by Payne, C. D.
“Oh. Are you going to call the cops?”
“Of course not, Jake. You’ve done nothing wrong in my eyes. I’m very happy for you, in fact.”
I didn’t quite see how she could be so thrilled that I was a fugitive from justice. Was it possible she was one of those left-wing Hollywood liberals?
“Then you’ll let me hide out here?” I asked.
“You don’t need to hide, Jake. We’re completely understanding. Marty is old enough to make his own choices. We’re happy that he’s chosen such a nice person as you.”
“What!?”
“Forgive me, Jake. I don’t want you to think that I’m prying into your affairs. But I know that you two fellows spent last night together. And that’s perfectly OK with us.”
“It is?”
“Of course. So you didn’t have to invent that crazy story about your parents dying just to spend the weekend here with my son.”
No doubt about it now, she was one of those Hollywood liberals.
“Oh, OK,” I replied.
“And please forgive another motherly trespass,” she added, reaching for her purse. “Here’s a small gift–for both of you.”
She handed me a white paper bag. I peeked inside. Two dozen condoms–lubricated with the deluxe nipple ends. An expensive brand too.
“Uh, gee thanks, Mrs. Dockweiler. I can use these.”
“I hope you do, Jake. Enjoy them in good health!”
A bit embarrassing, but I appreciated the gesture. My stash had been getting rather depleted.
TUESDAY, August 23 – On the bus to Spokane. Got on last night at 11:30. Been riding all night and we’re still in California. How is that possible? Well, this bus does things like stop for 50 interminable minutes in Modesto in the middle of the night. Then it’s on to Lodi, Stockton, Sacramento, Marysville, and on and on and on. We just passed Mount Shasta, a tall mountain that looms up all by itself over the dry brown plains of Northern California. Still a few patches of snow on its summit. Personally, I’d rather be flying over that mountain in a fast and comfortable jet, but Veeva insisted there was no way she could get such a charge past her mother’s eagle eye.
My trip is being funded through a generous grant from Rita Krusinowski, who handed $700 in cash to Veeva yesterday for “school supplies.” Must be some expensive pencils in L.A. Veeva wanted to split it with me, but I made her hand over the whole bundle. It’s not that big of a wad for traveling across three states in search of a dwarf. Veeva got the windfall after spending the day buttering up her granny at a dog show in Costa Mesa. That’s why she wasn’t answering her phone: she didn’t want to “interrupt the magic.” The show was restricted to little dogs, so the yap factor–she informed me later–was not to be believed. What we kids have to do for a little spending money.
We had quite a torrid good-bye kiss at the bus station. I didn’t tell Veeva about my episode with Marty, but I expect she’ll hear about it from Maddy. I hope it’s not blabbed over the entire L.A. basin. I got a kiss as well from Marty when the houseguest was leaving, but only on the cheek. I suppose I should feel flattered that someone found me attractive, since so comparatively few have felt that impulse. I wonder if he’s right that we’re all bi at heart? Well, he certainly wasn’t proving his thesis, since he registered a stone cold zero on my attraction meter. The gusher in bed I’m attributing solely to applied friction in the dark.
2:37 p.m. Only able to doze on this bus, so now feeling like a zombie. We just took on a new driver in Bend, Oregon–a place that’s probably the butt of countless rude jokes. Very pretty country though, with daubs of gold among the green from trees getting an early start on fall. Had a long chat with a girl going as far away as her money would take her from a scary-sounding ex-boyfriend. She was wearing sunglasses over her black eye and chomping on nicotine gum to quell her raging urges on this non-smoking bus. I’m glad now that Grandma raised hell so I never got hooked on cigarettes. Two packs a day killed her husband pretty quick–not that the world is missing that bastard.
Seems to me this business shouldn’t take long. I’ll go to the circus, find the clown, and nail him on the missing kid. If all goes well, I should be back in L.A. by the weekend. Perhaps by then Veeva’s granny will have hit the road, and Nipsie can move back into his old room. If not, I may have to go back to fending off lovesick Marty.
