Methville, USA, has a monastery at its heart, up on a hill, on the former site of Alta Crest Farms—the best land in town, everyone says so. Consecrated in the holy name of Saint Joseph. Vespers every day at 5:40, open to the public. The Abbey gift shop sells rosary beads, books on tape, Christian B-movies on DVD, little plastic pouches of holy water, Trappist preserves, Trappist chocolate fudge. Trappist ale, too, brewed on site since 2013—they had to get my family’s permission to start brewing since our lands were adjoining. My own stepfather said that he would give those “bald bastards” their permission if he got a free six-pack on Palm Sunday, two free six-packs on Easter, and a case at Christmas in perpetuity.
The Abbey has an interesting trickle-down effect on the townsfolk. Vespers are well-attended, even on weekends. Anyone who’s anyone has completed at least one week-long silent prayer retreat at the Mary House. Trappist ale and Trappist fudge move like you wouldn’t believe. A few avid gardeners have even gotten into the habit of giving their favorite plants an occasional splash of holy water. In general the presence of the monks affords people an existential perspective on their various trials and tribulations and a kind of self-satisfied religiosity to their successes, to enough of a degree such that the social fabric functions ever-so-slightly differently than it would otherwise in ways that are noticeable if you look carefully.
Half a mile from the monastery is the Methville fairgrounds. No monk has ever attended the fair, though invitations have been extended. There is a boy named Blade—think loveable scamp. Loveable just on the cusp of being unlovable. He’s the kind of kid who tests to see if animals are flammable. He has a younger brother named Gauge. Blade does not yet know that other people truly exist but like all bad people he is only bad for a millisecond at a time.
Blade gets to the fairgrounds as early as he can. Music blares from a speaker in the parking lot—a rapper remarks that his pimp hand is strong like dolomite. 15 for admission, 10 for military families. Inside the gates an ugly clown hurls insults at passersby from inside a dunk tank. On the main stage a comedian in a brown shirt does a rap about watching football—“I think one of those guys might have been African-American... well I guess that rules out the punter”—and half the crowd laughs. Some of the older boys look like they showed up just to squeeze your head. A teenage couple walks around with their faces painted— she’s a sultry-looking cat, he’s Spider-Man. There’s always a way to reinvent yourself, Blade thinks, though not exactly in those words. The thought is in his head but there’s no language to codify it and it fades away.
He goes straight for the hardest game in the place. He’s had his eyes on an almost-life-size stuffed tiger for three years running. He tries over and over to maneuver a small metal ring to the bottom of a long coiled wire. The wire moves weirdly like a bug’s antenna. He curses the wacky wire game but he keeps playing. He’s a mark and the carny knows it. He offers to buy the tiger outright but the carny says that isn’t how it works. Blade bluffs and says that he will go get his parents.
He turns around. He hears a little girl say that one of the candy apples is talking to her. Seems idealistic, he thinks. He had just learned the word “idealistic” in school.
Human experience is all about making idealism seem reasonable.
Hours later, he sees another boy with his tiger. He pushes him. He steps forward and kicks the other boy in the balls three times; the first is instinct, but the second and third are accounting. He takes the tiger and runs. He leaves the fair carrying the tiger in front of him in his two arms, a very light dead weight. Eventually he feels safe enough to stop running. He walks and thinks. He thinks about his brother Gauge. He thinks about a video a boy showed him of two naked women. He thinks about carnival games and rap music and candy apples. He follows Route 31, heading towards the monastery.
