Eyeing the Flash: The Making of a Carnival con Artist
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Eyeing the Flash: The Making of a Carnival con Artist

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by Peter Fenton
     
 

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The year is 1963, the setting small-town Michigan. Pete Fenton is just another well-mannered math student until he meets Jackie Barron, a teenage grifter who introduces him to the carnival underworld — and lures him with the cons, the double-dealing, and, most of all, the easy money. The memoir of a shy middle-class kid turned first-class huckster, Eyeing

Overview

The year is 1963, the setting small-town Michigan. Pete Fenton is just another well-mannered math student until he meets Jackie Barron, a teenage grifter who introduces him to the carnival underworld — and lures him with the cons, the double-dealing, and, most of all, the easy money. The memoir of a shy middle-class kid turned first-class huckster, Eyeing the Flash is highly unorthodox, and utterly compelling.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
"Eyeing the Flash is shot through with rue and amazement. Welcome, in brief, to adulthood, like the midway itself...[a world] of flashing lights, pounding music, cheap thrills and even cheaper suits, not to mention deceit, perishable pleasures and no curfews."

— Lee K. Abbott, The News & Observer (Raleigh, NC)

"A contemporary carnival classic in the vein of Nell Stroud's Josser and Howard Bone's Side Show: My Life with Geeks, Freaks & Vagabonds in the Carny Trade."

Library Journal

"Mr. Fenton describes his transformation from high school nerd to midway con artist with great comic gusto, in the tart, cynical tone one might expect of someone who made a living taking nickels and dimes from small children at the duck-pond game. A cross between Ferris Bueller and William S. Burroughs, he regards with a cold, delighted eye the weakness, greed and duplicity of the carnival world, where human beings come in only two varieties: 'marks,' or suckers, and the wise guys who divest them of their cash.... The elite flatties could pick the pockets of their marks and still leave them laughing in wonderment. Mr. Fenton just might have shown them a new trick in this hilarious, twisted coming-of-age story."

— William Grimes, The New York Times

"An engrossing read...In depicting his eccentric family, the author's wit crackles."