10:30 p.m. Homeless shelter, downtown Spokane. The only accommodations I could dredge up. Went to a half-dozen motels along the main drag, but nobody would rent a room to a kid on his own. They all wanted a credit card in case I went berserk and busted up the room. This shelter is pretty down and out, but at least they provide lockers to secure your valuables overnight. I hope I don’t pick up any bugs or diseases. The smelly cots don’t look super comfortable, but I’m so exhausted I don’t expect I’ll have any trouble sleeping through the snuffling and snoring.
Spokane is another place like Winnemucca that you wonder how it came into existence in the middle of nowhere. Much bigger than my home town though. A wild-looking river roars through the center of town on its way to somewhere. Kind of scary being alone in a strange city, but at least I have some money in my pocket and I can say I’m seeing a bit of the country.
WEDNESDAY, August 24 – Gathered up my stuff and had breakfast at a café downtown. When I went to pay, I discovered my wallet had been cleaned out. It appears somebody tampered with my locker. The only money I had was the $50 bill Veeva told me to fold up and hide in my shoe. Less than $45 to my name now that I’ve paid the check. I can’t believe how much that sucks. People are such rotten filthy bastards. The asshole did leave me my laptop, since it’s probably too worthless to steal.
Walked about a mile to the fairgrounds, where I saw the circus setting up. The big tent was already up and men were moving stuff into it. There was a line of people waiting by an office trailer, so I joined it. I filled out an application, and a middle-aged lady with enormous glasses gave me a test. She handed me a $20 bill and had me make change from a money drawer for a purchase of $6.73. I knew the secret is to forget about subtraction and just do it with addition. You start with the figure of $6.73 and add coins and bills until you come to $20. A simple test, but most of the applicants looked like they’d never even seen a sum as large as $20. I was one of three temps hired to fill out the crew of refreshments vendors. Fortunately for me, the circus sometimes takes on locals in the bigger towns for such jobs. Pay is minimum wage, plus anything you can hustle from tips.
On the application I gave my name as Jake Darko and my age as 17. I kind of like the name Jake. It’s less frou-frou than Noel, and Darko also has a certain dark appeal. They asked for a Social Security number, so I wrote down one that Veeva had gotten from Benecia, her resourceful housekeeper. According to Veeva, it’s an internal control number used for debugging, so the computers won’t challenge it. Don’t ask me how Benecia got hold of it. Perhaps some of her relatives use it too. Now I’m hoping I can find some corner in the fairgrounds to stash my stuff and hole up tonight after the evening show.
7:48 p.m. All in all, a rotten day. A sparse crowd for the first matinee, so there was lots of competition among the vendors to hawk our overpriced snacks. The lucky guys got to hustle floss (cotton candy), but I was loaded down with back-breaking cans of soda. Very exhausting work trooping up and down the risers while trying not to bash people in the head with your load. Lots of cash to handle because about nine customers in ten pay with a $20 bill. One idiot tried to pay a $2 tab with a $100 bill, but I indignantly refused. I mean nobody had the correct change.
I did get to watch the show a bit. Several clowns were tumbling about in the center ring, but I figured that the short one with the mustache was Alfredo. I cornered him as he was going into this smaller tent for dinner (we local hires are on our own for eats). The guy totally blew me off. He said he didn’t know anyone named Sheeni Saunders and didn’t know anything about some kid. Then as we were getting ready for the evening show, the vendor crew-chief told me I was f
ired. He said I was too light for the job, lacked hustle, and that “complaints were received.” He gave me 20 bucks for my labor and told me to beat it.
I just called Veeva and she got totally pissed. She blamed me for losing her $700 and said I should have used more finesse with Alfredo. No, she didn’t have any more cash to send me, so I’m stuck up here in Washington state with less than $60 in my pocket. I’m not sure if it was Alfredo who complained, or the customer with the hundred bucks, or the guy whose daughter’s hand I stepped on. I thought that kid was never going to stop howling. Veeva said if it had been Alfredo who had me canned, that meant he knows stuff and doesn’t want me around. Very true, but what can I do about it now?
I should never have agreed to go on this crazy chase in the first place. Guys should never say yes to anything when they’re lying in bed with a naked chick. Yeah, and I don’t give a damn what any cop who may read this thinks about that incriminating statement. So maybe the aforementioned chick was 43, and it was she who was molesting me.
