Only Pretty Damned

by Niall Howell

  It’s not that we’re churning out awful performances. That’s not it at all. I mean, naturally my act goes off as flawless as always, but everyone else performs just as good or as shitty as they would anywhere else. There’s just something about Fort Worth. And I don’t know if it’s the heat or the dryness or what, but I’ve never had a good time here, and it seems to me that everyone that lives here isn’t exactly having a ball either.

  It’s the way they watch you that gets to me. Now, when I’m doing my set, I’m usually too preoccupied to notice individuals in the crowd. And, hell, even if I wanted to see the forest for the ugly trees, when you’re performing, it’s always too dark to see beyond the first row or two. When you’re performing, everyone blends together, becomes part of the same shadowy blob. But when I’m not on, I stare out from the curtain at that blob, and sooner or later, my eyes adjust and I see them. I watch the way they watch, the way they clap, the way they cheer, and here in Fort Worth, it’s as if they were dragged to the show at gunpoint and told, “Have a good time or I’ll blow yer head off, see?”

  There’s this brat in the front row. This little fucking brat in a striped shirt, a ratty ball cap sitting precariously on the back of his head, licking away at a record-sized lollipop. Christ, the face he’s making after each lick, you’d think the damn thing was piss-flavoured—not enough sugar for you, your fucking majesty? You know, I’m one sturdy camel, but tonight that brat is the straw that will make a cripple out of me.

  My head’s poking out from the curtain—beads of sweat canaling down my face, eroding what’s left of my makeup—and I’m watching the crowd who are watching Genevieve and Arkad—Christ! Andrew. Genevieve and Andrew. Genevieve and Andrew are doing their act, and the crowd, who, mind you, I warmed up, look like they’re actually enjoying the performance, despite what I’m sure are their collective best efforts.

  That’s not the part I mind. They’re having a good time? Well, who the hell can blame them? They’ve had the privilege of seeing a good show up until now.

  But that kid. That kid and his lollipop, with its bawdy, hypnotic swirls, its obnoxious circumference…

  Tonight, while I jumped, and juggled, and flipped up a goddamn storm, the hush of the captive crowd that I’m only entirely accustomed to accompanying my set was interrupted by one thing: that slap-slapping of that brat’s tongue giving his lollipop a fresh coat of bastard spit. But you know what? Now, with Genevieve and Andrew hamming up the tent, as my eyes adjust to the crowd’s darkness and that depthless mass slowly turns into a cluster of faces, I notice that not only has that kid’s tongue gone mute, but also that he’s ditched the lollipop altogether—he’s dropped the damn thing on the ground!

  Genevieve and her man have somehow converted this little disinterested shit into a believer.

  For a moment, I ponder how. How the hell do they arrest the attention of all these miserable zombies? I ponder this for a second, and when the realization hits me, it hurts—I mean, it actually physically hurts, like a punch in the stomach that you weren’t ready for. It hits me so hard I buckle forward a little bit. The crowd loves Genevieve and Andrew because it’s their show. Not mine, not anyone else’s. Theirs. Every attendee in this tent has been snacking on propaganda since before we planted a single peg in the scabby Fort Worth ground. Who do they see on the flyers? Genevieve and Andrew. The posters that are nailed to every wooden post in town, who do they show soaring through the air, hand-in-hand, with a matching set of ‘fuck you, Mister Newton, what goes up stays up’ smiles? Genevieve and Andrew. The people eat that junk up, and by the time they walk through the flap, they have it in their heads that Rowland’s Circus is nothing more than the Genevieve and Andrew show. Correction: the Genevieve and Arkady show. Can’t forget about his stage name, can we? Arkady, the renowned Russian acrobat who fled his native Saint Petersburg (St. fucking Louis, in fact!) to escape the crushing grip of communism and come to glorious America, where he can be free, free, free as a bird in the sky! My God, how they eat it up! Grab a bib and a pile of serviettes, because Rowland’s Circus has just cooked up a heaping batch of bullshit for you to feast on. Don’t be shy, there’s enough for everyone!

