Snowball's Chance (13 page)

Martha-Lo was a bay pony with sunny highlights, who, though many of the other animals couldn’t see it, managed to convince a large proportion of the visitors to the park that she had “that certain something.” For the talent element of her performance, she recited the alphabet to the letter I, and handed out home-baked cookies. A few of her personal weasels resented her, in that without a glass of fresh-pressed beet juice and two sugar cubes to top off the hour, the show could not go on.

And there were other acts, too, that had their share of success—headliners such as Kissilvis the dancing bear, Brandovitz the unforgetting, unforgettable elephant, and Kokia Bobcat, who was awesome and sensual.

But over the coming months, many of the acts, which had risen to popularity, subsequently, fell in popularity—and so reduced, these acts, as they had come, went. And as hard as it was to say good-bye, it was realized that this was the natural course of acts in an amusement park. After an audience was exhausted by a given spectacle, it was only to be expected that the spectacle would move on to another venue—preferably, a far away venue, as nobody, not even the performers themselves, liked to remember an old act. And as for losing friends, the animals learned to make new friends—though it must be said, there was something a little lonely about having to explain one’s life all over again. So much so that, after a while, most animals didn’t bother anymore.

It was not, after all, a personal matter, but a
professional matter. And more than anything else, it was the enormous ambition of such an undertaking as the park that made its impression on the animals. And it was as a result of this impression (Ambition! Ambition! Ambition!) mingled with the experience of these seemingly countless entertainers (whose itinerant life was hugely romantic) that a staggeringly high number of the park animals began to dimly suspect, and forthwith to discover (hooray!) that they had talents of their own. (Besides, with no friends around, why not travel?) Regular auditions were initiated by the pigs, and though very few of the animals were ever bestowed a tent of their own, there was the rare exception. A badger named Otto was given top billing by the
Trotter
. The headliner’s “I eat worms, dirt and rocks” stall was a favorite of pig and critic alike.

Some animals were so determined to raise their small talents to a point of headlining that, out of their own earnings, they hired pigs to become their trainers. And thus, it was at the urging of the animals themselves that many a boar strapped his whip back on.

There were other changes—most noticeably, a pit was dug out of the old pastureland, and the daily mounds of garbage were pitched into it. When it was filled to the top, the mass was burned down. The septic waste, from the outhouses available to the visitors of the park, was also added to this stew. Despite the grumblings of some of the animals, it was proven by the goats that this disposal system had nothing to do with the ground water problem. After two dead beavers were discovered in the pond (they had floated down from the Woodlands) and two chickens died from their daily glasses of reconstituted
pineapple juice, the goats announced that a water tank was being brought in, and that from now on water would be purchased from a natural spring—and that the well water should not be used for anything but cleaning and bathing.

Having extended its borders, Animal Fair had to contend with the two new neighboring farms (to the east and, respectively, the west) of Haberdash and Dilldiddle. And it was soon discovered, by the tireless bloodhounds, that these new neighbors had been responsible for the contamination of the ground water. And while the contamination was inconvenient, the pigs were secure in their conviction that they could employ the situation to their own advantage in a pending lawsuit against the two enemies. (Luckily, the pigs had retained their lawyers from their previous lawsuit against their previous enemies.) It was hoped, with some good reason for hope, that these evil, wasteful regimes (these new evil, wasteful regimes) would soon be toppled. It was not long before many of the animals had entirely forgotten there had ever been a Foxwood or Pinchfield, and the age-old lawsuit was assumed to have always been against Haberdash and Dilldiddle. It was their defeat that would bring Animal Fair’s ultimate victory (as victorious as Animal Fair was already).

So, with this object in mind (more victory!) the animals worked hard, and the pigs and goats encouraged them to work even harder—it was a war of work, said Snowball. And moreover, hard work satisfied the individual objectives of many of the animals, who looked forward to better days for themselves—days when they wouldn’t have to work so hard.

