We're Back!

Ahhh, it is good to be back! Various and sundry personal events and projects have kept us apart far too long, but here, at last, is the final installment of Johnny's Lot Man tale. Just when I think I've heard the best story Meah has to offer, the fax machine starts whirring and out pops an even BETTER one. I can't wait to get your feedback on this one... speaking of which, we love to get feedback, so if you want to tell us what you think of the site, the stories, or anything, drop us a line at: mike@czarofbizarre.com

Happy Independence Day to all our American friends on the list, happy Thursday to everyone else!

Best,

-Mike

Lot Man, part 3 - by Johnny Meah

If you missed Part 1, read it here.

If you missed Part 2, read it here.

The year of Moon Goon, the year of the skyward gazing rural New Yorkers, would also be my last year as a carnival lotman. The job was beginning to have more adverse side effects than the last few seconds of a t.v. pharmaceutical commercial.

I enjoyed the creative aspects of doing the lot layouts, the logistical problem solving, even the often dangerous arrowing of the route. Stressful as all of it could be at times, it still gave me a feeling of accomplishment. Unfortunately, each year new duties would be tacked onto the lotman title, many of which would have been considered a full time job unto themselves in any other industry. I was tired and becoming very unhappy with myself.

At the same time I was busy contemplating just how long I could hold up in my role as the company pack mule, the face of the carnival business was undergoing radical changes. Shows, once the lifeblood of the industry, were disappearing. Sideshows, motordromes, girl shows and the like were giving way to more rides. Game concessions, once operated by professional agents who received a percentage of the game's gross as an incentive, were now operated by low salaried clerks. The new corporate philosophy seemed to be based on the notion that the volume would overcome almost anything. The color and hustle were gone and the carnival had become a portable McDonald's.

I've found that, as you go through life, you collect pieces of philosophy that work for you. For me, the best of these little homespun adages has been; "Always trust your gut." In instances where I've chosen to ignore those internal rumblings the results were often catastrophic.

I was sitting in my pickup, blandly observing the empty midway area and trying to tune out the war drums that were playing inside of me. Shelby, N.C., was a lotman's delight in that it abounded in level, uncluttered space. Here, a classic horseshoe configuration could be employed -- a throwback to an era of unlimited space and beautiful pastoral settings. The rumblings of discontent would abate -- at least for a few hours.

I was shuffling through a portfolio of lot layouts from previous years when the fair manager pulled up on his golf cart. We exchanged the usual banalities reserved for people you hadn't seen for a year, then, as he began to pull away, he paused, saying; "We're looking forward to having you at the rotary meeting tomorrow night."

My facial expression must have clearly projected the fact that I had not a clue as to what he was talking about.

"You're supposed to speak about this year's midway right after we finish our meeting-didn't they mention it to you?"

"There's so much end-of-the-season business going on that I'm sure it just slipped by me", I lied, "but I'll be there, you can count on it!"

And there it was, another hat to wear: public speaker. Of course it hadn't been mentioned to me, it was another of my employer's last minute brainstorms. I wondered if the fair manager realized that when I finished his rotary club gig I'd have to drive all night to lay out the lot for our number two unit.

I plodded into the business of pacing off ride dimensions and tapping in grading stakes with less than hoped for enthusiasm. I don't know how much lower my spirits would have sunk if I had been told that, following the layout of unit number two, I'd be required to drive another two hundred miles to supervise the paving of the midway at Greenwood, S.C.

Due to the close proximity of the last fair, equipment began to arrive before I'd finished the layout. I pushed myself into sort of "fast forward" mode to accommodate the new burden suddenly inflicted on me.

I saw him running in my direction before his shouts became audible, a thin young man with long blond hair flying behind him like the tail of a kite.

"Mr. Mee, Mr. Mee!"

I looked up from the grading stake I'd been hammering into the ground, thereby acknowledging the mangled attempt at my last name. He slowed to a trot, flailing his arm in the direction of the sideshow which was half set up across the midway from me.

"Miss Lola's real sick and she keeps calling for you," the boy said with a trace of panic in his voice.

I followed the gaunt ride man toward the sideshow. It was a small operation run by a young couple who were new to the business. The couple and their two daughters were pretty much the show, except for the annex attraction, Lola Conklin. Lola was one of the true legends of the sideshow world-a flawed legend at times but most assuredly a legend in every sense of the word.

It was an unseasonably warm day so the sidewall hadn't been hung. The sideshow, with all of the wonders the still rolled up banners would proclaim, was laid bare to the curious eyes of the strolling towners who'd braved the heat for a midway preview. The blowoff curtain hadn't been pulled up on the last center pole so the explosion of brightly colored ostrich plumes and artificial tropical plants that adorned the tiny annex stage looked even more wildly out of place than usual. Laying prone on the platform, turban half askew, was Lola, the bearded lady.

Lola looked at me with eyes that could only belong to a soul already halfway to another galaxy and said, "Johnny, you've always been my friend-", and died.

