OPEN LETTERS
An Open Letter to My Carnival Worker Brother-in-Law
Dear Dale,
For decades I’ve made fun of your life choices. Your desire to drop out, try meth, live in the back of a semi-truck, and marry a truckstop waitress never made sense to me.
It’s only now, as civilization spirals to a crashing end that sounds much like the gears of the kiddie rollercoaster, that I realize you were right and I was wrong.
Now that I’ve turned my back on the traditional path and joined the #vanlife movement.
It’s not easy for me to confess that I wish I’d followed your path, and said Screw You to society when I was 9. I’ve heard the stories, how the seeds of your genius were planted way back in 4th grade, when you refused to stand up for the Pledge of Allegiance that one day, with your best friend Manheim.
Manheim gave you that look, the one that said, ‘Who’s a retard now?’ and you both remained seated at the back of the class.
The teacher said, ‘Manheim and Dale, get your white trash asses up and put your grimy hands on your hearts!”
The next year, when Manheim moved away, after all the kids in his family were removed from the home, you forged on alone.
You stole your first switchblade and took it to school.
They expelled your 11-year-old ass, and the rest of us were scared of you, even though I didn’t know you then. I mean, the rest of your family including Cindy Lou, aged 9, Clarence, aged 8, Vernon and Trixie, aged 7, and that one kid who grew up to be an attorney, John Henry, aged 3.
Getting back to the reason I’m writing today.
I worked a corporate job for 14 years, and yesterday they fired me. Aged 47. I’m too old to find another job and now I need to go on Social Security, but I don’t even know where to start.
But you nailed that years ago with your clever middle-finger to the Man, while raking in government benefits from the very same Man. You have 6 side hustles and they all involve some kind of government benefit.
Even while completing reams of paperwork you remained my hero, because you continued to pursue your career with the carnival.
You went from mucking out pony stables to running the goldfish stand, then operating the Tilt-a-Whirl. Pretty soon you were ready for the pinnacle: the Fun House, where you could drink from a fifth of Jack Daniels and scare the occasional child who wandered to the Authorized Personnel Only section.
At that point, the carnival world was your oyster. If you wanted to run the Avalanche, you could — but who would, right? The sound of that heavy metal music drove more than one carny to an early grave.
Finally, you settled on the trick ladder game, after you sobered up and began attending 12-step groups in all 50 states.
I guess you could say you climbed the trick ladder to success.
My point here, Dale, is you lived life on your terms. You dropped out in 9th grade and hit the road. Not once in your life have you had to sit through a college Econ class or meet with your spouse to discuss the monthly budget.
As far as I know, you’ve never scheduled a termite inspection or been to a parent-teacher conference.
You’ve faced life in its raw state because Life is a Carnival.
Ten years ago you finally found the gal of your dreams, Misti Jean, at the Highway Chef truck stop outside of Tucson, Arizona.
The wedding brought tears to my eyes. Even though my husband and your brother, Garland, would not attend because of the incident with the pit bull, I showed up because I knew it was true love.
The echoes of ‘He Stopped Loving Her Today’ are still ringing in my ears, although I’m not sure you and Misti Jean truly understand the subtext of that George Jones classic.
And I, for one, am proud to call you my relation. Also, I need to borrow $200 and can you help me fill out this disability application?
Seriously, bro.
Sincerely,
Your college-educated, indebted, sister-in-law