What was found: creaking hinges, unoiled for decades, on trunks dragged in by unseen porters; the musty, dull odor of crudely ripped tickets to concession stands; the sharp convex curves of a rhinoceros horn, shaved at the base with the name Plunder etched into the ivory; the sickly pink sheen of a baby pig fetus, labeled "Fat Punk" on the dusty, large jar containing its soft mounds; yellowed, crumbling advertisements hand-painted to draw the eye to bearded women and cooch tents; a flurry of beating wings courtesy of gray, miniscule moths clamoring for egress from folded jackets rimmed with gold trim and iron rivets. What was missed: The brusque, convincing cadences of barkers beckoning patrons; the piercing cries, haranguing squawks, and lowered brows of the animals festooned with regal feathers and drapery; the chrome ferris wheel lever that scarred his left thigh when it slid into muscle; the warm aroma of popcorn and the feel of red and white striped paper bags in hand; the spongy black spots dotting the sides of a newly cirhossed liver; the jagged remnants of a photograph, black and white, of a man in dirt-stained overalls, a white-ringed cap, and a mottled undershirt signed Paul.
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