The couple who owned the show had been standing nearby and seemed dumbstruck. The man hesitantly moved forward, his mouth finding it difficult to form the obvious question.

"Lola's dead," I said.

"Christ," the neophyte sideshow operator said, "What should we do?"

To the casual reader this probably seems like a pretty stupid question, but I knew exactly what he meant. It would be easy to explain the Conklin dilemma by saying that Lola was a female impersonator but, at least by show business standards, that wasn't quite the case.

Lola was a few steps further down the path of transexuality than anyone I'd ever known. Lola's mother was an itinerant chorus girl. To enhance her own bookability, she dressed Lola as a female at age twelve and the two danced as a mother/daughter team. She never returned to male attire-and yes, "she" is the correct gender usage because Lola not only dressed as a woman for the rest of her life but thought of herself in those terms as well. If she had a male name nobody in the business knew it and even the most time-worn documents in her personal belongings referred to her as Lola.

As much as I detest footnotes, I will throw in a quick sidebar to this story: There were quite a few bona-fide bearded ladies, two of whom are still alive and working. They weren't all impersonators. Any other questions? Good. Now we'll move on with the story. Incidentally, the life and times of Lola Conklin will be presented at a later date on this website, however, for the sake of this episode, I'll deal only with the end of Lola's life and how it affected me.

The quandary, at least as seen by the young sideshow owner, was whether Lola should be taken out of drag and re-dressed as a man for the sake of the coroner's inquiry. It would certainly simplify things; get rid of the padded bra, lose the personal paper goods and invent a male first name. In the layman's eye the carnival business was a sort of "no questions asked" existence, so lack of credentials or known next of kin wouldn't be a concern. But it was for me. I had known Lola as Lola all of my life.

"What do you think Lola would want?" the show owner asked, but before I could reply he answered his own question. "You're right, bury her as a female." He knew exactly what I'd say.

I knew the coroner in Shelby. The previous year a woman with the carnival had been murdered during the fair and, as an office representative, I was dispatched to deal with not only the coroner but all other levels of law enforcement as well.

"Let me talk to the coroner when he comes, I'll see if he'll go along with the plan."

Shortly after I'd made the statement, the ambulance, a uniformed officer and the coroner arrived. I gave him as condensed a version of Lola's story as I thought necessary to illicit his aid. He listened with more than superficial interest and when I finished he said, "I understand and I'll try to make this go as smoothly and quietly as possible," then, "I'll let you know something as soon as I can."

My answer came the following evening but, in true political form, not from the coroner himself.

I had finished my little talk after the rotary meeting and those in attendance were coming up to the dias to shake hands with me. The last in line, a small, nondescript fellow retained his grip on my hand, pulled me close to him and whispered, "-By the way, your bearded lady was a man." Then he was gone, instantly absorbed in a group of Rotarians now exiting the meeting hall.

I turned to the fair manager and asked who the last fellow was. "I think he works in the coroner's office. Why?" On the way back to the fairgrounds I explained the situation to him and he was, understandably, not too happy about it.

One of the singular trueisms found in the mostly uninformed statements made about the traveling show community is that we do get to "leave town". The fair manager doesn't, the coroner doesn't-they live there.

I don't believe that the coroner was necessarily indifferent to the plight of a female impersonator. He was put in a very awkward position and, being an elected public official, could only make an unbiased appraisal of what he was confronted with and how he must deal with it under the guidelines of his job. If there is a body of people more critically viewed than show people it is, most certainly, people in public office. I wasn't happy with the coroner's course of action-but I understood it.

The next day the whole smoldering pile of shit hit the proverbial fan. The aroma from such an event is like an aphrodisiac to the news media, so every network pseudo news program and numerous tabloid papers descended on the fairgrounds.

The sideshow owner and I had arranged a makeshift funeral in the tent. We had sent word out to show people who were playing fairs in the nearby counties and managed to locate a local minister to conduct the service. By 2:00 p.m. the tent was filled with visiting show folks who'd come to pay their last respects to Lola. The midway was jammed with t.v. remote vehicles, reporters and photographers. We mostly succeeded in keeping the press out but not without a few skirmishes.

Then it was over. The news types scurried off to write their "Impersonator Laid to Rest After Lifetime of Duping Midway Patrons" stories and the fair and my employers were audibly pissed about the unwanted publicity.

We buried Lola in a tiny cemetery on the fairgrounds, created to accommodate a sideshow fat man who'd died there several years prior.

When I got back to the show office I encountered the carnival owner's son. "Is that mess over now?" he asked with a scowl. "The funeral? Yes, it's over" I replied.

"You guys should never have done that. It's going to bring us nothing but media heat for the rest of the spot," he snarled.

"A person -- a friend, died," I said quietly.

He stared at me with contempt and said, "You'd better figure out what's more important to you, this show or some old fag!"

I nodded and left the office. In the bed of my pickup I found a half decent looking grading stake. I walked back to the cemetery behind the cattle barn, carefully printed, "Lola -- a very important person" on it and tapped it into the fresh ground.

Two weeks later the season ended. I've never laid out a lot since.

THE END

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