Tom Robbins - Tibetan Peach Pie - A True Account of an Imaginative Life

In some spiritual disciplines such remarks would be recognized (and venerated) as “crazy wisdom.” As from my seat in the peanut gallery I observe daily the wholesale distortion and corruption of consensual reality by corporate interests, their Madison Avenue pimps, and their stooges in government, I take a certain refuge in crazy wisdom, even when (maybe especially when) it emanates from avatars in pink circus tights.

Summer lay on the rural Southeast like a sheet of flypaper. Men, dogs, farm animals, commerce, time itself, seemed stuck to the page with a yellowish narcotic glue. Hours, days, weeks dragged by as slowly as a celebrity divorce. Only we kids, with our sandlot ball games, our dips in the river, seemed the least bit animated, but by August, we, too, had surrendered to the torpor, our whoops and wahoos gradually softening to a flylike buzz.

Evening thunderstorms, cooling and greening, occasionally enlivened the scene, yet no sooner had the last raindrop plunked, the last lightning bolt kicked its spastic leg, than heat and humidity, ever sure of themselves, once again assumed office, and by midmorning the countryside would have gone back to looking as if it had been fried by Colonel Sanders.

Considering that there was no air-conditioning to evaporate the sweat, considering that there was no television to relieve the tedium; considering that the church, while dominant in the life of the community, was not exactly a barrel of fun; it’s hardly surprising that when a circus or traveling carnival hit town, a great many residents (one needn’t be a hard-core show fan or Bobbi enthusiast) shared in my delight. Sure, there were a few righteous citizens (Pentecostals or Hard-Shell Baptists) who’d snort, frown, turn their backs, quarantine their children, and take refuge in their clapboard bungalows, praying against the threat of contamination by godless frivolity. But if you’d spy at night from behind the hydrangea bushes or broken-down clunkers in their yards, you’d catch them at the window, lace curtains pulled slightly aside; ears cocked, nostrils twitching, unable to resist stealing a look, a listen, a sniff at just how gleefully the Devil had transformed an innocent schoolyard or disused field.

Well, maybe it was the Devil, maybe it was God, maybe it was a bunch of otherwise unemployable guys and girls from down in Florida somewhere, but “transformed” is the proper verb. What had been a dusty, forlorn acre, carpeted in clumps of half-dried grass, bestrewed with clods, empty beer cans, and tumbling tumbleweeds of crumpled newspaper; inhabited by shabby sparrows and lazy grasshoppers, that unappetizing pasture would have been alchemized in less than a day; transformed into a strange but beguiling pleasure park; a rollicking incandescent oasis of otherness, promising rewards outside the range of normal expectation.

It’s no wonder that transformation was to become a fairly prominent theme in my novels. The way that colored lights and bouncy music, Ferris wheels and performing elephants, could temporarily turn an empty Virginia field into an encampment of marvels was not unlike the way an affluent summer migration periodically turned Blowing Rock, North Carolina, from Dogpatch into Swankville. The lesson was the same: This program is subject to change — often unexpectedly, sometimes in the batting of an eye. It’s the best argument I know against suicide.

Regularly each July, there was a carnival in Blowing Rock. It was not, however, a professional touring outfit with thrilling mechanical rides (Zipper, Loop-the-Loop, Tilt-A-Whirl); or with freak shows, hootchy-kootchy reviews, and crooked games of strength and skill at which a hayseed stud might spend half his paycheck trying to win a twenty-cent plaster Kewpie Doll for a girl in whose pants he may or may not ever get. No, this was one of those old-fashioned amateur community carnivals — in this case thoughtfully organized by the summer gentry — to raise money for local charities, of which there was, in Depression-era Blowing Rock, a fairly considerable need.

Our carnival took place in our park, a pleasant block-long stretch of trees and grass in the center of town. It was a one-day event but it could generate at least two weeks of excitement. The pony rides were popular with kids, and for a dime you could also take a ride on the municipal fire engine, complete with flashing red lights and sirens; and/or go for a spin in a tiny British sports car (probably a forerunner of the Swatch). There was outdoor bingo (bingo was something of a novelty in a town without a single Roman Catholic), a band concert, a pet show, and a pie-eating contest. There was even a kissing booth, although I was too poor and considered too young (Oh yeah?!) to patronize it. The prime generator of excitement however was the raffle.

For several weeks prior to carnival, raffle prizes were prominently displayed in shop windows downtown. It was shortly before my eighth birthday when, passing such a display, I laid eyes on an object of manifest marvel: a portable radio. This was 1940, mind you, when a portable radio was the size, weight, and general shape of a piece of luggage. Today, you’d be charged thirty-five bucks to carry a radio such as this onto a plane.

This was no cheap plastic ghetto blaster. Not one polymer had been killed or injured in its manufacture. Its frame and handle were made of polished hardwood; its facade, around the speaker, was covered in a tough but tasteful tan fabric resembling a kind of upscale burlap. (Think Louis XIV’s personal potato sack.) It was elegant, it was… well, mysterious, magical even; and it was mine.

That’s right, it was mine. Of that I was absolutely sure. All I had to do was to buy a lottery ticket. The problem was that a ticket cost a quarter: five times my weekly allowance.

Day after day, I begged my father for an advance. To no avail. It wasn’t that he was stingy. He just wanted to spare me an inevitable disappointment, not to mention the loss of funds. He did the math for me, patiently explaining the odds against a single ticket among so many winning the prize.

I persisted. And I pestered. Finally, on the Saturday of the drawing, Daddy capitulated and took me to the store to buy a ticket. There were just two left. Fine with me. I only needed one.

That evening, Daddy and I walked the few blocks to the carnival, me serenely confident, he a trifle sad. Again and again, he cautioned me against unreasonable expectations. Unreasonable? That argument made no sense. Fate had promised me that radio.

It was nearly past my bedtime when the drawing for the radio finally occurred. Our mayor’s daughter reached into a top hat, pulled out a number, and handed it to the emcee to read aloud. The number was not mine.

If I was shattered, I don’t recall. In any case, I hadn’t long to react, because it was quickly announced that the drawn number was that of the single ticket, the only one, that had not been sold. A second number was then pulled from the hat. And minutes later, I walked back home in the soft summer night with my new radio blaring at the end of my arm, exactly as I’d expected.

In all the years that have slid into the history pit since the 1940 Blowing Rock carnival, I’ve never won another raffle. Why? Did I use up a lifetime’s allotment of lottery luck on that one classic occasion? Or is it that I’ve never again entered a contest or game of any kind with that level of belief? Was it testimony, on a peewee scale, to the power of faith ? And did I lose my faith in raffles about the same time and for approximately the same reasons that I quit believing that virgins can have babies; or that if I slay only those people the government encourages me to slay, I’ll be allowed to spend all of eternity in some vaguely located puffyland sipping milk and honey with a huzzahing throng of cheery nonthinkers? (As the painter Ad Reinhardt said when asked if he was an Abstract Expressionist, “To Heaven — but not with them guys!”)