The carnie knew the song somewhere. But the carnie wasn't the carnie much longer. The man who straightened instead of doubling up and vomiting up the better part of beer and one of those funnel cake things was just as tall and blocky and broad. But the carnie who turned into the touch on his sleeve wasn't rednecked and it wasn't broad America on his tongue.
"I'm fine." The vowels were crisper, more punctuated, even if it was working-class drawl, just as working-class as the carnie had been. Eames blinked blearily, the beer still sloshing about and mucking his equilibrium right up. He didn't drink to excess often. He could, but the carnie had the tolerance of a man who had grown up with nothing else to do. And Eames hadn't had cause in a while.
"I'm not going to vomit on your boots, ma'am." He hadn't looked yet, but he looked now.