Stories Of A Boy Who Did Not Become A Priest Chapter Two - To Texas Terry Mulcahy   © Copyright 2026 by Terry Mulcahy

Photo by Kindel Media at Pexels.

We were supposed to get together again one night, but when I went over, she was gone. I had seen a yellow Volkswagen Beetle pull away when I got off the bus. Geri’s roommate was home, and she told me Geri had just left. I heard from her later. She had checked herself into a psychiatric hospital - no explanation. I took my first commercial flight to visit her. We talked as we walked around the seawall in Galveston, but she was not going to leave the hospital any time soon. Sex was off the table too, and she had mentioned that was part of the reason she was there. I didn’t get many details, but now I was determined to see her again. I wanted to help her get out of that place, and whatever hole she had put herself in.

When I returned to the carnival to help pack up the Tilt A Whirl, Lester was nowhere to be found. No one had seen him since the previous day. I had no experience taking the Tilt A Whirl down, so I opened the storage place underneath where I’d stashed my belongings, and they were gone. I only had a small backpack, a few shirts, a radio I’d bought off a carnival huckster, and the rest of my bonus money. It was all gone. The older Carnies I’d befriended went all over town looking for him. He was known to go on long alcoholic benders when he had money, but he wasn’t in any of the bars in town. I finally asked the carnival office if I could replace my funds from Lester’s bonus, since I found out he hadn’t collected it. They laughed, told me they couldn’t do that. But they told me they could find me a job with one of the rides that would be still traveling for a while, and I could work for them. They did. And I did.

Our next stop was Houston, Texas, so that would at least put me near Geri, but I never got a chance. I worked every day in Houston on the Sky Diver ride. Nights I wandered. The ride stood vertical, like a Ferris Wheel. But the seats had metal cages around them. We used a type of wavy cotter pin called a hatch pin or latch bolt to fasten the hatch so people wouldn’t fall out. The cage-like “car” had a steering wheel inside so passengers could spin it around perpendicular to the rotation of the “Diver” itself. That would have made me sick, but people loved the control they had, spinning it as fast as they could. Unfortunately, things would fall out of their pockets, through the small openings in the wire cage. People would come up to us later, saying their change or combs had fallen out. No one was allowed under the spinning ride, of course, but we weren’t about the stop this very popular ride every time someone said that. We told them we couldn’t allow them under there, and they went away. That was a strict safety rule, so there was no appeal. 

What we did do at the end of the night was collect all of the change and use it to buy dinner in a restaurant, instead of eating carnival food. On one occasion there was enough money to feed all three of us who worked it, except foreman Bill, who never went with us. The restaurant was a very long walk from the lot where we were located, with multiple rides from various carnivals set up together. One big blended family. On the way home from there, we were hailed by an old, but shiny Chevy riding very low to the ground. Years later, in New Mexico, I would find out that this was called a “cherry” Lowrider. Cherry, for the new paint job and interior. The three guys, all fitting comfortably in the front seat, offered us a ride. We were tired, with full bellies, so while we had plenty of time, and were in good shape physically, we accepted their generous offer. On the way we had time for small talk. One of them asked us where we were going. As we spoke of the carnival, their demeanors changed. They had been mostly quiet, just asked us that question, but then they smiled. The center guy had a WW2 German Luger in his hand, which he showed us. 

It wasn’t the first time this trip I’d had a gun in my face, so I wasn’t very nervous, especially since they were smiling. That’s not always something you can depend on. Politicians smile a lot too, and lie to your face. But the next thing they said helped: ‘”We’re from a carnival too.” They were going back to the same lot. We talked about our respective carnivals. Then one of them pulled out a bag and held it out to us. There were a lot of watches in it. He insisted we each take one. I’m not a fan of stolen merchandise, but the center guy still had the gun dangling in his hand, so I took a watch. It was a good thing I did, because it would come in handy later.

Later wasn’t too far away. After we packed up the ride, we headed out. Skeeter drove the truck with the body of the ride, hydraulically lowered to the size of a conventional trailer from a big rig. Cherokee drove the truck with the Sky Diver cars and the steel supports. Each of the 16 cars weighed 350 pounds. Each of the 50-foot long supports weighed 800 pounds. Try loading all of that with three people. Another truck, the foreman’s, held the horses. Bill had a side hustle, a kid’s pony ride, where the ponies walk in a circle, pushing and pulling the ride around as they walked. That's what Bill was doing, loading the ponies, breaking down his pony ride. Although I had been vetted on the big rigs, I was assigned the foreman’s station wagon. Attached to it was a small trailer with all the parts of the orange and yellow pony ride. We took off together for Interstate 10, but I got lost navigating Houston’s giant interchange. I went round and round, having to change lanes, backtrack, and fumble my way to I-10. On the road, I couldn’t find the others. I figured they were way ahead of me. I sped up. The nationally mandated speed limit at the time had been lowered to 55 mph to save fuel during the big oil shortage during the 1970s. It was a series of crises caused by the 1973 OPEC oil embargo, a direct response by Arab members of OPEC to U.S. support of Israel during the Yom Kipper War.

Hoping to catch up, I ignored the limit. I pushed the station wagon to 60, 65, and then 70 mph. No sign of them. Of course, it had not occurred to me that they had gone back to Houston to look for me. I kept going, hoping to catch sight of them, until something happened that I will never forget. The car suddenly swerved, then spun around, seemingly in a circle. I saw pieces of the pony ride flying all around me. The orange and yellow metal pieces resembled fire. It felt like time had stopped and I was on fire. I didn’t understand at all what was happening. Then, I found myself facing due west, stopped in the eastbound lane. I stared in disbelief. I didn’t see any cars approaching, so I was thankful for that. All of the two lanes of I-10 were then covered in pieces of the pony ride. Traffic slowly built up and came to a dead halt. I got out and looked. The left wheel of the trailer had come off. The bolts were broken. The trailer was upside down. I was stupefied. How would I get the trailer turned over? How would I get the wheel back on? I had no idea where the next exit was. There were no such things as cell phones. But then the police showed up.

