Better than average, but not quite expert.

The fondest memory I have of Tom Brindle, our father, is the day he took me to the carnival. It was autumn in the midwest, and the chill air had settled into our little town of Brindleton, with no intention of heading out until May. I turned the collar of my coat up around my ears as we walked toward the sound of laughter and orphaned echoes of melodies drifting into the night air; I was nine years old.

I can remember the clearing illuminated by electric lightbulbs strung on wires. I can remember the exotic scent of spiced incense wafting from the fortuneteller's tent. I can remember the eyes of the animals, sad and listless. I can remember the faces of the freaks in their cages, and the laughter all around me. I can remember the loudest laughter of all: a booming guffaw that shook the earth with its passion as if it were erupting from the ground itself; that laughter came, of course, from Tom Brindle. I can remember the sobs taking hold and forcefully shaking my body, forcefully shaking me--Tom Brindle was forcefully shaking me.

I felt his hand on my shoulder, dragging me away from the crowds, his voice now fervent with anger, as he ranted at me: Jimmy, you are a God damned disappointment, I swear to Christ I would have torn that embryo from your mother's womb myself had I known you would grow up to be the kind of son who wouldn't laugh at a bunch of cripples and freaks, if I had known I would have the kind of son who would cry, for God's sake, my son is crying, for God's sake Jimmy if you won't shut up I will give you something to cry about--

By the time he was done with me I could feel my lip swelling as warm blood trickled down my face, past the eyelid that was nearly shut and now gaining a deep purple pigment. I sat on the ground with my legs crossed, doing my best to keep the newly-forming sobs buried in my chest. I didn't realize he had even left until I saw him walking toward me, holding a bottle of whiskey from which he had been taking generous swigs. He placed the bottle in my little hands, the cold glass chilling my fingers.

Drink up, son, he told me, and smiled.