Across this nation, numerous kids are departing for college. This is the first year of my life that I have nothing to do during this normally tenuous period. There are an endless number of transitions that will befall me in the near future as I toe the waters of “the real world.” For today, I feel like reaching into the past, all the way to the year 2004. The Great Allentown Fair is starting on August 30th, and will run until September 5th. Each year I attended Muhlenberg I would explore the fairgrounds at great length. I would sit outside with friends and soak in the color and sounds of the final days of summer. Terrible bands from all over the world would play the Fair, and their tunes cut through the air and filter through the outskirts of campus. I wrote this piece on the Fairground in the first days of my senior year at Muhlenberg. It was the first piece of travel writing I had ever attempted. Almost one year later to the day, I’ve compiled all my notes, tapes and photos from my recent travels. Now I am ready to start writing.
Fair
“It smells like shit,” someone mutters. I haven’t even made my entrance into the fairgrounds, and someone has already gone and polluted my initial attempt to remain as objective as possible. Walking along Chew Street, laughter, loud music, and this smell draw me closer. The sky is bright and the dim glow of carnival lights is not yet as sharp and vivid as it will be once the sky darkens.
The woman at the counter asks for five dollars. For this fee, I am granted access to the entire fifty-one acre facility. Since its inception 152 years ago, this gaping complex has come alive each summer to host the Great Allentown Fair. The culture has shifted through the generations and the extravaganza has been forced to shift towards modern trends, but important traditions remain. The showcasing of prizewinning dairy and beef cattle as well as antiques, crafts and crops is still alive and well. The barns which run parallel to Chew Street house rabbits and roosters, while other units boast sheep, goats and cows. The animals have all made long journeys from local farms with unique names that hint at far of lands with names like New Tripoli. I wander through long aisles of comatose-looking rabbits, and start to wonder why none of the rabbits I spied growing up in New Jersey were as large as dogs. When I’ve reached the end of my journey, I exit into a pathway lined with the bones of antiquated tractors and mowers. Stripped of paint and inoperable, their skeletons stretch upward like dinosaurs eternally posed in a museum.
As I move further from the animals into the fairgrounds, the fresh air of the Lehigh Valley spreads through my nostrils, rich with the sweetness of fresh-baked funnel cake. I am inhaling a bag of pure powdered sugar. Looking at the numerous food stations, it seems at first like “Little Richard” has a monopoly over the carnival vending industry. His stands offer everything from succulent funnel cake and cotton candy to his world famous sausage, and hot dogs galore. One booth advertises soft drinks such as “Smoothies and Capachino [sic].” The venders are young and pimply-faced, their customers hail from all walks of life. The crowd is a sea of color and hair. Most are tattooed, clad in outfits ranging from camouflage to denim to collared shirts of varied Crayola colors. Each group of passersby seems to encapsulate the theme some old Sesame Street episode. Big and small. Long, short and shaved hair. Boys and girls, young and old. They have all gathered here in search of smiles, laughs, and maybe a decent corn dog. Close by there’s a boy of no more than thirteen manning a game booth with a menthol peering over his cracked, pierced lip. It’s wild.
Soon I find myself inside one of the Allentown County Fair’s hidden gems: the AgriPlex. The huge building boasts over 7,000 prize-winning products from homes, gardens and farms. It’s quite possible to lose oneself while eyeing now ancient guns, clothing, children’s toys, typewriters and paintings. It becomes hard to focus without wondering where these antiques have come from, what they have experienced, and what became of the people who once called these things theirs. There are framed puzzles hanging from the walls, and I want to know who took the time to sit down and sort meticulously through one thousand different oblong pieces until their riddle was solved. There is a large stage where people are awarding prizes for different culinary entries, and I yearn to be a judge. As I pass display cases filled with vegetables, fruits, cookies, cakes and pies labeled “First Place,” I react like Pavlov’s dog and it becomes my mission to eat as many freshly baked desserts as possible. I share with an AgriPlex employee my desire to judge, but discover I am far from qualified. Alas, I will have no fresh apple pie tonight.
