By Ava Stern
Ever since the first of June, the town that teeters between American patriotism and Canadian kindness jacks up the prices of cheap beers, greasy burgers, and hideous rain ponchos. Trash lines the streets, a product of disrespectful tourists and underpaid city workers. A light mist floats over from the falls leaving everyone with beads of sweat and moisture below their noses. This street, where I spend most of my time, is populated with shabby restaurants that crowd the sidewalks like they own them. My spot is an oddly clean part of the sidewalk, right in front of “Jimbos’s”, one of the sub-par burger shacks. I seem to have mastered my routine: wake up, stake out to pander, then go home.
I juggle mindlessly as another family walks by in their green rain ponchos. The small child turns toward me and watches each ball bounce from my hands and drags his poor parents across the sidewalk to watch me. I try to play up my card tricks as much as possible, explaining how it will “change their lives” and such. Struggling to even convince myself, I opt for a mysterious wink at the little boy.
He grabs his mom’s hand as hard as he can and pulls her and her wallet closer. “It’s time to go,” she says through grated teeth.
I start to recite my script; low price, fun trick, yada yada.
The boy starts to cry and the mother drags him further away from me. I just lost a potential sale. Great.
The manager from the restaurant across the sidewalk glares at me as if I just slaughtered his firstborn. He apologizes for my “behavior” and seats the family of three at a corner booth inside. The family walks into the restaurant as if I never existed, none of them even acknowledging me as I explain what I do and how I can cure boredom.
Each family I try to wring at least $20 out of falls victim to the fucking restaurant. It’s not even that good.
The smell of grease and fries wafts over to my spot. It makes me nauseous. Ever since I started coming out here, I can’t get myself to stomach a burger and fries. It feels like my nose is permanently stained with the smell of “Jimbo’s” (whoever Jimbo is) “Niagara Burger.”
Here he comes again. The short, ugly, depressed manager of the hundredth run-down burger shack on a street of lonely service workers who could care less about the waterfall that fuels the local economy. He comes out here every day, saying the same thing about “loitering”, “bothering customers”, and “annoying him”. Sometimes it’s funny to watch him waddle out the double doors and snarl across the sidewalk to deem me less than human. What he doesn’t understand is that we are the same, hell, I'm better than him. We both want the same thing: rent paid, dinner on the table, maybe happiness, but I have one thing he doesn’t: talent. I sit out here and sing and dance and juggle and tell fortunes and do magic while he just buses tables and makes a schedule for 20-something people who dread coming into work day after day just to be greeted by his ungrateful snarl telling them to clean something yet again.
“It’s Friday, Annie, let the tourists eat their meals in peace for once,” he yells across the sidewalk.
I turn my body toward the burning July sun and start counting my cards, completely ignoring the short man searing my back with his eyeballs.
“I honestly couldn’t care less about you, but I’m not in the mood to call the cops again today,” he groans as he walks back into the restaurant.
“Then don’t.” I sit back down.
As he sets up the tables for ungrateful families of four that are willing to spend $100 on lousy burgers and soggy fries, I can’t help but wonder what happened for him to spend the rest of his life doing this. I know what got me here, and I know what will get me out. The barrel.
“Wait ‘till you see what I have planned,” I mumble under my breath.
“What? Another card trick or a new way to juggle?”
“You’ll see me on the front page of all the newspapers across the country,” I yell across the patio.
“In your dreams, sweetheart,” He laughs to himself as he walks away.
I mumble to myself, explaining that he doesn’t understand what I have in store. I swear I can see him turn back ever so slightly, as if he can hear me trying to persuade myself that I am right.
Every night as he closes up the restaurant, I watch him take the trash out, fold the menus, and grab his raggedy brown satchel like clockwork. Sometimes I wonder if he watches me go through similar motions. How I pack up my cards, then load my juggling balls onto my cart, and finally rot on the curb next to the candy wrappers and cigarette butts.
We banter as he goes back and forth from the dining room to the dumpster.
“Long night, maybe even worse than last,” he grumbles.
“They all feel the same,” I tell him about the families that cross the street when they see me, the ones that try to look interested while their 10-year-olds are entranced by my cards. The more I ramble, the more he listens.
I slip into my own head. The barrel is all I think about these days. “People have failed, people have died, people have chickened out. I come out on the cover of the newspaper. Dead or alive.” I read the newspaper headlines I dreamed up, saying that I am the bravest woman in the country, a mastermind, given the key to the city, and am going to meet the president.
“Huh. This is the grand plan?” He tries to hide his judgment but it wafts over to me like the hot garbage in his hand.
The best part about knowing you're right is not letting anyone get to you.
The street light flickers right when my smug smile creeps onto my face. I’ll take that as a sign that what I am planning is the right thing.
The haunting screech of the back door snaps me back to reality where I have a dingy apartment and less than $500 to my name. One thing about tough situations is that you have all the motivation in the world.
The last bag of garbage is dragged out with the same signature waddle. I can point out at least 5 more wrinkles on Mr. Manager's face, a souvenir from this town.
Well after midnight, he locks the back door and sits next to me to light his cigarette. He takes a slow drag and hands me one of his Marlboro golds.
“At least one of us has a plan to get out,” he says.
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