In the carnival capital of the world, a clown rides to Wal-Mart on his tricycle.
Ferris wheels rise out of back yards. Cotton candy booths line the streets. Bags of stuffed animals spill into a trailer park.
For generations, carnies have wintered in Gibsonton – “Gib-town” – in south Hillsborough County.
They eat and drink at the Showtown Bar & Grill. For business, they visit the annual trade show of the Showmen’s Association. When they die, they wind up in a local mausoleum called Showmen’s Rest.
Lots of carnies retire in Gibsonton, population 8,700. For those still traveling months at a time, it is a place for repairs and reunions.
“I just ran into a man that I haven’t seen in seven years,” says Jeff Vannortwick, 41, who works for Louie’s Fun and Games. “There’s a saying in the carnival: you meet everybody twice.”
Once on the road, and once in Gib-town.
Gibsonton straddles a bleak stretch of U.S. 41 just east of Tampa.
To the south is Apollo Beach, marked by the quadruple smokestacks of a huge power plant. To the north is Riverview, where twin phosphate mounds dominate the landscape.
In between, there are bars, bait shops and boat stores. Food marts and thrift shops. Gomez Tacos, G-Town Auto Repair and the First Baptist Church.
“It ain’t the carnival town it used to be,” says John Curtis, a 78-year-old entrepreneur. “People died off.”
The last to go, in late January, was Chuck Osak, owner of the Showtown Bar & Grill. A sign out front read: “Thank you, Chuck. We’ll miss you.”
Mourners included Little Pete Terhurney, 78, a 3-foot-tall carnival veteran and town mascot.
Gibsonton gained fame in the 1930s as “Freak Town,” the winter resting place of human oddities and sideshow attractions.
Giants and bearded ladies. The Lobster Boy and Percilla the Monkey Girl.
“Everybody fit in,” says Ward Hall, 77, the unofficial historian of Gib-town. “People came here because they weren’t looked at or talked about or asked questions. It’s like any immigrant group concentrated in a ghetto. There’s a certain level of tolerance. There’s a comfort level.”
Relaxed zoning rules allowed people to keep trailers on the street and elephants in their yards. The post office had a low counter built for little people.
An 8-foot-4 man named Al Tomaini was the volunteer fire chief. He ran a restaurant beside the Alafia River called Giant’s Place. He was married to a legless woman, Jeanie the Half-Girl, who sold the business after he died.
The restaurant finally closed last year.
There is still a For Sale sign, topped by “Reduced Price,” in front of a crumbling structure.
When Giant’s Place closed, and Wal-Mart came to town, some described it as the end of an era for Gibsonton. Carnies without cars, though, welcomed the convenience of a discount store.
That goes double – make that triple – for Randall Johnson, who performs as Kalvin the Klown for Tip Top Shows.
He gets around town on a gaily painted tricycle.
“It’s for show,” says Johnson, 46, “but right now it’s for transportation. It carries a lot of stuff. I can load up at the Wal-Mart.”
On a cloudy afternoon in January, Patricia Young hangs her laundry – carefully – on a barbed-wire fence next to a 50-foot-tall amusem*nt park ride.
Young’s boyfriend works as an electrician for Myers International Midways. She runs her own photo booth, taking pictures of children on a carousel horse.
After working at different factories in Kentucky, her home state, the 40-year-old Young joined a traveling show.
“I like meeting new people,” she says. “I like all the interesting people with the carnival. And I like kids; I like taking nice pictures of kids.”
“Plus,” she adds, “I get to be outside. I’m not stuck inside, doing one job all day long.”
Young and her boyfriend travel the country in a trailer they pull behind a battered Dodge pickup.
Across town, Melvin Moore, 58, washes the deep fryers in a glass-walled trailer with a sign for “Aunt Martha’s Sausages.” The carny learned the concession business from relatives.
The carnival is not such a family business anymore. Moore, like Young, is a Kentuckian who drives a road-weary Dodge truck. He has been visiting Gibsonton since he was a little boy.
“Some years we stay all winter,” he says, laughing, “and sometimes we go up to Louisville and freeze.”
Hall, a lifelong showman, lives in Gibsonton.
Next door is Huston the Illusionist. Across the street is a rusting trailer for what used to be the All-American Family Circus.
Hall still travels with the World of Wonders. It is one of the last sideshows in the country, but few of its performers come from Gibsonton.
When Hall does die, his remains will go to Showman’s Rest. He has already written his own epitaph: “Being of sound mind, he spent all his money.”
