by Payne, C. D.
I conceded that point, but insisted that the particulars of the death were relevant and must be produced.
“You are a hard person, Jake,” he sighed, flicking away his cigarette butt. “There is no place in a circus for a person like you.”
“I do my job.”
“There is more to life than doing a job, Jake. That is what you Americans do not understand.”
SEPTEMBER
THURSDAY, September 1 – I have now been with this circus for one week. Already I have cleaned a lifetime of toilets and pushed a vacuum the equivalent of half-way around the globe. The litter I have picked up would fill Yankee stadium way up to cheap seats or bury Randy to a depth of 3,712 feet (sounds like a good idea).
Jin Pak let me check my e-mail this morning on his computer in the Pak’s big fifth-wheel trailer. He lives there with his mother and father, two uncles, and brother. The four bachelors sleep in bunks in a tiny room in the rear. His uncles are engaged to gals back in Korea, but both fiancées are mired in long waiting lists for visas. So everyone has to content themselves with lives of convivial celibacy and aerial bungee soaring
Jin has a nice laptop which he connects to the Internet via Bluetooth and his cell phone. Slow for Web cruising, but it does the job for e-mail. I had another message from Nick. Nothing like running away to get my brother’s attention at last. He wants me to call him collect at his hotel in Paris. I noted the number in case I should need it sometime. Another e-mail from Awanee informed me that her father had consulted a lawyer, who advised them that they were not liable for any lost rings. She also said that her friend Wylie (Tyler’s Reese Witherspoon look-alike girlfriend) was having her Voodoo class put a curse on me. The things you can study these days in Los Angeles high schools.
Tyler also checked in. He may be the only football jock in L.A. whose e-mail messages are always perfectly composed and properly spelled. I hope they don’t hold that against him in his application to USC. He reported that Stoney Holt has been trying to make him jealous by e-mailing him daily updates on her romantic activities with “some stud named Scott Chandler.” Tyler didn’t seem too concerned, but he did ask me if Scott was as formidable as Stoney claimed.
I took a chance and replied to Tyler’s e-mail. I told him Scott was nothing special and asked him if he could find out anything on the Internet about Sarah Nunez, a one-year-old child who may have died 14 years ago of influenza in Albi, France.
Still no e-mail messages from Uma, always a fresh source of acute pain.
Speaking of which, Sam and Jin are convinced that Randy and I are destined to duke it out one of these days. To help me prepare for battle, they’ve been showing me some TaeKwonDo (Korean martial arts) stances and attack moves. I now know the rudiments of the cat and horse stance, thrashing kick, guarding and rising blocks, hammer fist, palmhand strike, and spearfinger thrust.
I don’t know, I’ve never been very good at physical combat. My usual tactic is to frighten away my opponent with a violently hemorrhaging projectile nosebleed (my nose not his). I’m not particularly anxious to tangle with Randy, since he carries a big blade in a sheath on his belt. All redneck youths seem to have those. I think they’re presented to them in the hospital when they’re born–along with the greasy comb, a coupon for a free tattoo, and that first starter pack of cigarettes.
They’re expecting big crowds today, so must end here. I’m wondering why Veeva hasn’t called lately. Have I been forgotten already? Is Idaho that far off the map?
FRIDAY, September 2 – The start of the big Labor Day weekend and the end of the summer salad days for circuses. After Monday, I’m told, it will be much harder to dredge up profitable audiences. Townies see frost on a pumpkin and retreat to their houses for six months. They only come out to shovel snow and shop at Wal-Mart.
At last I seem to have achieved a social breakthrough at the kids’ table in the cookhouse tent. People seem willing to acknowledge my existence–even those forbiddingly reserved ostrich-jockeys Kardos and Vrsula Herczegh. Kardos is very tall, very thin, and very pale. His sister is equally pale and tall, but only thin in spots. Her narrow waist is the smallest I’ve seen on anyone over the age of eight. A real hourglass figure like your grandpa used to drool over. And a face that’s almost too lovely for sustained viewing–like you don’t rate high enough even to lay your eyes on her. Now imagine all that beauty in sparkly purple tights astride a galloping ostrich. It makes for a real eye-opener at 6:30 in the morning.