I was arrested, charged with “Failure to maintain control of my vehicle.” At the station house I was told I’d have to pay a fine. I had no money. Toothless Lester had that. The only other option was jail. So I was processed in. Since I had been riding a bicycle before I joined the carnival, I had no driver’s license at all. The bike was in one of the trailers. When I’d left Baltimore I no longer had a car - my 1960 DeSoto had broken down and I hadn’t been able to afford to fix it. I could feel the charges mounting up. One of the officers, an older grey-haired man took me down to the cell in a small elevator. He searched me while we rode. He started with my back pockets, one at a time, of course, since he only had one arm. Suddenly remembering the marijuana, I nonchalantly stuck my hands in my front pockets. When he came around, he told me to remove my hands from my pockets, I raised them both, the small baggie of marijuana in my left fist, over his head. When he’d finished with my empty front pockets, he told me I could lower my hands, which I did, right into my back pockets. The left pocket still held my red bandana, and I tucked the baggie behind it. He said to take my hands out of my pockets. When I did, he grabbed each pocket, one at a time, and I heard the low crinkle of that baggie. “What do you have in there?” he asked me. “Oh,” I said, “that’s just my bandana.” He felt it again, but was satisfied. After all, he’d already searched that left pocket. Whew. I thought I was a goner. So that is how I ended up in jail in Jennings, Louisiana.

I was put into a corner cell. I had neighbors on each side. The guy on the left was friendly. I told about my carnival life and my arrest. He asked if I had any reefer, which, actually I did. He had papers. I passed the baggie to him. He passed some joints to me to send down the other side from my corner cell. After I did , he asked me if I’d kept any for myself. I hadn’t. He passed me a skinny joint. My jail cell enighbor told me that most of the guys in there had be arrested for possession. I really dodged a bullet there. I spent the night awake. Being in a jail cell was not exactly comforting. I spent the night reading a book that was in my cell: The Autobiography of Joan Baez. Oddly, I can’t remember any details of ther story.

After a greeeeeat sausage breakfast the next morning, I was able to call the Carnival office. Told them what had happened. Was taken back to my cell. Later, someone came for me. I was being released. The carnival had paid the fine, and would wire money to fix the trailer wheel. A garage had the car, and the police had picked up all of the pieces of the pony ride and put them back in the trailer. I was surprised at that, and that I hadn’t been charged with blocking a road, or at least littering. The wheel was being fixed. The carnival had certainly come to my rescue, even though I had not said if I was going to come back for the next season. However, they hadn’t sent any extra money. I had been released, so I wandered around town. Getting hungry, I stopped into a grocery store to look for something to keep me going. I picked up a loaf of cheap Wonder Bread (“You wonder what’s in it,” people used to say), but I couldn’t afford much to put into sandwiches. I was looking at peanut butter, because I couldn’t afford a jar of that and a jar of jelly. An older woman next to me had been watching me look at prices, putting things back, and being indecisive. She handed me a dollar bill. In response to the questioning look I gave her, she said, “O, you young people. I know how you like to travel. I’m happy to help out.” I thanked her, sincerely.

Yes! With that I bought a jar of peanut butter and jelly - mixed in one plastic jar, a small carton of milk, and my loaf of bread. Very balanced nutrition. I ambled over to the garage, and they told me the car would be fixed in the morning. So, I went back to the police station. I had nowhere else to go. Oddly, to me, with my 1970s long hair and long beard, I hadn’t expected such kindness. They offered to let me stay in a break room the trustees used, and help myself to anything in the refrigerator. Sodas - yes! - I was extremely thirsty - something about the damp heat in Louisiana. I made myself some more PB&J sandwiches and had a pleasant evening. I didn’t see anyone else. The next day, I walked to the garage, got the car and headed east, for Florida, because that was where the Sky Diver, Bill, Skeeter, and Cherokee were going.

I’d forgotten the leftover PB&J and bread. That was a minor problem initially. It wasn’t going to take very long to get to Florida, and I’d eaten well in Jennings. However, the trip would not go all that well. There is a long bridge over the swamp on I-10 in Louisiana. It is the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge, from Lafayette to Baton Rouge. It is 18.2 miles long and is the third longest bridge in the United States, as well as the second longest on the Interstate system.

Glancing at the dashboard, part-way there, I noticed the engine temperature had shot up. In fact, it shortly pegged. Culprit was a water hose, likely cracked in the accident, had leaked most or all of the water out. I needed water and duct tape. I was stuck halfway across that bridge. There are no exits. No phones. Only swamp on both sides of the bridge. Nowhere to go. Traffic was relentless. There was no shoulder, just about two to three feet of space. I hugged the guard rail as close as I could, partially blocking the road, hazard lights flashing. Semi trucks honked brassily, fading away with what I learned is called a Doppler shift, where the sound waves traveling behind a moving vehicle stretch out, resulting in a lower-pitched sound. It was a mournful wail, not very comforting. The breeze of their passing rocked the ‘wagon every time they whooshed by, again, and again, relentlessly. No flares. No water in the car. Jumping in the swamp for water wasn’t going to help. It was nine miles either way. I couldn’t swim that far. Night in a swamp was dangerous as fuck, with alligators and even the occasional shark. Hitchhiking nine miles at night on a narrow and very dark, two-lane bridge was my only option.

But then how would I get the ‘wagon off the bridge? I had no money for a tow truck. I couldn’t just leave it, along with Bill’s pony ride attached.