Whose idea was it to do this in full uniform?”
“That would’ve been Dr. Tristan’s. You want to complain to him?”
Arnie shuddered. “Nope. I prefer heatstroke.” He led the way to where they were forming up. “We need some band groupies. Like, that high school band that went off had a dozen moms running alongside spritzing them with water. I want pretty girls in shorts with water pistols.”
“Or pretty boys,” Mason agreed.
“You are so gay.”
“Well, duh.” He usually dialed it back around Arnie, but it wasn’t as if he hadn’t come out years ago. Arnie knew he was fucking gay. Or currently nonfucking gay. “Maybe leather guys, with naked chests and—”
Arnie elbowed him harder than usual. “Shut your trap. The doc’s about to give us our orders.”
Mason listened with half his attention to Dr. Tristan’s clear voice. They’d practiced for so long, he could practically quote the pep talk. So he stood in the brilliant August sunshine with sweat trickling down his back and wondered if Luke might turn back to watch them go. Wondered why Luke hadn’t said one word more than necessary about his last two years or the farm. Wondered if the big guy was so desperate for money that picking trash sounded good. Wondered—a toot into his ear from Arnie’s horn woke him to the fact that they were poised and ready. He raised his clarinet, hoping his reed was holding up in the heat. Then he had no room in his head for anything but the doc’s tricky arrangements and following his field commander.
LUKE MADE sure he was well down Judson Avenue before Mason and Arnie’s band started. He didn’t want to see Mason pull his long, dark hair back, tilt his stupid plumed hat to just the right angle, and raise his instrument. He wanted to forget how that always pulled the jacket tight across Mason’s slim shoulders. Not to mention the bibber overall-things the bands wore that were pure sin around an ass like Mason’s. Luke had managed, over the last two years, to forget how good Mason looked in that uniform. He hadn’t needed a reminder. That’d been a different life, hanging around after school to watch the high school band practice, yearning after one more impossible fantasy.
This was real, and dreaming just hurt.
He slowed at the splat of a cup hitting the sidewalk. Crap! Job. He made himself stop and pick it up. Get back to work. He’d walked beyond his zone, but he could work back up Judson. By the time he reached the parade staging area, Mason would be off down the route. Out of sight. Out of his life and thoughts and dreams again. Hopefully for good. His stomach twisted unpleasantly.
Shouldn’t have skipped lunch. But spending the whole day picking up the remains of other people’s food would put anyone off. He’d eat something cheap and not deep-fried later.
He worked doggedly, eyes on the ground, shutting out the sounds of the crowd—the fussing of tired kids, the laughter of someone trying to eat key lime pie on a stick, the shrieks from around the haunted house. Following his assigned route, he traded overflowing trash bags for empties in the barrels, stowing the full ones out of sight till after closing. His shirt clung sweatily to his back. His feet swam in his sneakers. I’m glad plastic gloves are optional.
Somehow, on this tenth day of the Fair, it was much harder to shut out distractions and just work. Till now, he’d treated this like the high-rise janitorial job he’d had—pretend to be invisible, ignore everyone, focus only on the cleaning. But today, familiar sights and sounds kept breaking through his walls.
The clop of horses’ hooves down the paved street made him look up. Two preteens rode their ponies side by side, tan Stetsons hanging down their backs by the chin cords, feet dangling out of the stirrups. The sun lit the kids’ blond hair and the ponies’ black-and-white manes. He was hit with envy so intense it made his vision darken. 4-H days when the Fair meant showing off Dad’s best heifer and riding double behind Nick past the Coliseum. They’d ambled along on Nick’s quarter horse, like those kids, so superior to the poor city folk who came to the Fair to see livestock like they were seeing tigers at the zoo.
Luke leaned against the side of the Dairy Building, squeezing his eyes shut. Don’t think about it. Don’t remember. Someone passed close by, chattering about the sculpture of Princess Kay of the Milky Way done in butter. Nick’s sister had been a finalist when she was a junior. She said her butter sculpture made her look like Mulan. Don’t remember.
This was just a job. He’d applied for sanitation work, not barn crew, on purpose. Ten bucks an hour. No stupid memories. Do the job for thirteen days, get the check, go away. Go on. Go on. He pushed off the wall, glanced around, and snagged a paper napkin blown up against a post. Doing his job.
He made it through the rest of his shift somehow, riding on waves of mini donut aroma—I ate three bags one time—and the creak of the skyride overhead—Nick dared me to drop a shoe from up there once, had to buy flip-flops, and Dad took it out of my allowance—and a hundred flashes of the red, white, and blue Twins logo—I don’t even know how the team’s doing this year. Time seemed to stutter back and forth. One moment he could still hear the sound of the marching bands on the parade route, taking forever to finish, and an instant later, it was the end of his shift.
After clocking out, he checked his near-empty wallet. He wouldn’t get paid for over a week. Smart thing would be to head out the gates, catch the bus, and go home to his ramen noodles and a tub of cold water for his feet.
I’ve never, ever been smart.