People

William Grimes
Mr. Fenton, who went on to become a reporter at The National Enquirer, describes his transformation from high school nerd to midway con artist with great comic gusto, in the tart, cynical tone one might expect of someone who made a living taking nickels and dimes from small children at the duck-pond game. A cross between Ferris Bueller and William S. Burroughs, he regards with a cold, delighted eye the weakness, greed and duplicity of the carnival world, where human beings come in only two varieties: "marks," or suckers, and the wise guys who divest them of their cash.
— The New York Times
Publishers Weekly
This instantly engrossing coming-of-age memoir/cautionary tale from humor writer Fenton (Truth or Tabloid?) details the author's teenage years in 1960s Detroit among the swindling, money-hungry environs of the carnival midway. The largely ignored son of an alcoholic WWII veteran, Fenton blows off an opportunity to become his high school's football quarterback, preferring to hang out with his classmate Jackie Barron and Jackie's shifty family's traveling carnival operation. Fenton is impressed with Jackie's exceptional manipulation skills, and once Fenton demonstrates an uncanny knack for numbers and memorization at Jackie's illegal basement casino, the two become inseparable. The well-paced story heats up as Fenton flees his rocky home life to work for Jackie and gets an education in the intricate chicanery of carnival work, shoplifting and wooing women. After months on the lower rung of carnival duty in Cleveland, Fenton discovers Jackie's been cheating him out of his fair share, so Fenton begins skimming cash from the games he operates. And when a new manager promotes Fenton to the higher stakes scams, Fenton and Jackie's friendship turns intensely competitive. This spirited story of obsession with the carnival's "alternating current of greed-fed euphoria and paranoia" is at once entertaining and informative. Agent, Brian DeFiore. (Jan.) Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
While most teenage boys in 1960s rural Mineralton, MI, were collecting chump change mowing lawns and delivering the Detroit Free Press, young Mensa inductee Fenton, under the tutelage of fellow classmate and grifter extraordinaire Jackie Barron, was amassing a carnival curriculum vitae and fortune as a carny huckster with Barron's Party Time Shows. This autobiographical portrait of the con artist as a young man is as delightful as it is revealing of the seamy midway underbelly. Having served a 15-year stint as a tabloid reporter for the National Enquirer (an appropriate career move), Fenton is an amusing storyteller who punctuates his tales with carny carnage, slang, and compelling portraits of rogues. He has written a contemporary carnival classic in the vein of Nell Stroud's Josser and Howard Bone's Side Show: My Life with Geeks, Freaks & Vagabonds in the Carny Trade. Public librarians, "come on in, it's time to win"-just keep one hand on your wallet.-Barry X. Miller, Austin P.L., TX Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
School Library Journal
Adult/High School-Good student, quarterback, and all-around good guy in his early high school days, Fenton was easily pictured moving on to college and a nice middle-class job and family. But in his junior year, a fellow student barreled into his life and changed its course. Jackie Barron came from a family of carnival owners and con artists, and recognizing Fenton's skill with numbers, he enlisted his aid in setting up a casino for high school kids in his basement. Fenton learned the basics: counting cards, bribing cops to look the other way, letting someone win from time to time, and the most important rule of any gambling system-stack the odds so that the house always wins. Using the seed money from the basement endeavor, Barron took over a carnival midway. Fenton followed, seduced by promises of wealth, women, and fun. After slugging away at the low-end games, he worked his way up. His internship of sorts placed him under the tutelage of men named the Ghost and Horserace Harry. From them he learned the art of the con: how to reel the people in, how not to scare them off, and, most importantly, how to get as much money from them as possible. In a scene worthy of a movie, Fenton battles Barron in a one-day, winner-take-all contest on the midway to prove who is the better con man. Witty and irreverent, this memoir is filled with enough quips, tricks, and scams to satisfy even the shortest attention spans.-Matthew L. Moffett, Northern Virginia Community College, Annandale Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Forget Las Vegas: you'll never even beat the midway at the local carnival, says Fenton, who worked the circuit as a high-schooler. Fenton went on to be a reporter for The National Enquirer and to write a couple of humor books, but in the 1960s he was a bright kid with an unhappy home life. That made him an easy mark for schoolmate Jackie Brown, a student of the art of the swindle who declared, " . . . every game on the midway . . . is all about science and the unchangeable laws of nature." Impressed by Fenton's ease with math, Brown took the boy under his wing and offered a tutorial in the ways of gambling. Fenton took to this line of work, which opened for a shy kid a world of thrills and, not incidentally, sex. Limning numerous episodes of deceit with the immediacy and clarity of a pure raconteur, he tells of moving up through the carny ranks from the floating-duck games to the genuine gambling venues. Carnies are as ready to ding their coworkers as they are the folks at the show, he notes; he cheated his boss for the same reason his boss had cheated him: because "as a general rule any carny who wasn't an ignorant fool simply held out his rightful percentage, the one that God had ordained when he'd written the chapter on carnies in the Holy Bible." Eventually, the author came to realize how easy it was to become "an asshole carny," always ready to shaft the next character with too loose a grip on the weekly earnings. A metaphorical shoot-out ensued with his mentor, then Fenton headed off to the noble world of the University of Michigan. Well, not really. A week into the first semester, he again heard the call to the midway. From there it was an obvious next step to the tabloids. Thestrange, dark side of life, but a very real milieu. Agent: Brian DeFiore/Defiore and Company

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780743258555
Publisher:
Simon & Schuster
Publication date:
02/28/2006
Edition description:
Reprint
Pages:
272
Sales rank:
1,177,614
Product dimensions:
5.40(w) x 8.30(h) x 0.70(d)

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One: Why You Should Always Leave the Mark a Dollar for Gas

1967

I had my back turned to Jackie when he said, "You'll never get rich with your hands in your pants."

I whirled around. "Where'd you read that one, a fortune cookie?" It was hard to breathe, let alone come up with a decent retort. I had twisted away to adjust the sweat-soaked roll of cash in my black silk briefs and Jackie was no more than three feet from me, watching my every move. I couldn't let him spot the mysterious lump on my right hip — because, after all, it was his money I'd stolen.

"No, I saw it in a friggin' Oreo. Anyway, who cares? I've got to have lunch with the county sheriff in ten minutes. Can I just show you how to work the Swinger?"

My throat felt like it was being constricted by kielbasa-size fingers. I had struggled to convince Jackie that I deserved a shot working one of the best money-vacuums on the Party Time Shows midway, and now I couldn't get a word out except "Sure." I was anxious about the money slipping down my pant leg. I was sick from the cold corn dogs, pizza crust, and flat Coke I had for breakfast after waking up, fully dressed in my new blue sharkskin pants and white satin shirt with western-style fringe, under a Party Time Shows semitrailer. I couldn't safely sleep in a room, because spending the night in a Motel 6 might have tipped Jackie off that I had a source of income beyond my official cut of the action.

Jackie, on the other hand, was clean and calm, his auburn hair smelling of Vitalis. He was absently cutting a deck of cards with one soft, manicured hand while palming the croquet ball with the other. Then he dropped the cards into the breast pocket of his white, short-sleeved cotton shirt.