Kardos is no slouch in the looks department either. My guess is Nerea Lurrieta is semi-infatuated with him, but any flirting with that guy is a challenge since the whole family speaks the barest rudiments of English. Mostly they chatter away in Hungarian, a very foreign-sounding tongue. This is the Herczeghs’ first circus tour in North America. If I spoke Hungarian I would ask them if ostrich-riding was a traditional pastime back in their homeland. Since I don’t, I’m content to sit next to Miren and discuss the books she’s been reading.
This summer Miren has worked her way through Jane Austin, the Bronte sisters, and now she is happily lapping up Anthony Trollope. She says she doesn’t understand why there aren’t monuments to Trollope in every city in the English-speaking world. I couldn’t answer that question since I had never heard of the guy. I do my best, though, to make intelligent-sounding comments. I was never much of a fiction reader, preferring to spend my idle hours cruising the Web or watching videos. When I felt like reading, I’d usually crack open a juicy computer magazine. This doesn’t surprise Miren, who–typical of Europeans–regards America as a nation of lazy thinkers, tubby sports nuts, and narrow-minded religious wackos.
One good thing about circus life, I can sit next to Miren for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. No way I could do that in the real world unless we were married or something. Every time I take the seat beside her, Randy scowls at me from across the steam table. I notice this morning he fished out the limpest, most fat-laden strips of bacon to dump on my plate. He also burned my toast, not realizing that’s exactly how I prefer it. All this sabotage is for naught, since Miren assured me that she regards him as a Total Creep and has steadfastly snubbed his crude overtures. His sister was even more blunt, having warned Randy to maintain a minimum five-meter distance from her at all times or she’ll call a cop. Yet he remains undeterred, being both supremely confident of his appeal to chicks and profoundly ignorant of the metric system.
8:48 a.m. I sneaked a break from my toilet duties and phoned Veeva in L.A. Her manner at first was distinctly chilly. Maddy had not only blabbed, she had wildly exaggerated my entanglements with her horny brother.
“She said you guys couldn’t keep your hands off each other,” Veeva noted. “Her mother thinks you’re practically engaged.”
“All lies,” I protested. “We just played a few video games in his room.”
“Then Marty didn’t spend the night with you in their guestroom?”
“Well, he tried, but I kicked him out. Jesus, Veeva, do I strike you as being gay?”
“One never knows these days, Noel, though your tastes do seem rather unrefined for someone of that persuasion. Of course, living all those years in Minnetonka could explain that.”
“It’s Winnemucca!”
“Whatever. It’s really not anything to keep bragging about, Noel.”
I sighed and brought her up-to-date on my latest conversation with Señor Nunez. She agreed that he had spilled some potentially valuable information that we should follow up on. And, like me, she thought the untimely flu death sounded a bit too convenient. She said she would check in with Tyler to see if he had discovered anything more about young Sarah Nunez. Meanwhile, she suggests I break into the dwarf’s trailer and poke around. I pointed out that a crime like that would be difficult to manage since everything on the lot is kept locked up tight because all these larcenous townies will steal you blind. She told me to use my “Twisp street smarts” to find a way in.
Easy for her to say. She’s not the one
facing arrest for breaking and entering–or worse if the dwarf catches me in the act.
Veeva then filled me in on the latest Reina Vesely news. The reason that chick sent Veeva’s dad packing back to California was not that she didn’t love him. She said if she let him abandon his wife and children, then she and Paul would be no better than her ex-husband who had deserted his own family.
“Sounds reasonable to me,” I commented.
“Not at all, Noel. Don’t you see? If they love each other, they should be together. I mean, it would be hard on us, but we’d survive.”
“You wouldn’t mind if your father moved to France and you never saw him again?”
“Of course, I’d mind. Daddy is the vital buffer between me and my mother. Half the time he’s the only thing keeping us from murdering each other. But I love my father, Noel. I want to see him happy.”
Wow, it’s possible to love a parent. I suppose I love Grandma, but then we’re not actually related.
“How happy is he likely to be, Veeva? Even if Reina overcame her scruples and married him, your mother would probably guilt-trip him to death.”