  I look out at the drooling citizens of Fort Worthless and it dawns on me that no matter how great I am, I’ll still be nothing more than another opening act. You want some more popcorn? Another soda? Maybe a beer? You need to take an elephant-sized piss? Well, do it now. Do it now while the clown tosses his pins in the air. Do it before the headliners take the stage and the real show starts.

  So I’m watching this enthralled kid in the front row when all this hits me, and that’s when I think of it. That’s when it occurs to me that choking the life out of Genevieve and Andrew would probably be about the nicest thing a guy like me could treat himself to.

  CHET ROWLAND'S FACE LOOKS LIKE A SHEET OF TINFOIL that had been squished into a tight ball and then flattened out again. The guy isn’t even that old—fifty-two or fifty-three or something—he just has one of those faces that wrinkles love to live on. Maybe a couple found their way onto his forehead years ago and then decided to send a telegram to every aunt, uncle, and twice-removed cousin in the family: Hey everyone, there’s prime real-estate on this Rowland guy’s mug! Spread the word! Load up the jalopy!

  Since Wally Jakes made his grandiose exit, Rowland and I don’t really talk much. He gives me my space, which I think is another way of thanking me, and for the most part, it’s usually just the occasional nod here and handshake there between the two of us.

  I think I hate him. But doesn’t everyone hate their boss at least a little bit?

  I’ll say this, though: Rowland respects my talent, and for as long as I’ve been whiting my face, he hasn’t had a single thing to say about how I do my act. He trusts me—he has good reason to—and he knows that whatever I do in the big top will be what’s best for the circus.

  So, you can imagine my surprise now, as I stand before him in his cluttered office/living-space, and he tells me, “There’s something we need to change about your act, Toby.”

  Our eyes lock. Once his words finally seep their way into my brain, I don’t know what to say. I flinch, but I don’t know what to say, so I just keep staring at Rowland.

  “Toby? Did you hear me? I said there’s something we need to change about your act,” he repeats.

  “Uh. I. Is it about my makeup?” I say, and I sure as flaming hell don’t know why I said that, but Rowland caught me offguard and, well, that’s just the first thing that came out.

  His forehead wrinkles rearrange themselves, probably because I’ve confused him, but who knows, maybe they just wanted to try something new. He folds his arms and leans back into his chair, which creaks like it’s suffering beneath him.

  “No, Toby, it has nothing to do with your makeup. The makeup looks top-notch, as always. What I need to discuss, though, does pertain to appearances.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s your smile, pal.”

  “My smile?”

  “Yeah. I’m wondering where it is. I’m worried that one day, the cops are gonna show up and ask me to come down to the morgue and identify an ice-cold smile with a John Doe tag clipped to it. You’re a clown, pal. Would it kill you to look like you’re enjoying yourself every now and then?”

  I give him a phony laugh and tell him it must be that I’m concentrating so hard that I just forget, and I assure him I’ll do my best to smile occasionally. After all, what’s a clown without a smile? Rowland gives me an ’atta boy slap on the shoulder, then offers me a drink. I decide that my desire for a brandy (Rowland always opts for the high-end stuff) currently outweighs my desire to get away from him, so I take a seat and he pours me a glass. We make small talk over sips, discussing this-and-thats about the show and reminiscing about the so-called good old days, neither of us acknowledging just how bad the good old days were. I finish my brandy, slide my glass toward Rowland, and stand up. He takes the cue and reaches into his desk drawer and pro
duces an envelope for me. I don’t need to count what’s in it. We’ve been doing this long enough. As always, Rowland’s eyes stay on the envelope until I’ve stuffed it away in my pocket. Fucking guy. As if I’m going to storm out of his office waving the damn thing above my head. We’ve been doing this long enough.

  MY SHADES ARE CLOSED AND THE DOOR OF MY TRAILER is locked. I don’t think anyone would ever barge in here unannounced, especially at this hour, but it’s a habit, something I do every time I reach under the bed and slide out my oldest travelling companion, my beat-up Samsonite.

