The county fair always arrived like that loud uncle who never knocked and never called ahead. One minute, Calhoun County was mindin’ its own business. The next, the night sky glowed with neon lights, and the air smelled of popcorn, diesel fumes, and teenagers wearin’ too much cologne.
I loved the rides. I loved the games. I loved the corndogs that were both a blessing and a potential medical emergency.
But there was one booth.
Just one.
One that carried more fear than the Tilt-A-Whirl, the Zipper, and the Round-Up combined. One that made my knees go wobbly, and my breath go short.
It wasn’t the fortune teller booth. It wasn’t the haunted house. It wasn’t the ring-toss man who seemed personally angry at the laws of physics.
No sir. The booth that terrified me was run by a man we all called Ol’ Redmond the Guess Man.
Ol’ Redmond sat at the very edge of the fairgrounds under a saggin’ awning that looked like it had been through three wars and half a tornado. His booth was simple. A stool. A chalkboard. A jar of pencils. And a sign that read:
“I Can Guess Your Weight, Your Age, or Your Deepest Secret.”
Now, Gentle Reader, let me tell you. There are things a child can endure. He can survive a sermon on brimstone. He can live through Mawmaw’s castor oil. He can even face a dentist who works part-time as a blacksmith.
But no child raised in northeast Alabama wants some stranger takin’ a guess at their deepest secret.
And I had plenty.
Every sin I had ever committed felt heavier in that moment. Every stolen cookie. Every lie. Every Cheerio flicked at my cousin, Jimmy Matthew. Every impure thought about Luke Halpin on the Flipper TV show. They all rose up in my memory like ghosts under a full moon.
Redmond didn’t help. He had a voice like dry corn shuckin’. He would lean forward so slow that you could hear his bones protest.
“Well now,” he would rasp to whatever poor soul stood in front of him, “I believe I can see a powerful truth restin’ behind your eyes.”
Lord, have mercy.
Children fled that booth like sinners fleein’ from judgment.
I once saw a boy wet his blue jeans clean through when Old Redmond said, “Son, I know what you did.” Turned out the boy had stolen a roll of Wintergreen Life Savers from the church foyer, but still, the terror nearly put two church ladies into a case of the vapors.
I tried to avoid the booth entirely. But Mawmaw loved the fair, and Mawmaw loved a bargain. So when she saw the sign that said three guesses for fifteen cents, she dragged me by the arm.
“Come on, baby,” she said. “He ain’t psychic. It is all just showmanship.”
Mawmaw, God rest her sweet soul, didn’t understand that showmanship is worse than sorcery when you are nine years old.
Redmond spotted me from ten feet away, pointed a finger so bony it could have doubled as kindling, and said:
“Well, now. We got us a heavy thinker.”
Mawmaw beamed like this was a real compliment. Me? I nearly fainted.
He motioned me forward. I shook my head so hard my ears flapped like a pair of bat wings.
“Son,” Mawmaw whispered, “don’t shame me. Go on now.”
I stepped forward like a man walkin’ to the gallows.
Redmond leaned close and narrowed his eyes. The whole fair went quiet. Even the Ferris wheel seemed to stop turnin’.
He tapped his chin.
“I believe…” he said slowly, “you are carryin’ a powerful weight in your soul.”
I squeaked like a mouse in a bear trap.
Mawmaw laughed. “Lord, Redmond, that’s true for everybody.”
But Redmond didn’t smile.
He kept starin’ at me like he was readin’ my mind line by line.
I was certain he knew about the time I hid Pawpaw’s new hammer because it made a nice clunkin’ sound when I dropped it down the well.
I was certain he knew the unholy thoughts I had about Jerry Lee and his tight-fitting jeans. I was damned certain he could smell the guilt steamin’ off me.
Finally, Redmond nodded.
“I have it,” he said.
My knees buckled.
“You,” he declared, “are exactly… nine years old.”
I blinked.
“That’s all?” Mawmaw said.
Redmond nodded. “Nine years and worryin’ like you’re ninety.”
Mawmaw cackled. “Well, that’s the Lord’s truth!”
I breathed again.
Then I wondered. How did he know that? My birthday wasn’t until next week. I may have looked nine, but I was technically eight and three-quarters.
Had I just encountered a holy man? Or was I just that transparent?
Mawmaw patted my cheek. “Come on, honey. Let’s get a funnel cake.”
Redmond winked at me as I turned.
“Don’t fret, boy,” he said. “You are a good sort. Just keep your heart soft and your lies small.”
I felt something shift in me then. Not fear. Not even embarrassment.
Something gentler. Something truer.
Because Old Redmond did not guess my deepest secret. He guessed something far more important.
He guessed me.
And that was the first time I understood why grown folks say the fair shows you who you are.
Some do it from the top of a Ferris wheel.
Some do it from the bottom of a corndog.
But for me, it came from a thin old man sittin’ under a tent, starin’ into my soul while cotton candy dissolved in the summer air.
And I reckon that is why I never set foot near that booth again.
Once a man sees you that true, the mystery is gone.
And the fear, strangely enough, goes with it.
New Yesterdays can be found at: Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon, as well as your favorite bookshops. The Audiobook is available from Libro.fm, as well as Amazon.
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