And to the enormous satisfaction of the pigs, the bank loans were paid off early. And everyone knew that was good for the fair, whyever that might be. And the pigs, who had made friends with the bankers (they drank whiskey with banking “executives” on a regular basis, in a dedicated effort to keep up good relations), took out new loans, which was also excellent for the fair, whyever that might be.…

And things were going well—so well, actually, that it was suggested in
The Daily Trotter
that there was too much hard work, and too much ambition. The animals, who were all working seven days a week, were collecting far too much in wages, and were therefore driving up something called “inflation.” This meant, said the
Trotter
, that it was time for the animals to work less hard, and to have more ambitions about flying kites and playing croquet—and fewer about sequined mangers and pearl-studded bow ties. A new three-day workweek was legislated. But because the kite field and croquet course were closed to all but pigs and goats (only the pigs and goats could afford the prohibitive “member fee”) the animals were unable to fly kites, and play croquet, as had been suggested. A few of the animals took up something called “dice,” but mostly, the animals just stared out their windows for the four days a week they weren’t working.

And at first, as the fair animals were due for a little relaxation, that wasn’t so bad. Actually, it was terrific—even the voles said so. But after a few weeks, when everyone had rested up, it got to be a bore, and the animals spent the days they weren’t working looking forward to the days they were working. It was soon amended that an animal was permitted to work more than three days a week—but
anything over three days would be considered entirely voluntary, and would warrant no extra benefits—food or otherwise. And without extra food to sustain extra work, most animals deemed such exertion gratuitous. They’d rather just look out their windows, and if they couldn’t actually fly a kite or play a round of croquet, just think about flying a kite or playing a round of croquet. Some held that the answer was beer, or if they could afford it, whiskey—both beverages being available in the park.

A few of the more ambitious animals, who were hoping to demonstrate themselves deserving of some managerial post, might take on an extra day here and there. But even they would tire of it. The best thing that could be said of the three-day workweek was that it allowed several fair animals to get fat—and that was, in a sense, a victory, as aside from the pigs, dogs and goats, there had not been a fat animal on the fairgrounds that anyone, not even Benjamin, could remember. And if you got fat, the three-day workweek wasn’t so bad anymore, as fat animals didn’t like to move much anyway.

The most major drawback of the three-day workweek was that the managerial positions, which had been coming fast and furious for some time, seemed suddenly … well, infrequent. It was as if, wedged behind their counters, everyone was stuck in one place. This misconception, however, was soon put to rest by
Canary
. Time and again,
Canary
recounted the stories behind the appointments—always a triumph over adversity. And the animals liked to hear that, because for all the good things about their lives, as they sat in front of their windows those four days a week, somehow, their lives did seem adverse—though by all means they did love Animal Fair,
and appreciate it as the best place around for an animal, which it really was.

It might be supposed that all those long hours at the window thinking about Martha-Lo the Pony bred humiliation and envy. But as a science article in the
Trotter
had linked bitterness and resentment to failure, and failure to ongoing failure, few found that they themselves were anything but optimistic. (And also, maybe, a little tipsy from one of those martinis!)

Yes, perhaps on occasion tempers ran a little short. And yes, perhaps, there was that new pesky problem of the “criminanimals.” But, most assuredly, none of trouble resulted from anything akin to feelings of stagnation and aspiration unfulfilled. No siree, how could life be anything but a wonder, when one had a window?

Now collecting salaries, the animals were also paying bills—food, water, lodging, utilities and taxes (taxation, the most difficult concept to grasp, took up ⅓ to ½ of each class in the “Wage Earner” seminar). So, fortunately, as for the robberies and hold-ups, there was not really all that much to take.

This, combined with the fact that the crimes tended to be a bit on the silly side, let few of the animals, and certainly none of the pigs or the goats, take the problem too seriously. They had all seen crimes before—real crimes like Cotswold’s disboweling attempt, and Filmont’s betrayal of the dream. And as far as a couple of porcupines bungling the burglary of a jalapeno grasshopper stand, or the outrageous behavior of a sheep, a chicken, and a horse in a love triangle—it was laughable. Lowlife like that couldn’t recite the alphabet to the letter E.