FRIDAY, August 26 – Sorry I skipped a day. Too much going on. I decided since I came this far I couldn’t just give up. I passed another miserable shift under shrubbery on Wednesday. Summer nights in Spokane, I discovered, are much colder than in Santa Monica. The ground seemed noticeably harder too. Next time I run away from home I’ll remember to bring a sleeping bag and air mattress.
It occurred to me that one of the ways rich people get ahead is by exploiting their family connections. There I was homeless and freezing under a bush when I had a brother who’d been in People magazine.
I didn’t recall the Hercules Circus having any jugglers, but I had seen a guy who had an interesting act balancing a small pug dog on his nose. That could be interpreted as a form of juggling. After defrosting in a nearby donut shop, I returned to the fairgrounds and tracked down the man, who was walking three pug dogs (all wearing cute bow ties on their collars) by an encampment of large trailers. I asked him if he knew Nick Twisp.
“The juggler?” he asked warily as his dogs sniffed my shoes. “I’ve met him a few times. Why?”
“He’s my brother and I need a job.”
“How do I know you’re his brother?”
“Well, ask me a question about him.”
“What kind of car does he have?”
“He drives a BMW. A gray one with a dent in the rear quarter panel from where a guy kicked it in a road-rage incident.”
“If you say so. And where does he perform?”
“Formerly at the Normandie casino in Vegas, but he’s moving to Paris.”
“Really? I hadn’t heard that. OK, I suppose you could be his brother. Do you have an act?”
“No, sorry.”
“Any skills?”
“Not really. But I work cheap.”
I had to wait around all day, but eventually I got in to see the head boss, a balding older Greek fellow (and husband of the lady with the big glasses) named Balasi Patsatzis. He asked me more questions about my brother, and some personal ones too, like was I really 17 and did my family know where I was? I answered those more or less untruthfully, and he finally agreed to try me out for a week or two to determine “the cut of my mustard.” My job is mostly janitorial: I clean the office and bunkhouse trailers, plus all the restrooms (called donikers for some reason). I also pick up litter on the lot and operate the bounce house on the midway before and after performances. This is a vinyl structure in the shape of a circus wagon, kept inflated by an electric blower, where kids go in with their shoes off and bounce their little brains out. I’m working 11 hours a day, seven days a week for $95 a week, plus room and board. All I have to do is stick it out for seven weeks, and I’ll be back financially where I was when I started. I hope my brother had a better time of it when he ran away to that circus in France.
Will try to write more tomorrow if I have the strength.
SATURDAY, August 27 – We jumped to Coeur d’Alene, Idaho this morning. Not that far; only took an hour. A scenic town on a big blue lake. Lots of townies turned out to watch the big tent go up. They even bused in school kids for the spectacle. A tractor tugs up the two tall center masts, then electric motors on the masts lift up the tent. Next, the crew installs the quarter poles and side poles, hammers in the stakes, unfolds the bleachers, connects up the lights and sound system, and rigs up the equipment for the aerial acts. If it’s a hot day like today, they connect up a truck with this huge swamp cooler to blow chilled air into the big top. Meanwhile, the marquee and dining tents are going up, and I’m struggling to unroll the heavy bounce house and get it inflated. In a bit under three hours, the show is ready to open and I’m ready to collapse.
Some circuses use elephants to put up their tents, but Mr. Patsatzis is not big on animal acts. He says they’re too much trouble, and he would rather pour a little gas into a tractor than a lot of hay into an elephant. The only exotic animals traveling with the show (excluding Marcel the clown’s little monkey and Mr. Barker’s pug dogs) are four ostriches ridden by a family of acrobatic Hungarians named Herczegh (pronounced like a vigorous sneeze).
The big tent has seating for about 1300. When at least 1,000 of them are occupied, Mr. Patsatzis looks slightly less fraught with worry. When the crowd is sparse, he slaps his forehead and moans “Tonight we eat the ostriches!” So far, though, they’ve stayed off the menu (except for their eggs which on a good morning can feed the entire company).
