Merton takes a gamble . . .
A carnival came to Bradford. To us that meant a couple of Ferris wheels and a bingo game and the “Whip” and a man wearing a white uniform and a crash helmet being fired out of a cannon into a net. We got into the car and started out along the Rock City road, through the dark woods alive with the drumming of the oil-pumps.
It was a big carnival. It seemed to fill the bottom of a narrow valley, one of the zig-zag valleys in which Bradford is hidden, and the place blazed with lights. The stacks of the oil refinery stood up, beyond the lights, like the guardians of hell. We walked into the white glare and the noise of crazy electric music and the thick sweet smell of candy.
“Hey, fellows, come over this way if you please.”
We turned our beards shyly towards the man in shirt sleeves, hatted with a felt hat, leaning out of his booth. We could see the colored board, the numbers. We approached. He began to explain to us that, out of the kindness of his big foolish heart, he was conducting this game of chance which was so easy and simple that it really amounted to a kind of public charity, a means for endowing intelligent and honest young men like ourselves with a handsome patrimony.
We listened to his explanation. It was not one of those games where you won a box of popcorn, that was evident. In fact, although it started at a quarter, the ante doubled at every throw: of course, so did the prize, and the prize was in dollars.
“All you have to do is roll the little ball into these holes and...”
And he explained just what holes you had to roll the little ball into. Each time you had to get a new and different combination of numbers.
“You put down a quarter,” said our benefactor, “and you are about to win two dollars and fifty cents. If you should happen to miss it the first time, it will be all the better for you, because for fifty cents you’ll win five dollars —for one dollar you’ll take ten—for two you’ll take twenty.”
We put down our quarters, and rolled the little balls into the wrong holes.
“Good for you,” said the man, “now you stand a chance of winning twice as much.” And we all put down fifty cents.
“Fine, keep it up, you’re getting ready to win more and more each time— you can’t miss, it’s in-ev-i-table!”
He pocketed a dollar bill from each of us.
“That’s the way, men, that’s the way,” he exclaimed, as we all rolled the little ball into the wrong holes again.
I paused and asked him to go over the rules of the game a second time. He did, and I listened closely. It was as I thought. I hadn’t the vaguest idea what he was talking about. You had to get certain combinations of numbers, and for my own part I was completely unable to figure out what the combinations were. He simply told us what to shoot for, and then rapidly added up all the numbers and announced:
“You just missed it. Try again, you’re so close you can’t fail.” And the combination changed again.
In about two and a half minutes he had taken all our money except for a dollar which I was earnestly saving for the rest of the carnival and for beer. How, he asked us, could we have the heart to quit now? Here we were right on the point of cleaning up, getting back all our losses, and winning a sum that made us dizzy: three hundred and fifty dollars.
“Men,” he said, “you can’t quit now, you’re just throwing away your money if you quit. It doesn’t make sense, does it? You didn’t come all the way out here just to throw away your dough? Use your heads, boys. Can’t you see you’ve got to win?”
Rice got that big grin on his face that meant “Let’s get out of here.”
“We haven’t any more money,” someone said.
“Have you any traveler’s checks?” the philanthropist inquired.
“No.”
But I never saw anyone so absorbed and solemn as Lax was, at that moment, in his black beard, with his head bowed over all those incomprehensible numbers. So he looked at me and I looked at him, and the man said:
“If you want to run home and get a little more money, I’ll hold the game open for you—how’s that?”
We said: “Hold the game open, we’ll be back.”
We got into the car and drove, in the most intense silence, fifteen miles or whatever the distance was to the cottage, and fifteen miles back, with thirty-five dollars and all the rest of the money we had: but the thirty-five alone were for the game.
When the benefactor of the poor saw the three of us come through that gate again, he really looked surprised and a little scared. The expressions on our faces must have been rather frightening, and perhaps he imagined that we had gone home not only to get our money but our guns.
We walked up to the booth.
“You held this game open for us, huh?”
“Yes, indeed, men, the game is open.”
“Explain it over again.”
He explained it over again. He told us what we had to get to win—it seemed impossible to miss. We put the money down on the counter and Lax rolled the little ball—into the wrong holes.
“Is that all, boys?” said the prince of charity.
“That’s all.” We turned on our heels and went away.
Merton the gullible. He and his friends fall victim to two things: a grifter and their own prides. I've been to many of those carnival midways--as most people have--where people bark at you from inside their booths, trying, by hook or by crook, to get you to stop and lay down some cash. And the results are pretty much what Merton describes here: you shell twenty dollars for a sickly goldfish in a plastic bag of water. Or you walk away empty-handed.
When I was younger, I allowed myself to get lured in by these barkers. Walking along with my girlfriend, a man chewing a cigar shouting at me, "Hey, lover boy, want to win something for that pretty girl of yours?" Trying to rush my children past the booths, a tattooed woman calling out, "Hey, kids, don't you want to take home a unicorn as big as you?" The messages are always different, tailored to the situation and carnival goers. But it's all about temptation--the game runners size you up for your weaknesses and then go to work.
As a kid, going to Catholic catechism, I would hear the story of Christ being tempted by the devil in the desert after 40 days of fasting. I always pictured the devil as a carnival barker, offering Jesus the biggest stuffed animal on the sandy midway. Of course, Jesus doesn't surrender to this conman. Because . . . well, He's God. Christ recognizes that the game is rigged. There is literally no human way to win.
Every day is like that for humans. We make choices, from the time we climb out of bed in the morning to the time we crawl back in at night. The carnival barkers are all there, vying for our attentions. We make good choices (an apple and oatmeal for breakfast) and bad choices (a bottle of watermelon wine and Little Caesar's pizza for dinner). It's all about free will.
I'm not a big fan of free will a lot of the time. Because many of the people who I love make terrible choices, every day, all day. It's so easy, as Merton learns in the passage above, to get suckered by the lights and smells and excitements of the carnival games. In the end, however, most of us leave the fairgrounds broke and broken.
Yet, free will is what makes life interesting, I suppose. The world would be pretty boring if everyone ate the same things, dressed the same way, read the same books, listened to the same music, liked the same movies. Without free will, I wouldn't be a poet. Because the world doesn't put a high value on poetry, unless you happen to be Amanda Gorman or Joy Harjo. Instead, I'd be an accountant or doctor or plumber. Something utilitarian.
So, free will is a double-edged sword. It allows abusers to be abusers. Saints to be saints. Trump supporters to be Trump supporters. Poets to be poets. You have to take the good with the not-so-good. I'm not saying that poetry is the equivalent of losing all your money at a carnival ring toss game. What I'm saying is that free will leaves room for poetry, but it also for porn addiction.
I chose to ask my wife to marry me. She chose to marry me. We chose to have children. I chose to be a poet and contingent university professor. I chose to have three glasses of Bailey's Irish Cream mixed with eggnog tonight. And to watch The Man Who Invented Christmas because Christopher Plummer died today.
Like I said, every day is about possibilities, with very few opportunities for do-overs. I'm lucky because I wouldn't change a whole lot about my life. I would still marry my wife, despite all of the struggles we've faced because of mental illness and addiction. I would still be a father, regardless of the fact that my son seems headed for a repeat of seventh grade. And I would still be a poet, though it will never buy groceries or pay the water bill. All of these choices were winning hands for me.
Saint Marty knows when to hold 'em, and knows when to fold 'em.