“I know. My mother is so manipulative it’s scary. I sometimes think everything would be so much simpler if my father were an attractive and wealthy widower with three adorable children.”
“Don’t do it, Veeva. You’d never get away with it.”
“I know, Noel. My mother’s probably already placed a letter with her attorney fingering me as the prime suspect in the event of her untimely death.”
“So what are you going to do, Veeva?”
“I don’t know, Noel. But I have to do something before Reina marries your damn brother.”
“Is that likely to happen?”
“My father fears it may. It may be Reina’s way of sacrificing her true love and closing off that avenue for good.”
“Well, you’re just hearing your father’s side of things. Reina may in fact love my brother.”
“Don’t be silly, Noel. There’s no way your brother could be loved as deeply as my father. Daddy is a wonderful and extraordinary man. Your brother’s a fucking juggler.”
I knew better than to argue that point with the world’s most rabid daddy’s girl. I gave her a big wet phone kiss and rang off.
Wow, my brother may be getting married again. I hope I’m invited to the wedding this time.
5:18 p.m. One of Mr. Barker’s dogs got loose today, and everyone had to drop what they were doing and go hunt for him. Mr. Barker was pretty frantic. Apparently, purebred pug dogs are a desired item, and people are not above stealing them. I scored some major brownie points (and a $10 reward) by locating the lost beast. He was licking a greasy pan that Randy had ditched in some bushes rather than going to the trouble of scrubbing it. How I enjoyed watching that turd get his ass chewed by stern Mr. Povey for that misdemeanor.
Mr. Barker invited me into his nice trailer for a celebratory glass of sherry. Now there’s a drink that’s quite a major comedown from the original grape juice. Virtually undrinkable, but I tried to be polite and gulped down most of it. My host gave me a tour, showing me the actual bed where he cuddles nightly with the voluptuous Dorcas Barker. I’d balance more than a pug on my nose to swap places with that lucky dude, who–unaccountably–doesn’t seem all that thrilled with his lot in life. Apparently, having a dog act in a circus is a source of considerable career frustration.
Sure, people applaud when you balance a small fawn dog on your nose–but it turns out they’re applauding the dog not the performer. They don’t give much credit to the guy who 1. spent years training the dog to stand perfectly rigid, and 2. has mastered the very difficult art of balancing a 14-pound canine on a remarkably small perch–namely the end of his nose.
“Hell, my wife gets a much bigger hand for swinging around on a velvet sling with half her tits hanging out,” he complained, swigging down another glass of sherry.
True enough, but they’re remarkably applaudable tits.
“Then why do you do it, Mr. Barker?”
“I don’t know, Jake. I guess I’ve always liked dogs–especially pugs. They’re not the brightest breed on the block, but they’re incredibly loyal and eager to please.”
His loyal dogs lay at his feet and beamed up at him. Today they were modeling yellow polka-dot bow ties clipped to matching rhinestone-studded collars.
“Does your wife like them too?” I asked.
“I thought she did, Jake, but lately she’s been agitating to have them thrown out of our bedroom. Can you imagine that?”
“They sleep with you in bed?” I asked, shocked.
“Of course, Jake. Dogs are pack animals. And the pack always sleeps together in a big pile. It’s very pleasant and cozy on a cold night.”
I wanted to ask him how the dogs fit in when he was having sex with Dorcas, but I feared he’d get offended and demand his $10 back. So I thanked him for the sherry and added that I thought he had the best act in our show. I think that compliment meant something to him coming from the brother of the illustrious Nick Twisp.
SATURDAY, September 3 – Payday at last. I got my $95 in cash, just the way I like it. No deductions for Uncle Sam or Social Security. Why should a kid have to fork over part of his meager wage to underwrite the retirement of a bunch of free-loading Baby Boomers?
That was today’s good news.
The bad news is that two of the younger roustabouts left to go back to college. Which freed up Randy to move back into the bunkhouse trailer, specifically the roomette adjoining mine. His repulsive unwashed person is now installed on the bunk directly below me. Yuck. I can feel waves of Randroid creepiness oozing through the thin divider walls. Not to mention the tinny blasts of his cheap radio tuned to the trashiest possible rural lowlife station. The idiot also smokes in bed and very likely will incinerate both of us one of these nights.
