“The Collector”
Children are the most vulnerable.  Teens tend to run in packs, making them a bit more difficult, like finding the weak specimen in a herd of prey animals.  Adults, on the other hand, are the most interesting.  Maturity inevitably leads to doubt and suspicion.  I know that children’s imaginations lend fairy tale like wonder to strange or unusual exhibits and that teens tend to make up the worst scenarios, yet remain fascinated.  With adults, though, I can see the array of grotesque possibilities, doubtful and suspicious, written in their features:  darting eyes, furrowed brows, plastic smiles.  I prefer the interesting.  I prefer adults.  
I know I’m not alone.  Many like me exist in these places.  I know I’m not alone in my need for anonymity, either.  Carnival life is perfect in that respect:   runs are short and locations temporary.  These places, these carnies, teem with secrets.  I am no different.
Standing in the shadows beside the “Strange and Unusual” exhibit, I sniff the air and watch the people waiting to get in.  I glance at the “Fun House of Mirrors” across the fairway. I see movement in the shadows.  Next to that amusement is the ride through the “Wax Museum.”  I can’t see anything, but I feel something deep in the bowels of that make-shift building.  I am not alone.
I edge around the back and enter the tent through a concealed back flap and stand in the shadows near the Tattooed Lady’s art exhibit.  The place reeks of must and mold, a smell like old hay and rotting meat.  I watch the crowd as they move from one station to the next.  The adults make faces of repulsion, the teens giggle and gag, and the children gaze in wide-eyed awe.   
A lone man stops near my position, ignores the sign that reads “DO NOT TOUCH THE EXHIBTS,” and reaches tentative fingers toward the stretched canvas.  He’s tall, overweight, and bald.  I am pleased.
“Hey, mister,” I whisper.
He snaps his hand back and glances in my direction, but I can tell by the quizzical look on his face that he thinks he’s been caught.
“Hey, mister,” I whisper again.
He turns in my direction.  “Really, I only wanted to —”
“Over here,” I say and allow just the tips of my fingers into the light, beckoning.
He takes an unsteady step toward me.  “Who’s there?”
I scan the crowd.  No one’s paying attention.  “Think of me as a curator of sorts. Do you like this piece?”
He comes closer.  “Sure.  That canvas is unusual.  I just wanted to —”
“Yeah, sure,” I say.  “But, if you’re really interested, you could see all the pieces in the collection; you could touch them all.”
He’s thinking now, contemplating, his brows furrowing.  “I just wanted to touch it.  I’m not really interested in art,” he says and turns away. 
 “Wait.”  
He stops, glances back.  
“It’s an unusual canvas, rare.  Maybe you’d like to talk to the artist?  Find out her secrets? See all the works? ”
 He shrugs.  “Might be interesting.”
He moves very close to me now, but he still can’t see me.  I toss a small white card onto the floor.  “Hand the Tattooed Lady that card and she’ll let you in for a private viewing.”
He crouches, picks up the card:  One Free Admittance.  Good for this night only.  “What’s the catch?” he asks.
“No catch. Just a carnival giveaway,” I say.
He nods and wanders away.  I’m pleased.
***
I wait inside the Tattooed Lady’s trailer, sitting anxiously in the shadows. Her place stinks of stale smoke and burnt fat.  Canvases hang on the shabby walls, lean in lines against weathered furniture, and heap haphazardly in stacks on the floor. The Tattooed Lady, a big manly woman with large pea green eyes and short black hair, stands by the door, grinning through red lipstick and tobacco-stained teeth.  I return my best smile, stretched with teeth and tongue.  She laughs at my attempt.
A soft knock at the door propels me into motion.  I rest my hand against the wall. The canvases alight bright neon red, pulse, then settle.  
The Tattooed Lady opens a slot and my card slips through; she takes it, tosses it into an overflowing glass bowl on a small paint-peeled table.  She unlocks and opens the door with a rattle and a squeak.  “Come in,” she says.
The man nods and passes her into the room.  I can see that doubt, that suspicion etched into his features.  I am pleased.
His gaze moves around the room, lingering here and there.  “Amazing.  Can I touch them?” he asks.
“Sure,” she says.
He looks for a few moments longer, eyes darting, widening.  I am pleased.  I watch intently, adrenaline shooting through my veins as cold as ice water.  
He reaches with trembling fingers, makes contact with a canvas on the wall, and brushes back and forth.  “This feels like … skin.”
She nods.
“What kind?” he asks.
Her smile widens to a grin.  “Yours.”
The trailer rumbles.  The lights flicker.  A red glow pulses in the canvas.  The man tries to pull his fingers away, but it’s too late.  He struggles, cursing.  The red travels from the canvas, creeps up his fingers to his hand; he screams.  Red crawls up his arm to his shoulder, divides, picks up speed, runs like a lit fuse up and down his torso and legs, but it’s not until it reaches his mouth that the screaming finally stops.   
The trailer stills, the lights steady.  A thin reddish smoke corkscrews from the canvas on the floor. The Tattooed Lady smiles and collects the new six by four foot blank canvas.  
I leave the shadows, sniffing the air like a needy dog.  I touch the canvas in her hands; it glows.  I breathe in the glow and the red smoke until the canvas is empty of all its humanity.
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