Still, some discipline was called for, and any animal
guilty of a crime was sentenced to perform in a sideshow. (Some animals actually seemed to commit crimes for the sole reason that they had no other recourse to become sideshow performers.) In the “Criminals of the Courtyard” exhibit, the guilty animal would confess his or her crime eighteen times a day (thrice an hour for six hours) while wearing no clothing at all, aside from a yellow hat with a bell at the top. The exhibit grew so popular, and profitable, that many held crime was not a problem at all—but merely a source for the sideshow. The pigs and dogs were unanimous on this point—the sins of a few depraved common frogs and pygmy shrews inspired more mirth than panic. A domestic squabble between a jack-hare and his doe? The torrid affair of a smooth newt and a warty newt, or a field mouse and a house mouse? A shoplifting goldfinch?!

Honestly, crimes like that—it was all too amusing!

But in the months to come, the crime got worse.

Probably, it was partly due to this, in addition to the water supply problem and the poor air quality (the garbage fires, every other day, lingered over the grounds in the form of a black cloud) that a large number of the animals began to leave the fair—deciding, perhaps, that it was time for a new start in the suburbs. (The pigs and goats, having bought up the countryside, were building housing developments.) Besides, the life of the fair animals, be they entertainers or just “carneys,” was a wandering, cast-your-bread-on-the-waters kind of life—and in a life like that, an urge to move on just had to be honored.

On the flip side, Animal Fair offered enormous opportunity, and there were always plenty of new animals
coming in. (Everyone, from the original farm animals to the old-time newcomers, got in on the dumbcomer jokes—it was commonly suggested that flushing the punch bowl was a good way to ruin a dumbcomer party.) And the toxic water and brown air? Well, as the pigs said, that was a boon of crucial vitamins and minerals, and a terrific invigorant to the system.

“Ahhh,” sighed the pigs, who never left the fair, once they arrived, “breathe that rich dark air! Like good soil! I’ll tell you, nothing’s better! That’s the sweet smell of success!”

That notwithstanding, more and more of the original farm animals, coughing, departed. And then, more and more of the animals who replaced those original farm animals, also coughing, also departed. And so gradually, of Animal Fair, it could no longer be said that there was a local community.

But there was, as the pigs liked to put it, a village community.

From all over the village, animals came to try out their dreams. Daily, they came, sure that they had something to offer. And as difficult as it was to succeed (even in a free land like Animal Fair), every wave of immigrants arrived with the self-assurance that they were better—and could raise themselves from menial labor with greater ease and poise than had any immigrants preceding them. And in a carnival atmosphere, which thrived upon new blood, new energy, and the occasional new idea, there was nothing wrong with a little confidence. “Be independent,” the pigs would say to the newcomers in the orientation classes—

“You’re one of us, now.”

There were still, of course, familiar faces—Benjamin, Emerald, Kip, Temescula, and all the pigs and dogs. But even of these, many chose to work on the fairgrounds while making their homes elsewhere. A new sub-group of animals was created, called “commuters.” Hobart the bull joined this sub-class, purchasing an old dairy barn just down the road. Having taken out a bank loan of his own, Hobart and his family moved their ice-cream parlor to the dairy barn, the renovation of which Hobart completed, after much labor, with his young brother, Goober. Applying the lessons of the fair to the village, their business was extraordinarily successful.

Indeed, the lesson of Animal Fair promised such extraordinary success that it seemed all the village was joining the carnival!

And yet, on the fairgrounds, the crime got worse.

Considerably worse.

It was after the Jones House itself had suffered a break-in and two assaults that an announcement was made at one of the now sparsely attended Sunday Addresses.

The goats (in all their wisdom), at the behest of the pigs (in all their benevolence), had added two new Commandments. (There’d been some talk of making the restrictions upon meat-eating into Commandments, and this issue, it was also announced by the pigs, had been resolved to everyone’s satisfaction. After careful study, the subject would henceforth be officially deemed not-quite-significant-enough to merit a Commandment. Honestly, if someone ate a shrimp now and again … well, why bother? So what they ate a shrimp? Or a lobster? Or a pheasant stuffed with raisins and apricots?)