He doesn’t have a clue. Holt’s great-grandparents, both Native American, ran a dairy. He never knew his grandparents, who were not in the picture. His mother ran away with the carnival when she was young. His dad, also a member of the carnival, died before Holt was born. Growing up in a carnival might sound funny, romantic or just mildly intriguing, but Holt is quick to clarify that it was no proper envi-
ronment for raising a child. The tattoos happened when he was 12. It was considered good fun to have a party and get the kids all drunk as cheap entertainment. He can’t remember who gave him the tattoos and was never told what they meant. Except that now, whenever he looks at them, they do mean something to him. “I come from a family that strayed badly in life,” he says. “I’ve been dead broke or where I could write a check for a million dollars and not even blink. So when I look at it,
it reminds me of how things can happen.” In other words, every old clunker or broke-down oven or gnarly wad of copper wire is worth salvaging. So is every kid. And so is every banged up old character with a heart of gold who ever ended up on a wayward path. “He cares about all of these guys,” Highway says. “We take care of each other around here.”
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