I leave the AgriPlex and stop by the information booth to view a map of the fairgrounds. The carnival is built around a former harness and motor racing track whose grandstand is, for tonight, doubling as a concert venue for the band, Yes. I continue down Midway, which is lined with rides, concession stands and games. I pass hordes of visitors hoping to fit a tiny plastic ring around the nozzle of a glass bottle, or guess the next number to come up on a wheel-of-fortune. You have to wonder the odds of winning these games. I watch as a man with long hair wearing a grey tee shirt and blue jeans hurls baseballs as hard as he can towards old Bud bottles. He reminds me of Randy Johnson during the early and mid 90’s playing for the Seattle Mariners. He is tall and lanky with a gold mane, a moustache, and during his follow through his left leg veers off to the side. His son eyes him anxiously, ogling each missile as it bounces awkwardly from its intended target. No question is raised as to why glass never manages to break when struck dead on. It’s just the nature of the game.
By now the sky has darkened some, and the concertgoers have made their way into the grandstand. Bright lights flash as a progressive rock band begins their performance. Far off in the distance, I sit atop the hood of an old Mercury with a “NO FARM, NO BEER” bumper sticker gracing it’s rear fender. I’m eating nachos with extra cheese and drinking from a box of Pepsi. If I focus hard enough, I can almost see the laser lights on stage shimmering off the drummer’s cymbals. Otherwise, my view is simply of the crowd as purple and yellow hues are cast over them.
When walking through the various booths, rides and exhibitions, it’s possible to be both overwhelmed and confused by the event. The sea of people moves in waves down Midway, and I’m nervous I may be caught and swept along with the tide. I duck down an alley and choose an alternate route, where a middle aged blonde woman commands five dollars for a palm reading. She hardly strikes me as a typical psychic. The Lehigh Valley Hospital’s bright visage casts an ominous glow above the Fair. I wonder how many people have come here through the years only to conclude their night with a visit to the emergency room located in the adjacent lot.
Before leaving, I stop for an extended period of time at “Rage in a Cage,” where a man in clown makeup ridicules customers as they barrage him with baseballs in the hopes of dunking him into a water tank. I’m drawn to the kinds of people he eggs on and how insulting some of his remarks are. As a stocky young man misses passionately, the Rage emotes, “Wow. You’re so fat! Come on, guy, pretend you’re trying to win a cheeseburger! Ha Ha!”
The man next to me, a Hispanic looking fellow, turns to me and inquires, “Do you know if there are any stands that serve beer here?”
“I haven’t seen any, but I’d like to know the answer to that question myself.”
“I could really use some right now.” He turns to his left and announces to two young girls, “I’m going to go again.” He runs up to the Rage’s handler with $2 and grabs his three baseballs.
“Again,” I ask myself?
The Rage greets my new friend with “Back again, Pedro? Andale, Andale! Let’s go! Let’s go, moron!” to which the man hurls a ball that misses slightly. As the Rage’s insults become more degrading, the balls miss by wider distances. Finally he hurls one at the cage housing the Rage and walks off in disgust. The Rage points and laughs as the two young girls chase after him.
By now the sky is black and the bulbs from various harrowing rides have flooded the area with beautiful incandescent light. Exiting the Great Fair reminds me of a border crossing I have visited between the United States and Mexico. To enter into America, you have to go through a station and present your passport. Once you’re inside, there exists endless possibilities. In order to exit, you need only push your way through a rickety makeshift revolving door, just like when exiting the fairgrounds. Walking past the cemetery that separates the College from the fairgrounds, squealing guitar notes blare from the grandstand. As I find my way back to my apartment on 22 nd Street, I’m convinced I can still hear the cackling voice of the Rage, haunting Fairgoers long after they’ve left his wicked kingdom.