  Its hinges are stubborn, and for the last few years, whenever I open it, I feel like I’m prying open the jaws of a monster—a monster whose mouth is decorated in a very sharp plaid, but a monster nonetheless. There’s not much in the main compartment of the suitcase; I have a few old issues of Weird Tales that I found in a junk shop in Minneapolis, as well as some more recent copies of Galaxy Science Fiction and Line-Up Detective, my emergency flask, some nudie pictures, and a couple meaty stacks of postcards that are held together with elastic bands. I used to buy a postcard every time we hit a town, but when you’ve done the circuit for as long as I have, well, you come to a point when enough is just enough.

  I grab one pile, slide the elastic band off, and shuffle through them. “Greetings From St. Louis, Missouri,” “Denver, Colo. The Mile-High City!” “Hello From New York, The Wonder City,” “Seeing the Sights in the Windy City”—this one has a cartoon of a very excited-looking fellow hiding in the gutter, his nose poking over onto the sidewalk while he looks up the skirts of two ladies passing by—“Greetings From Niagara Falls, Ontario,” and so on. I have hundreds of these things—mind you, some are duplicates, not only because I’ve been to the same cities so many times, but because if I saw one I really liked, I’d often buy two or three of the same card with the intention of writing someone back home. I’ve even gone as far as addressing some of the duplicates, but they’ve never seen a stamp. They just sit in my suitcase, postcard purgatory.

  There’s a zipper inside the top half of the suitcase, and that’s where Rowland’s envelopes go. Normally, I just stuff them in there without even opening them, but there have been times where I’ll break a seal and grab a few extra bills for myself to play around with. Most of the time, when we have a few days off and I decide to trek to whichever city we’re nearest to, I’ll just treat myself to a picture or two, so I don’t need to dip into the suitcase. But every now and then, I’ll get the urge to sniff out a good card game or hit the track, and that’s when I’ll need a few extra bucks. Yeah, I’ve lost my fair share, but most of the time, I know a smart bet when I see one, and I’ve been pretty disciplined when it comes to reimbursing myself for whatever I take out. For the most part.

  I return the Samsonite to its hiding place and hop on my bed to enjoy a cigarette. It’s almost lunchtime, and there’s muffled chatter leaking in from outside, a disappointing reminder that I’m not the last man on earth and that if I want to eat, there’s a mandatory side dish of socialization. I’ve become suddenly aware of just how hot my trailer has become as well, but I don’t want to leave quite yet, so I decide I’ll have one more cigarette before I step out and grab some food.

  Tonight will be our last show in Fort Worth, and then we make our way to Dallas, where we’ll stay for three days before heading to Louisiana. We used to do longer stays, but things have really changed in the last few years. I’m not saying we’re a stick-and-rag show by any means, but big shows like Ringling have mean appetites, so where we go, when we go there, and how long we stay has everything to do with timing. If we arrive in a town a week or two after one of the big guys has done a lengthy engagement, we’re not going to get a great turnout. If we set up somewhere that, say, Ringling is going to be in the near future? Same deal. The big guys are like a band of rival anacondas, slithering across North America on different paths, and circuses like Rowland’s are their favourite meal. All we can do is watch where we step and keep moving.

  When I finally give in to the pressure of a hot trailer and a vocally displeased stomach and step outside, I see that it’s pretty much business as usual for this time of day at Rowland’s World Class Circus, which is to say the whole back yard is a mess of varying levels of activity, ranging from mending costumes and practising acts to throwing dice and wolfing down food.

  There are only five or six people ahead of me in the food lineup because I’ve arrived so late into lunch. The Sycs are doling out corned-beef sandwiches with potato salad on the side. One of them spots me at the back of the line and stops what he’s doing and waves, which triggers a domino effect of waves from the others. I nod and give them a salute, and then Eddie, the guy in front of me, turns to face me.

  “Toby, how are you, my friend?”

  Eddie and I aren’t friends.

  “Fine, Eddie, how are you?”

  “Great, Toby, great. You grabbing seconds, too?”

  “I’m grabbing firsts, Eddie,” I say, emphasizing firsts because I can see that there aren’t too many sandwiches left, and I know that counting isn’t really Eddie’s bag, and when he says seconds, he likely means he’s on his second or third round of seconds.

  “Firsts,” Eddie echoes in a flighty voice that suggests it’s been so long since he’s been there himself that the concept of firsts is now foreign to him. “Well, bone-appa-tit, Tobe.”