We jumped this morning to Grangeville, a small prairie town at the foot of the Bitterroot Mountains. I’m supposed to ride in the cab of the generator truck, but I find I can grab another hour’s sleep by staying put in my roomette while we roll along. Although Grangeville is the seat of Idaho County (which is larger than the entire state of New Jersey), only 3,300 reclusive folks call it home. The population of the county is barely 15,000, but Mr. Patsatzis is optimistic that a large fraction of them will turn out for the circus. After all, what else is there to do around here? Not that they have much time to think it over. After three shows today, we jump again tomorrow. Mr. Patsatzis says small towns can be lucrative–especially on big holiday weekends–but it doesn’t pay to hang around.
Time to man the bounce house, a task I’m now coming to rate even below toilet swabbing. All that boinging up and down must addle those little kids’ brains. They become so loud and unruly I just want to murder them. And their obnoxiously indulgent parents are so damn protective. Hey, why shouldn’t I give their little bastard’s arm a slight tug or twist when he disobeys my instructions? What I really need is a cattle prod to handle the kids, a whip to use on their parents, and a machine gun to take out those sneaky fabric slashers. Too bad life can’t be more like a video game–extremely violent with many satisfyingly sadistic opportunities to score.
5:47 p.m. Looks like my acrobat lessons are over. I was taking a ten-minute break between shows with Miren on the trampoline when her father told me to lay off. He wasn’t very nice about it either. He said it was a “professional circus prop,” not a toy for anyone in the company to use. Miren protested, but he said their insurance doesn’t cover use by “outsiders.” Guess I know where I stand with that dude.
As I was walking back to the bounce house, Señor Nunez stopped me to say he has something to show me. No, he wouldn’t say what it was, but he invited me to have a drink with him in his trailer after the evening performance. Should be interesting, since Miren says his decor is not to be believed.
SUNDAY, September 4 – I’m screwed. I mean like totally screwed. Things are still a little fuzzy. I re
member going to Señor Nunez’s messy trailer, furnished in ornate kid-sized Mexican furniture. Kind of surreal with this mind-boggling clutter of clown memorabilia packed in everywhere. I remember he was drinking rum in pineapple juice and fixed one for me. Rather tasty and tropical. Then things start to get hazy. I remember feeling woozy like I was going to throw up and then I must have passed out. Later (much later?) I woke up damp and shivering. I was lying in a ditch in the middle of a forest. How I got there I couldn’t tell you. A half moon overhead gave off enough light for me to see I’d been dumped beside what looked like an old logging road.
Crawling to my feet, I was trying to curse that damn dwarf, but my mouth wouldn’t work. It was stuffed with little squares of paper. I spit out this sticky wad and was trying to figure out if it was a message or Sarah Nunez’s death certificate or something when things began to get really weird. It felt like the trees were starting to close in on me. I sat on a rock to get my bearings and tried not to panic, but I kept getting more and more anxious. I started hearing these strange noises like animals creeping up on me and weird voices of people I couldn’t see. I could feel muscles in my body I’d never noticed before clinching up and shutting down. Then it felt like my mind was somehow becoming detached from my body and that was really scary. Complete and total panic set it.
I shut my eyes and saw eight glowing red eyes staring back at me. That wasn’t working, so I opened my eyes and saw my hands and forearms were now covered with tattoos. Only these tattoos were moving like some kind of animated nightmare cartoon. Then I really lost it and threw myself back into the ditch. It felt like the ground was moving under me like I’d landed on a pile of 500 squirming rats. I started to scream, only it sounded like the massed voices of an entire city, a whole universe of people. Then I watched terrified as two furry arms unwound from my stomach. Fearing they were going to strangle me, I thought my pounding heart would burst, but the arms embraced me gently around the shoulders, which felt oddly comforting, although I didn’t like the prickliness of the hairs. Somehow I could sense the touch of every individual hair. I also could sense a different color for each follicle, including a whole galaxy of luminous colors that were entirely new to my eyes. I stared up at the moonlit trees, which seemed to take the shape of infinitely branching geometric designs. I watched fascinated as the stars in the violet-black sky rearranged themselves to form new constellations and pulsed out profound messages directly into my brain.