Running a circus is hard on the nerves and on the wallet. Even when the house is full, not all of the seats are paid for. The sponsoring organization or club in each town distributes plenty of Annie Oakleys (free tickets) to kids. Then the kids drag along their parents, who have to fork over for admission, souvenir booklets, balloons, refreshments, etc. Thankfully, the sponsors are contractually obligated to provide port-a-potties, so I don’t have to swab up after thousands of slobs.
Since we moved today, only two performances are scheduled. Tomorrow we have three. Circus people are real masochists for work. Probably not the neatest folks on the planet either. All of the trailer restrooms were way overdue for scrubbing. I don’t know what they would have done if I hadn’t come along. Probably board them up as health menaces. Those roustabouts may be able to pound in huge metal stakes and muscle around great rolls of tent fabric, but they can’t hit the side of a barn when they take a piss.
I certainly hope I don’t have to spend my life swinging brooms, pushing vacuums, and swabbing toilets. I see now why Nick taught himself to juggle. There’s lots to be said for having a marketable skill out here in the real world.
SUNDAY, August 28 – I’ve been catching a few more snatches of the show. This Señor Alfredo Nunez seems to be something of a big shot in the circus world. He’s the only one of the four clowns who gets introduced by name. If there’s a Señora Nunez somewhere, she’s not in evidence. He lives alone in one of the fancier trailers and drives a big Dodge diesel pickup equipped with a booster seat and pedal extensions. Those trucks, I know, don’t come cheap. He’s been totally ignoring me on the lot and in the dining tent.
By the way, the eats are pretty good and they don’t skimp on the servings. They can’t really, because everyone works up massive appetites slaving so hard. Mostly the kids sit together for meals. There are quite a few, including some pretty girls around my age. Some are performers and some are just brats who travel with their parents. So far they haven’t had much to say to the new janitor. I think Randy has been bad-mouthing me to them. He’s a nasty little runt with yellow smoker’s teeth who claims to be 18, but I have my doubts. If Marty thinks I’m an uncultured clod, he should meet this guy–truly your redneck’s redneck. Randy works in the commissary as the helper assistant–a job I would rate as even crummier than mine. When I showed up, they made him move out of a bunkhouse trailer and sleep in the pantry of the commissary trailer. It wasn’t my idea, but he still hates my guts.
Depending on their length, the bunkhouse trailers have 10 or 12 tiny roomettes and o
ne communal bathroom in the rear. The earlier you get up, the better your chance of getting in the shower and scoring some hot water. If you bogart the shower too long, a muscular and likely tattooed arm will reach in and yank you out by your hair. Each cell has half a bunk bed, a small closet, storage cupboard, two drawers, one window, a crank-up roof vent, and its own entry door to the outside. If you have an upper bunk like I do, that means the guy on the other side of the thin divider wall has a lower bunk. Fortunately, my neighbor doesn’t snore, but I can hear when he snorts, farts, or beats his meat. The actual floor space available for roaming measures 23 inches by 59 inches (less than 10 square feet), so it’s not for claustrophobes. Since there’s no air conditioning, the rooms can get pretty hot when you’re trying to sneak a nap after lunch (not that Mr. Patsatzis or his minions encourage such indulgences). His philosophy is “If you’ve got time to lean, you’ve got time to clean.” I prefer “You’ve got nothing to lose by swiping a snooze.”
10:48 p.m. Señor Nunez likes to linger in the cook tent after dinner and serenade the stragglers with his accordion. Not my kind of music, but he’s pretty good. Tonight he decided to come sit near the janitor while squeezing his box.
“I hear you’re the brother of Nick Twisp, the juggler,” he commented, shifting his cigarette to a corner of his mouth.
“That’s right.”
“Then how come your name is Darko?”
“I prefer it to Twisp.”
“I knew your brother in Paris years ago.”
“Then you had to know Sheeni Saunders.”
“I knew her slightly.”
“That’s not what she said in a letter to my brother.”
“What did she say?”
“That you helped her stay with your brother. That she once loved you.”
“She said that?”
“Yup.”
He smiled, but his fingers shifted into an even sadder tune. Upbeat musically he was not. “She never had her baby, Jake Darko. She got rid of it.”