  Like me, Eddie is a clown, but if you think that means he and I have anything in common, then I’ll remind you that duck-billed platypus and man both sit under the same mammal umbrella. Eddie is part of the act Biff and Boppo. I don’t know which one of those two Eddie is. The act has the two clowns sitting at a table playing poker. When the time comes for both Biff and Boppo to reveal their hand to one another, one of the clowns lays down a full house and the other reveals that he’s got five kings. Then both clowns jump up from their seats and put on a pair of over-sized boxing gloves, while Cecil—a chimpanzee in a referee’s shirt, who I consider to be the most talented participant in the act—comes rushing out to monitor the two clowns as they punch one another in the face several times. Apparently, it’s a riot.

  Once I’ve got a plateful, I head over to the Pie Car and buy myself a Coca-Cola. The Pie Car is a trailer that sells things like soda, cigarettes, chewing gum, and newspapers (which are usually a day or three old because we need someone to go to town to get them, so often, when a night rider goes to poster, he’ll stock up on newspapers, comic books, whatever reading material he can find for cheap, and bring them back to sell to us at a slightly inflated price). One of our guys who used to work for Ringling claims that their Pie Car is like a diner on wheels and that you can actually go in and have a slice of pie and a coffee, but I’m not sure that I believe anyone who used to work for Ringling.

  The sandwich is passable, but I don’t think I’ll help myself to seconds. I guzzle what’s left of my Coca-Cola, which, I have to say, on a scorching day in death-dry Fort Worth, is divine, and then head over to the water buckets. Every performer is designated two water buckets for drinking each day. Sometimes you can get a refill, but it all depends on how much fresh water is available. The buckets are labelled, to prevent scrapping and to keep things square. Years ago, Susan, a woman of many talents—just one of which happens to be not getting hit by flying knives—painted one of every set of buckets with a picture of the performer they belonged to in action. The extra-personalized buckets are a way of telling who’s been here longer than most; they’re sort of like a badge of honour, or maybe an indication of rank. And Susan is no Manet, but she sure can paint. On my bucket, I’m depicted as an aerialist. She has me in my old sleeveless leotard, a bold scarlet number, and my black boots streaked with silver flashes of lightning, flying through the air. My face isn’t very detailed, but the few lines that Susan’s provided make me look almost angry—defiant—and my coppery hair is being swooped back by the wind. The paint has faded and chipped over time but still bears a hint of old glory. Some d
ays, it stings looking at that painting, and some days, it stings a bit more.

  I’m hauling my two buckets back to my trailer when I spot Gloria standing with four other spec girls, all of them watching Lana and Helena—two sisters from Thailand—practise their balancing act. I don’t know how, but Gloria seems to feel my gaze right away. We lock eyes and she waves to me, and I smile, shrug, and crane my neck to one side, gesturing to one of the buckets I’m carrying. Gloria nods and laughs. By the time I’ve stashed the buckets in my trailer, she’s made her way over to me. She lets my hello float right past her and gets to what’s on her mind: “I saw you had another one of your meetings with Mister Rowland this morning.”

  “I didn’t peg you for an early riser.”

  “Oh, you know I’m not. I sleep like a rock, but I sure couldn’t sleep last night. I don’t know what it was, but nothing I tried—and I tried everything, Toby—could get me to sleep. I was tossing and turning all through the night, and at some point, it must have been two or three, Camille, the girl who sleeps in the bunk below me, had had about enough. She climbed out of her bed and stuck her face in mine and said that she’d be damned if she lost another wink on account of my not being able to stay still, and if she had dark circles under her eyes for our performance, she’d be sure to give me a matching set.”

  “Christ. I hardly know Camille, but it’s hard to imagine her as the confrontational type.”

  “You know how the quiet ones are, Toby. They’re always the quickest to go off.”

  Looking at her bare arms and noticing the amount of sun hitting her pale skin, Gloria takes a step toward me, into the shadow cast by my trailer. “Anyway,” she says, “I knew what was good for me, so I threw on my sweater and went for a walk outside. That’s when I saw you going into Rowland’s trailer.”