"See my pinkie finger?" Jackie asked, holding it in front of my face. "On the Swinger, your pinkie is the gaff, so don't get it chopped off in a bar fight."

"How so?"

"You see, even though it was probably invented in Alabama by some guy with three teeth, the Swinger is based upon a fundamental principle of physics, which is that the angle of reflection always equals the angle of refraction. Or maybe it's the other way around."

"Yeah, I did a science project on that in the fourth grade."

"Let me show you how it relates to the Swinger." Deceptively stripped down and simple in appearance, the Swinger was an "Alibi joint" that required the adult customer to knock a bowling pin down with a croquet ball. The bowling pin stood in the crux of a wooden coat hanger that had been nailed flat on a chest-high plywood counter. The croquet ball hung from a chain directly above the pin. Jackie turned and faced the counter. "In order to win a prize on the Swinger," he said, "the player needs to swing the croquet ball forward so that it misses the bowling pin as it travels past, yet knocks the bowling pin down on the return trip."

"So where does my pinkie finger come in?"

"When you want some moron to win, for publicity purposes or whatever, you wrap your pinkie around the back of the bowling pin so that when you seem to place the pin in the crux of the coat hanger, it is actually slightly off center. Which will result in the croquet ball knocking the pin down on the return trip."

"Because of the angle of reflection equals the angle of refraction thing."

"Like every game on the midway, the Swinger is all about science and the unchangeable laws of nature," Jackie joked. He glanced at his watch, then the neon-lit hot dog stand, where he was due to buy the county sheriff a foot-long and probably hand over a popcorn box full of cash, so that the sheriff would order his deputies to ignore every loser's complaint. Jackie was wise to every carny scam in the book even though, like me, he was seventeen and just a week short of graduating from high school.

"What's a good call?" I asked about the line of patter I'd use to attract a mark's attention.

Jackie shrugged. "Whatever feels right. Like if it was some biker with a tattoo of a Harley on his shoulder, you might say, 'Hey bro, park your scooter and let me show you how to profit by playing a little item we call the Swinger.' Something to get him ticked off. Because when you insult a biker, he'll want to beat you at your own game. And that's not humanly possible."

"So I wind up with his money."

"But don't forget to leave him with a dollar so he can buy gas, drive home, and kick the mailbox instead of you."

For a brief moment, I forgave Jackie for all the tricks he'd played on me over the course of our friendship, how he'd conned me into this, manipulated me into that. With his help, I might soon be earning hundreds of bucks, maybe a grand a day, on the Swinger. I'd have pockets bursting with cash, a girl under each arm, and a beer in each hand.

Then the $1,253 in my underwear once again began to descend. My sweat and the accumulated grime of thousands of hands had turned the bills into a slimy mass that was slipping from the grasp of the elastic band. I stole a look at Jackie, who was now a few feet to my right, leaning against one of the tent poles that held up the Swinger. Why was he staring at me, I wondered? His opaque gaze was fixed on me just slightly off center, so that he was neither meeting me eye to eye nor looking away. Did he know I was skimming money because I'd discovered that he was paying me far less than my fair share? Hey, we were best friends. How could that happen? Maybe I was paranoid. Maybe at seventeen I was already far too suspicious of my best buddy's motives, not to mention those of the common folk who were currently slogging down the midway through the thick stew of mud, sawdust, and elephant turds the size of bread loaves.

Jackie pushed his black, horn-rimmed glasses back up his nose. Perspiration dotted his quickly reddening face. "Now," he said, "I have a question for you."

"What's that?"

"Did you just shit cash?"

I peered down at my feet. There, peeking out of my right pant leg, was the soggy roll of bills I'd held out from Jackie. "That couldn't have come out of me. All I ate for lunch was nickels and quarters."

Jackie responded by wrapping his hand around the skinny end of the bowling pin. Impulsively, I grabbed the croquet ball, not the best defensive move because it was tethered to a chain.

Far away, from the direction of the Ferris wheel I heard a voice scream, "Please, oh please, let me down from here." That frantic wail was quickly obliterated by a screeching loudspeaker and the announcement that the Greased Pole Climbing Contest was about to begin.

I asked myself: If Jackie was me, what would he say next to hack his way out of this thicket?

Copyright © 2005 by Peter Fenton

Meet the Author

Peter Fenton served for fifteen years as a tabloid reporter for the National Enquirer and is the author of two humor books, Truth or Tabloid? and I Forgot to Wear Underwear on a Glass-Bottom Boat. He lives in Eugene, Oregon.

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Eyeing the Flash: The Making of a Carnival con Artist 5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 2 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Fun reading! There is a rare glimpse into the "Carni's" life and the friendship of two high school boys. The tone is light and funny, but deeper questions remain after you put the book down.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago