The Time Booper and I Lost Mike Pence’s Children at the County Fair

Looking back at his life it would seem absurd to let a confirmed fool — a man whose very name is a by-word for rank buffoonery — babysit one’s children. But I am speaking of Booper McCarthy — so loveable a fool; we are not to see the like of him again — and so trusting were Mr. and Mrs. Michael Pence that, when they went on their annual autumn weekend excursion to Branson, Missouri they allowed himself and me to do just that.

I remember very well the discomfort on display when Mr. and Mrs. Michael came home, herself as beautiful as always and himself in his finest Branson Suit, which consisted of a white-fringed black cowboy suit, a white ten gallon hat and a pink cravat.

Bopper and I gathered the children, lately bathed and dressed and lined up at the landing of the foyer stairs all Von Trapp family fashion and ready for the presentation.

Michael and his lovely wife entered and the children beamed and all seemed well until Michael spoke to them.

How was your weekend, children? he asked.

I getted to hug the Yak Lady! said the youngest, Iphigenia, with great enthusiasm.

I made people throw up on the Cyclone ride! said Tanit, the middle child.

When I grow up, I want to live with the carnival folk! pronounced Marmaduke, the eldest, though still in his short pants.

There was a great silence in the entryway.

Bryan, Michael said, taking off his hat and clearly calming himself with herculean effort. Please explain.

 

And so explain I did.

It all began when I arrived at the Pence home. I was given all the typical instructions on what they the children should eat, what they could and could not watch on the television — no Dukes of Hazzard, under any circumstances — and which of Pastor Dennis’s sermons was next in their listening schedule. If I recall it was the one entitled “God’s Plan Regarding Municipal Light Railways.” I wasn’t paying attention to the whole four-and-a-half hours but I’m pretty sure He was in favor of them, as long as the fares were reasonable and they ran at decent hours of the day.

Again I digress.

To make a long story short, Booper showed up somewhat later — it was after Michael and Mrs. Pence left — and he bore a decorative well.

What d’you mean with the well there, Booper? I asked.

Lookit, he said. At some point the littlest one is goin’ ta lose track of her baby doll. Me plan is to take the doll in question and — as a lesson, mind! — put her in your man the well and when the little one wants to know where her baby’s gone to, I’ll tell her that the liddle bairn’s in the well, and that’s what happens when you don’t pay attention to a child of that age!

Booper, I said. That’s horrible!

But that’s just what he did, and it went just well as you would imagine.

Little Iphigenia invited myself, Tanit and the Pence family cat, Chief, to a tea party. Cucumber sandwiches and all the etiquette to beat the band, you understand. Right proper stuff. I even had me pocket watch set to the Greenwich Mean Time for the occasion.

But then where was Iphigenia’s little baby; where could she be? She wanted to have tea like the rest, of course.

Why, Booper had thrown the babe in question down the well, just as he said he would. Well, there was a great hue and cry about the neighborhood with the end result being that I, Bryan O’Nolan — no solicitor, I — talked the neighbors out of arresting a man that both you know and that I know one Booper McCarthy for conspiracy to affray.

The end result was this: Booper and I had to find a way to take the Pence children out of town and entertain them until such time as their parents were to return. We were under too much suspicion and Booper was certain to bollox things up further. Luckily, I knew of a county fair some towns over where we could, I thought, keep the children fairly well entertained, fed and secure until Mr. and Mrs. Pence were ready to come home from Branson.

How wrong I was.

The five of us piled into Booper’s out-of-service chicken truck and headed to the fair. I drove, of course, as the State of Indiana had long before asked Booper, in no uncertain terms, to never, ever, drive a vehicle.

When we arrived at the fair, we were waved around to the vendor entrance; presumably they thought the chicken truck was a going concern.

Bryan, Booper said. Don’t you think they might feel we’ve gypped them out of our entrance fees?

Quiet, Booper! I tried to hush him. You can’t go ‘round usin’ a word like that!

Which word?

G-Y-P-P-E-D, Booper, I spelled, keeping a close eye on the children in the back to see if they understood.

You know, I’m not much of a speller, Booper said.

Gah, man, the one about the gypsies.

Well, why not? Booper said. A noble race. Built the pyramids, they did. And that big sand dog that asks the riddles. Clever fellas, to be sure. Nothin’ to be ashamed of, the Egypsies.

That’s a myth, Booper, I said. They never did come from Egypt.

Is that why you can’t talk about ‘em, Bryan? The lyin’ about be Egyptian?

No, Booper, you damn — the children gasped — dang fool! The term “gypped” is racially insensitive.

Booper screwed up his eyes.

I, I don’t folla, he said.

Problematical?

What’s that word? I don’t know that one.

Why, I was sure you must, I said. It’s quite current among the expensively under-educated, such as yourself. The word you used is bigoted, Booper. It is a bigoted word.

Bigoted? he cried. Do you tell me so?

Indeed, I do, Booper, indeed, I do. It’s based on a hurtful stereotype suggesting that these people you call gypsies regularly provide fraudulent services.

Like when me gran wanted her driveway paved, Booper said, and the pavers paved over her entire front garden and then charged her for the whole lot?

That’s the sort of thing, yes, I said.

Why, those pavers were Italian! And Gran ended up thanking them for it, as now she has a better place to park her caravan!

Precisely what I’m tellin’ ya about, Booper!

So what do we call ‘em if we can’t call ‘em the other thing ya said, Bryan, the problematical thing?

“Roma people” is acceptable, I believe.

Roma? Like the tomatas? Do you tell me they’re Italian, now, too?

Enough about the Italians, Booper, or I’ll knock ya on the head!

I pulled us into a parking space.

Uncle Bryan, young Marmaduke said. Are those folks over there Roma people?

Ah, I’m glad you asked, lad, I said. I’m glad you asked. Those are carnival folk, sometimes called Carnies. They, too, have an uncouth reputation, but it’s like I always say, judge the man on his character and not on the stereotypes of his people. Otherwise, you might think people like Booper and me were mere pugnacious idjits!

We brought the children into the fair. We had the fried dough; we saw your men the freaks in the freak show; we had our weights guessed — Booper had his six-foot frame correctly assessed at 13 stone; we watched as a man made an enormous quantity of the kettle corn, which we then ate; we saw all the chickens in the chicken barn, and we listened attentively to Booper’s expostulations about the utility of each breed for eating.

He’s always had strong opinions about such things.

It was when we got to the competition where the oxen try to pull ever-heavier objects that I realized that the girls, Tanit and Iphigenia, were missing.

Maimonides! I shouted.

Are you talking to me, Uncle Bryan? young Marmaduke said. My name is Marmaduke.

Of course it is! I said. Of course, Marmaduke, of course. Do you happen to know where your sisters are?

I haven’t an idea, Uncle Bryan, said he. Uncle Booper gave me a couple of dead presidents to wager on that oxen team going next with that disheveled tramp in the corner who smells like Natural Lite and regret. My poor sisters! They’ve always been such obedient young ladies!

We need a plan! I said, ignoring for the time being that Booper had facilitated an introduction between Marmaduke and the wiley gambler, Stanky the Tramp.

I have one! Marmaduke said. Uncle Booper, you search amongst the freaks; Uncle Bryan, you search the midway; I’ll fellowship with the carnival folk!

An excellent plan, Marmaduke! I said. We meet back at the chicken truck!

He looked thrilled.

Which presidents, out of curiosity, Marmaduke?

Mostly Grant.

I see, I said. Let’s be off!

We were off.

Was I alarmed by his adaptation of slang which would bring upon me the ire of Mr. and Mrs. Michael Pence? Yes. Was I concerned about his introduction to the cancerous world of gambling? Also, yes. Were either of these my priority in that moment? Not at all. Recovering Iphigenia and Tanit was the most important task I’ve been given since the time Michael asked me to arrange his socks alphabetically.

I headed to the midway. What sights and sounds would attract such young girls? My attempts at asking this directly of little girls and their parents was met with direct and specific obstruction such that I was warned by the site organizers never to return to the fair. I honestly thought that would have happened to Booper before it would happen to me.

I spotted a likely location immediately. The Cyclone ride was spinning madly. By the time I was able to get close I could see its riders were projectile vomiting as they rose and fell and spun. The nearby drink stand was covered in the stuff, dripping off like bile-colored rain. 

Their cries were horrific. 

Oh, the humanity!

I ran to the gate, only to have my deepest fears confirmed. There, at the controls, cackling madly was Tanit Pence. A man leapt over the fence and, with shocking placidity, asked her to stop the ride.

She did.

The riders, those capable of speech at any rate, were furious — the crowd that had gathered at the sight and smell beside themselves with anger and disgust — but the man calmed them all.

I am Dr. Betrand Quatermass, he said through a megaphone. This young lady is a hero! Were it not for her quick thinking you would all be in far worse shape, in the long run. Many of you might have been killed! You see, the ice cubes made at the soda shack which served you while you were in line for this ride contained dangerous levels of botulism! Lacking activated charcoal, the violent evacuation of your digestive systems was our only recourse.

