Fair worker tells of life on the midway

Storm clouds gather Wednesday evening at the SEMO District Fair, hastening the nightfall.

In the dark, the carnival's atmosphere becomes a kaleidoscope of lights and sounds. Children chase each other through the house of mirrors as corndog-wielding couples walk hand-in-hand. There's lightness and gaiety. It feels like a fair.

Bouncing a worn basketball on the dry grass in front of a free-throw game, the wiry and bespectacled Nile P. Hunt paces at his post. He's part of the extensive behind-the-scenes effort responsible for the fair's smooth operation.

"Everybody thinks that it's just here and then it's gone," he says. "There's a lot you don't see."

Intermittent drizzle and a churning in the sky begin to thin the crowd and slow his business, leaving him time to kill before the rains roll in.

Leaning on the counter, he explains this game in particular belongs to him. An independent contractor, he also owns a bank-a-ball and hi-striker games.

"I've got my own concessions business," he says, rolling the basketball back and forth between leathery hands.

"I take my games and sometimes other people's stuff to carnivals all over. It's based out of Gibsonton, Florida."

For a man of middling height, he seems to have a knack for tall tales.

His description of Gibsonton has an outlandish air, one that would be easier to dismiss as Barnum-esque hyperbole if it weren't so contrasted by Hunt's pithy candor.

"Carnival Capital of the World. Home of the giants." he says, nodding. "Yup. Where the sheriff was a giant and the mayor was a dwarf."

His detached tone suggests he's seen far stranger; and living in Gibsonton, he may well have.

The town was -- and is -- a favorite place for carnival workers and sideshow performers to pass the winter months.

He paints it as a vaudeville mecca, a simultaneous refuge and monument to a curious and eclectic carnival culture.

"Have you ever seen seven carnivals come together in a five-mile stretch?" he asks, cocking his hips and flipping the basketball up off the rim of the hoop.

"Sometimes they come together. That's where the camaraderie comes in 'Gibtown.'"

The nearby "Drop Zone" coaster drops with a loud "chunk" and riders scream with glee as Hunt snatches up the basketball and points over to the Wacky Worm kiddie coaster.

"Look up at those lights," he insists. "Those are all hand painted."

He pivots, pointing at the Mardi Gras mural spilling across the facade of the 25-foot-tall funhouse.

"That too. See? All hand-done."

Sure enough, there's a signature hand-painted in the lower right-hand corner. He says people don't usually stop to think about all the handiwork that goes into maintaining the equipment, mechanically and aesthetically.

It's a hard gig sometimes, he admits, but it comes with a lifestyle he's found agreeable.

Hunt comes off as somewhat of a rolling stone. He recounts squatting for a time with punk rocker Henry Rollins, meeting the sons of reggae legend Bob Marley in Vermont and BMX biking with punk-rock band Minor Threat.

"You cannot believe the wrecks," he says.

His previous occupations are similarly varied. He lists off past gigs on his fingers: arborist, audio/video technician, soldier stationed in Germany.

"I have college degrees, don't get me wrong," he says, bouncing the ball again. "It's just nice to be able to get out here."

The carnival business has shown him corners of the country he might never have seen otherwise.

He even worked festivals in Germany for a time and was able to see the differences in culture.

"The authenticity of the celebration," he muses, pausing to savor the memory. "People in Europe, they have a tendency to dress up more than we do, if you catch my drift."

He says ultimately, it's about the perks of the job, such as travel -- not about the money.

His children are grown, doing their own things, but he says there are three things he always takes with him wherever he goes: envelopes, stationery and stamps.

"It always feels good, when you get a little money, to send it off to your family," he says.

"A treat for my mother-in-law or my grandbaby or something."

tgraef@semissourian.com