The Art of the Deal

When I use a little kid growing up in Skowhegan Maine, a little town that sat smack dab in the center of the state, the biggest thing to come to town was the state fair.

I had two rare dollars in my pocket and little going on in my head as most kids. My mom was a single mom, tasked with the job of raising her three kids in a place where the bumper stickers read “Good fences make good neighbors!”, and once you learned the Maine accent, you could blend in with the locals just fine.

The sounds and smells of the midway were designed that way to be enticing to my eyes, ears and nose. We had just arrived, my Mother, little sister, brother and me, and I pulled hard on my mothers hand.

“Come on! Look how easy it is!” yelled the tall arcade man with the big grin as he tossed a dirty worn baseball at three small metal targets that looked like little milk bottles, stacked, two on the bottom, one of the top. Bam! Down they went. He handed a small bear to a little girl half my age, as her father beamed for winning her the prize. Not having a dad at home, the game attendant’s voice was commanding, enticing, lifting and loud. I watched other boys my age begging dads and moms for dollars to play, some got to.

I didn’t know then that I would be hearing this voice for the rest of my life.

I pulled on moms hand, as the game attendant smiled big, his eyes sparkling when he looked at my mother. She stopped me like only a mom can, bent down and pointed, “See all the other things? Why not explore a bit, there maybe better things to buy, and do.”

“But I want to play this game, “ I whined, never taking my eyes off the others happily throwing baseballs.

“See how easy it is?”, the grinning man said, tossing a ball sideways, like he was not even trying, and down went the bottles.

My mother said nothing further and let go of my hand.

I put down my first dollar and it was replace with three old, worn baseballs, one was not as round as the others and all three looked a bit smaller then the one the man had thrown.

I greedily tossed the first ball, expecting the bottles to all be blown away. My ball landed just in front of the bottles, on the edge of the table and fell to the ground. I quickly grabbed the second ball and flung it submarine style, so the ball would hit the bottles from the side like the yelling man did, that was the ticket.

I angrily picked up the final ball, and my mothers hand grabbed my left arm, “Take your time,” she whispered.

The grinning man moved close to us, “He’s got this,” his voice, just as loud, “Everyone's a winner.” He smiled at my mom. I felt tall.

This time I planned to throw the ball very hard, straight at the center of the bottles. And I did. Only the ball hit the left bottle on the top left shoulder and hit the curtain behind, the small metal bottles weaved back and forth, me, my panicked breath.

“Tough luck kid, but you got it now, play again?”

Out came my last dollar and once again mom’s hand gripped my arm.

“Come on, its only one little dollar, look what you can win,” his loud voice carried off into the music of the midway.

My last dollar gone, three little balls appeared. It was as if the grinning man knew that was my last dollar and turned his attention to my pretty mom, his attention gone, I focused on my target. This was it.

I remember the flowery words and soft words he spoke and a change to my mother, her tone was flatter, angrier.

I was done. As the grinning game attendant saw he was not getting anywhere with my mom, his attention magically shifted to another kid about to be separated from their dollars.

My mother pointed at the bottles, and the hanging prizes, “Was it worth it?

“No,” I said. We stood there for longer then I wanted, my face red for sure. She pointed at the grinning man, who seemed to be growing uncomfortable at the attention now and also the money-making real estate we were occupying. She made sure we stood there until I got my $2 worth, one way or another.

“What do you have to show for your money?”, she asked.

I put my hands into empty pockets and finally she relented and we left.

The fair was a day to remember, empty pockets and all.

Near the end of the day, the crowds had thinned, and we had left one of the main barns used as a petting zoo. Off by himself an artist was drawing portraits. Mom and her three kids stood and watched the man draw, quickly, a family, each drawing only taking a few minutes. On the stable walls hung examples of the mans talent.

After the people watching left, my mom talked to the man. He was older, white hair, his left hand’s fingers stained black from rubbing charcoal.

They struck up a deal, $15 for three portraits. The man was not as happy as he once was, by he got to work.

He drew my sister, her eyes bigger then normal, but a very good likeness. I was next.

After, I stood watching over the artists shoulder, mesmerized as he drew my little brother. A lesson that help shape my future art. He only used three things, a thin stick of black charcoal, a small eraser and a razor blade.

My little brother was the last to be drawn. I watched the man, thinking to my self that my brother’s hair was not that dark because he was very blonde. Then the man waved the eraser on the paper and the highlights popped. The eyes, looked dull, until in a flash, he nicked out a bright white fleck in the center of each drawn eye with the tip of a razor blade.

He sprayed each drawing with what looked like hair spray.

“Is that hair spray” I asked.

“This will protect these drawing for your mother forever, son.”

Mom paid the man a $20, he reluctantly returned five one dollar bills that I wished I could put in my empty pocket. I’m sure he felt the same way.

He rolled up the drawings and secured them with a tight rubber band and handed them to my mother. We waved goodbye.

My mother was happy and I asked to carry the rolled up drawings.

Mom bought three frames at K-Mart, one for each of the 16x20 drawings and they hung in our home from that day forward.

We found these drawings, 44 years later in my mothers things after she passed. They still looked as good as the day they were drawn. They held their value.

My mother knew how to strike a good deal, how to navigate the shark-infested waters from the shore, as they yelled and screamed for attention.

That day I learned it too.

-JK