Everyone within earshot — the exhausted riders, the shocked patrons, the carnival folk, the bearded lady on her 15 minute break, everyone — cheered little Tanit as I lifted her onto my shoulders.

Doctor, I said, turning — but the doctor was gone.

Strange, that.

I met back up with Booper at the chicken truck as we’d planned.

I found he and little Iphigenia patiently explaining that — the truck being out of service — there were no wings to be had nor Scorchin’ Skid Marks Sauce to dress them with to a line of disappointed carnival folk.

I say, Bryan, Booper said, you’d be proud of little Iffy, here. She and the Yak Lady are fast friends. That’s where I found her, with the Yak Lady. Our friend here was described as a “kind, thoughtful and understanding companion.”

Rather erudite, this Yak Lady, I said.

In my experience, they tend to be, Bryan, Booper said. Very wise, the Yak People. I imagine it’s all that time they have for quiet contemplation, given that they are avoided by polite society.

I started up the truck.

That would explain your familiarity with them, Booper, not being a member of polite society yourself.

I suppose you’re right, Bryan.

It wasn’t until we were back at stately Pence Manor that we realized that Marmaduke wasn’t with us.

Naturally, I panicked. The only thing I could think to do was to call Dick Richards.

Dick, I said over the phone, can you come down to Mike’s place? I’ve lost Melchizedek!

You mean Marmaduke? he said. I’ll be right over.

It was an agonizing fifteen minutes waiting for him.

I got here as quickly as I could, Dick said. There was charcuterie everywhere.

Were you entertaining? Booper asked.

I’m always entertaining, Booper, he said with a wink. But I digress. The situation, briefly.

It is briefly thus, I said. We accidentally left Marmaduke at the fair.

Why haven’t you returned to the fair? That’s the first thing I’d do.

The fair is now closed and, to make matters worse, the carnival folk have packed up and moved off, destination unknown, presumably with Marmaduke in tow.

We need to search from the air, obviously.

Yes, but how, Dick? How?

Bryan, you may be the vastly more intelligent of the two adults left in charge here, but you can be incredibly dim sometimes.

And?

Our friend Michael is the owner of the 17th largest collection of classic autogyros in the world!

I did feel dim when Dick said that.

You’re right, Dick. You’re right. Let’s get to the tarmac. Booper, you stay here and watch the girls.

Hey! Booper said as we left the house. That was offensive, Dick!

When we got to the tarmac, Dick told me that a travel agent friend of his had suggested that the carnival had most likely traveled west.

He jumped in an original Cierva C.6 while I took a Buhl A-1. We raced low towards the setting sun. Not half an hour later we saw the long, slow carnival snaking along the interstate. We flew ahead of the train and blocked all three lanes of the road with our autogyros.

While Dick went and negotiated Marmaduke’s release, I stayed by our craft as a guard. Not only were the carnival folk angry, but there were enraged motorists to beat the band.

An irate policeman rode up on a motorcycle.

Now, Officer, I said. I can explain.

His face changed from anger to curiosity.

Hey, ain’t you the guy who tracked down Dora the Explorer?

I am, I said, befuddled.

You know, that was some damn fine detective work. We use your report in trainings all the time. Textbook investigating.

Dick and Marmaduke ran up and jumped into the C.6.

We’ll be going now, Dick shouted to the officer.

Well, he said to me. I’d ask for your autograph, but I think a whole bunch of people would be mighty bent out of shape if I drew this out any longer.

I’ll be sure to mention you in my book, Officer — ?

Tingle’s the name. Officer Brick Tingle.

Thank you, Officer Tingle. I must be off.

And off I was.

 

Michael and Mrs. Michael Pence were somewhat rather relieved when I’d finished the tale.

Marmaduke, why did you run off with the carnival folk? Mrs. Pence asked.

I was eager to learn their ancient ways, mother.

I hope you didn’t learn too much about Stanky the Tramp and his ways, Michael said.

No, father.

Bryan, as to the autogiros —

Did you just say “autogiros,”  Michael? I asked. I’ve been saying “autogyros” this whole time.

They are, he said, homophones, in fact. They are spelled differently, but are pronounced the same. Cierva’s original machines were called autogiros, but the general name for them now is autogyros. Like I said, different spelling, but the same pronunciation.

I see.

Are the autogyros properly stowed?

Yes, of course. Dick took care of it.

Ah yes, Michael said. Good, old reliable Dick!

 

While you may think this story to be mere whimsy, the incident it describes has had a lasting effect on the Pence family, as Marmaduke Pence has grown up to become a lawyer and he founded the nation’s premier Carny Anti-defamation organization.