Being at the Fair today hurt in an odd way. Like jumping into the pond the first sunny April day, when it was still way too cold. Like crashing a sled at the bottom of a snow hill, a shock that reminded you how incredibly alive the run had felt. He’d been so numb, he’d forgotten there was still color and music in the world. And mini donuts. Must have mini donuts. He found the nearest stand and handed over his money like he was a millionaire. Hell, yeah. Give me the expensive manna from heaven. The first bite, crunchy with cinnamon sugar, soft and greasy-sweet with dough, burst on his tongue.
Since he was clearly a masochist and wallowing in memories, he headed toward the barns, but halfway there, his resolve ran out. In that cattle barn, he’d shown his 4-H calf, Anne, as a senior yearling, and again as a two-year-old when they’d won her class. He’d shown Brandy to first place as a dry cow before she sold at auction. Dad told him he’d done great.
He couldn’t go there.
Off to his left he spotted the veterinary college’s Miracle of Birth Center. They’d have lambs and piglets and ducks, maybe goats. Critters that were alive and real but not full of memories. He followed the families streaming into the red metal barn.
Inside, the scent hit him first. Clean shavings and hay, and warm animals—sweat and manure and feed—in a mix that made him breathe deep to hold it in his lungs. The aisles were more crowded than he expected. He shuffled along as the kids ahead of him darted between metal pens, oohing and ahing over the wobbly lambs and the huge sows nursing litters of piglets.
A girl pointed at twin lambs nursing. “Look. They like it! They’re wagging their tails.”
There was no reason for that to blind him with tears, but he found himself staggering past the kids toward the back, winding up scrunched against the rails of a pen that held a fine, big-bellied Holstein. Damn it. God damn it. He wiped his face on his shoulder, still clinging to the pen, and knocked his cap off over the rail into nice fresh cow shit. Damn it!
He blinked, then bent stiffly to pick it up. A man’s gnarled hand got it first and held it out. “Here you go, son.”
He kept his face averted. “Thank you, sir.”
“Got a little dirty.”
“It’s good clean dirt.”
The man laughed, deep and hoarse. “Most folk wouldn’t say that about cow crap.”
“It’s just manure.” He glanced up, getting the impression of a weathered face under thick gray hair. “Now if it was pig shit….”
“Hah. Yes.” The man paused.
Luke turned the stained cap around in his hands, staring at his feet because they were easier to look at than the friendly man or the pretty cow.
“Son, are you all right?”
“Yes. Sure.”
“That Deere cap’s seen some weather. You a farm boy?”
“Yes, sir. Dairy. A little beans.”
“Around here?”
“Buffalo.” He pushed enough air through to say, “Was. Was my Dad’s.”
“Was?”
He kicked at a bit of straw with the toe of his sneaker.
“Ah.” There was enough understanding in that single syllable to make his breath come short. “And what’re you doing now?”
“Working the Fair. Sanitation.”
“That’s good, honest work. College in the fall?”
“No, sir.”
“That’s okay. It’s not for everyone.”
“I’ve never been book smart.”
“Animal smart, though?” The man leaned against the rails beside him. “That girl, for instance. What do you think of her?”
Luke pulled himself together, squaring his shoulders like he was in 4-H judging class, and looked at the cow. “Nice strong frame, pinbones a bit high, nice feminine head. Good dairy character, deep chest, wide ribs. Decent legs, pasterns kind of long. Good udder, rear attachment a bit narrow. How many lactations?”
The man laughed. “I knew it. 4-H kid, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So was I. About fifty years before you.” He let out a long breath. “Farming’s never paid worth a damn, but it’s a noble calling. I went on to vet school, made a good living from it, now I’m teaching. But every year, there’s less and less kids with a real feel for cattle or pigs or sheep.”
“I guess.” Down the aisle, a little kid was patting a ewe on the head like a dog. Probably thought she was a dog. A giant poodle maybe.
“You miss it, son?”
His throat closed up completely. He pushed the loose straw back under the bottom rail with his foot.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to make that hurt. You have some kind of job? After the Fair ends?”
“I guess.” Maybe. The janitor company let him go when they’d lost a big contract, but they’d give him a reference. As a cleaner.
“Well, if it doesn’t work out for you, there’s always farmers looking for hands. Pay is generally bad, but there’s decent places out there that could use a guy who knows not to put the milking cluster on sideways.”
He had to chuckle.
“Yeah. See? You wouldn’t have cows kicking expensive equipment into the gutter.”
“Someone did that?”
“You’d be surprised at the unskilled help farmers end up with. You’d be a treasure.”
The vet was looking over the rails at the cow, not at Luke, so he was able to relax a little. “I dunno.” Until this moment he’d have said he couldn’t stand being on someone else’s farm, handling someone else’s cows. Imagining Dad around the corner; Anne and Coco and Belle and Winnie and the others out in the field. Until the moment he’d look, and they wouldn’t be there.
But he was suddenly hungry for it, for hard work that did more than polish a floor for expensive shoes to mark up again next day. He could almost hear the hiss and clunk of the milking machine, feel the steering wheel vibration of a tractor and the warm hardness of a cow’s shoulder under his hands as he backed her out of her stall. “I wouldn’t know where to look.” Not around home, that’s for sure, even if the feedstore did have a bulletin board. There were probably jobs online, like everything else. Maybe somewhere he wouldn’t run into folk who’d known him before, who’d be all sorry about his dad and the farm. Maybe.
“The U has job listings for the agriculture students. Might be something there.”
He stared at the cow, imagining tending her, seeing her calve, making sure the baby nursed right away so it’d thrive. Imagining a farmyard in winter, with ice on the ground and the cows’ breath like fog at the barn door. And summer, hot in under the roof with the steady swish and slap of tails at the mosquitoes. No Dad, though.
The vet reached into a pocket, got out his wallet, and found a card. “Here. My name and email. If you want to follow up, get in touch. What’s your name?”
“Luke Lafontaine.” He took the card.
“Good to meet you, Luke. I have to check on a sheep, but you’re welcome to stay here, long as you like.”
“Thanks.”
“That cow’s Pansy. This’ll be her third calf. I won’t mind if someone knowledgeable keeps an extra eye on her, although I don’t think she’s gonna go tonight.”
The vet turned and headed to where a crowd was gathering. Luke thought about following because there wasn’t much cuter than a newborn lamb. But the excited group of city folk needed to see this more than he did.
He eased along the rail into the corner, close to the cow’s head. She turned, blinking big purple-brown eyes at him, then went back to chewing her cud. She had the longest lashes he’d ever seen on a cow. Totally ridiculous. “I bet none of the bulls can say no to you.” Although no doubt the U used artificial insemination. “I bet you don’t get to have the actual fun, huh?”
He blinked away an image of Mason, looking up from under his own ridiculous eyelashes, saying, “Enough math. Time for us to have some fun.” That moment of soaring hope, before Luke realized fun meant video games, and the flash of hurt after. Back before he knew what real hurt was.
Jesus, seeing Mason is screwing with my head.
Pansy came closer and leaned in like she was looking for a scratch. He rubbed her neck and her wide forehead, then lightly slapped her shoulder. “There’s little kids on the other side. Go show off for them.” She ambled over that way. When he raised his hand, his fingers smelled like home. He ducked out the side exit.
The sun was gold on the horizon. Colored lights on the Midway beckoned. He wasn’t going to waste money on rides—Nick had been the one who loved the swooping, twirling, stomach-churn of the Midway. After Nick and his family moved away, it hadn’t been worth the bucks to go alone. But it was good seeing people have fun.
He crossed the grass between rickety metal fences, stepping over the guard strips covering a hundred power cords. The kiddy rides were the other side of the grounds, but here folk from teens to white-haired grandmas laughed and shrieked and clowned around. The tinny tunes from a dozen flashing speakers met in midair, like a collision of middle-school marching bands. It was loud enough to drown out any sound from the horse barns nearby.
He walked the Fair for a long time, wandering up the sidewalks as the setting sun colored the sky red behind the glowing Ferris wheel. A concert in the bandstand rocked the air as he passed. He walked down Machinery Hill, where lumbering balers and high-end harvesters gleamed softly green and yellow. Dad had never bought new like that. Secondhand was cheaper. But he’d always spent time talking to the salespeople, getting ideas.
The crowds gradually changed, fewer kids, more teens. A father trudged past, pulling two little ones asleep in a red wagon. A tall patch of feed corn loomed out of the dimness to Luke’s right, higher than an elephant’s eye, the cobs drying nicely. A brief flash of reflected eyes between the stalks made him think raccoon, but it vanished with a soft rustle. He passed on by.
Eventually the outer gates were in front of him, and he went through. Happy, tired crowds waited for the buses. He found his line, tuning out the chatter about feet and sunburn and chickens and food and prices. After ten days working, he could predict everything going-home people said, starting with “my feet are killing me.” Except Thursday when number one was “it’s way too hot.”
He pulled the rags of his don’t-care attitude around him. One more day done and dusted. Eighty more bucks. Do it again tomorrow. But all through the ride—standing because other folk needed the seats more—through climbing the stairs to his apartment, washing sketchily, and falling on the couch because it was still his week without a bed, music played in his head. It didn’t sound like Mason’s marching band. Not at all. He repeated that firmly as he crashed into exhausted sleep.
Kaje Harper grew up in Montreal and spent her teen years writing, filling binders with stories about what guys like Starsky and Hutch really did on their days off. (In a sheltered-fourteen-year-old PG-rated romantic sense.) Serious authorship got sidetracked by ventures into psychology, teaching, and a biomedical career. And the challenges of raising children.
When Kaje took up writing again it was just for fun. Hours of fun. Lots of hours of fun. The stories began piling up, and her husband suggested it was time to try to publish one. Kaje currently lives in Minnesota with a creative teenager, a crazy little omnivorous white dog, and a remarkably patient spouse.
GOOGLE PLAY / SMASHWORDS / B&N
EMAIL: kajeharper@yahoo.com
