Under the Big Top: My Season With the Circus

by Bruce Feiler

  Wavering on the Jell-O-like surface, we slowly waded up a streak of white to the first crest of the quarter poles. My heart was pounding like the drums in the show—partly out of fear that my feet would give way, partly out of the thrill of this forbidden flight. Clowns are supposed to stay on the ground, not presume to walk on the air. Now already twenty-five feet in the air, we had two more layers of tent to go. Between each crest, like slippery dunes, the vinyl sagged in a sad sort of valley, so it felt as if we were sliding into a quicksand pit and had to grope for the next solid ridge. The last leg of the ascent was the most treacherous. The vinyl got suddenly slicker. The stripes grew gradually narrower. And the whole tent seemed to shake like a cartoon magic mountain with a sinister laugh that wanted to prevent us from reaching its peak.

  We pushed ahead. The summit was near. My heart was beating behind my eyes. In the last few steps I nearly lost control as the tent soared upward to its final crest, making it nearly impossible to stand. I collapsed to all fours and crawled to the peak, grabbing desperately for the red center pole that held the promise of steady footing. For a moment the sky was spinning as I settled my body onto the bail ring and adjusted my eyes to the height. Then, in a moment, the earth was still. The tent stopped shaking and relaxed into place. The breeze was surprisingly calm. The flag above me—CIRCUS in bold letters—hung limply from its mast. The show was fast asleep for the night. Its dreams had turned toward home.

  Alighting beside me, Khris surveyed the scape. “So this is the top of the world,” he mused.

  “The doorway to heaven.”

  “The entrance to hell?”

  We started talking about the season, together making an informal tally of the range of events we had witnessed since the start of the year. The list was circuslike in its scope. In the course of eight months on the road with the Clyde Beatty-Cole Bros. Circus, one person had a baby, four people got pregnant, two people got engaged, one person got married, one couple was separated, two people died, three people got arrested, one person was imprisoned, six people converted, one person gained U.S. citizenship, two people broke bones, one person chipped a couple of teeth, two people had knee surgery, one person had back surgery, one person lost a parent, one person aborted a child, dozens of people got fired, and at least one person got hired, fired, rehired, and all but refired. Plus, in the previous day alone, four tiger cubs were born and one was summarily abandoned. The pot was at full boil.

  From the ground the circus often seemed to be a cauldron on the verge of bubbling out of control. There were few restraints, even fewer restrictions, and seemingly little recipe for concord. But from our vantage point atop the tent that mix seemed remarkably well balanced. From above, the circus looked like a well-ordered town. There were homes and families; private neighborhoods and public spaces; parents, children, animals, clowns. And hovering over all of them stood the silhouette of the tent like the ghost of a church the town couldn’t forget and indeed carried on its back wherever it went. When I first saw the tent that initial day in DeLand I thought it looked like a whale—big and bloated with a kind of distant charm, a beast so large it couldn’t help overwhelming and would be impossible to grasp. Now, instead of just the body of a whale, I also saw the character of that creature and the story of its life.

  It was an enduring story of a group of people who came from various lands in pursuit of a common dream—a dream to do what they wanted in a place that was free, a desire to carve out a little corner of the world where they could be themselves. And as I imagined that story in my mind, I began to see a flood of images from recent days. I thought of Little Pablo and his wife, who had just purchased a new home to pull behind their truck but didn’t have enough money to buy any furniture for it. I thought of Sean Thomas, who had given up liquor, forsworn women, and even sold his gold Florida Gators necklace for the promise of a better future. I thought of Khris Allen, now silent beside me, whose experience in the previous twenty-four hours had forced him to confront the sad underside of animal care.

  As each story flickered through my mind, I thought of a parallel in American myth. Khris Allen—a modern-day Huck—and his friend Bushwhacker, former soldier and convict, who together somehow transcended the class and racial structure of the circus and formed a curious friendship that catapulted them to freedom up and down the modern Mississippi, 1-95. Douglas Holwadel—a wandering Willy Loman—who walked, talked, dressed, and drank like a salesman and who bought into the circus because it was the ultimate home for a traveler and who, by year’s end, was slowing down with what he called “old man’s disease.” And eventually myself—a watered-down whaler?—lost at sea in a personal quest to comprehend and ultimately confront some grand, elusive dream of the circus as an allegory for American life.

  And in the exaggerated rush of that moment my search finally seemed to reach its natural end. This is America, I thought again, this time much more at peace with the thought. It is the circus. There is sin as much as splendor. There is grit as much as glitter. But at that moment, on top of it all, there was no place on earth I would rather have been.

  Two days later one more ring was closed.

  Kris Kristo, Marcos, and I were at the Ruby Tuesday’s at the Oaks Mall in Gainesville, just around the corner from the hospital at the University of Florida where Sue the elephant had been operated on at the beginning of the year. The bar was having a Monday Night Football special, whereby each person won a free seven-ounce beer every time their chosen team scored. I was single-handedly serving the entire table courtesy of the Buffalo Bills. Kris, meanwhile, ordered Buffalo wings and tried to pick up the waitress, the bartender, and even the woman vacuuming the floor. Marcos wasn’t eating because of a religious fast, but he was drinking Tequila Sunrises, smoking Marlboros, and complaining about how boring the circus had become now that half the people had turned to God. End-of-the-season malaise had sunk in, not to be confused with the middle-of-the season slump, or the beginning-of-the-season blues. The performers needed a break. The circus needed a lift.

  “¡Dios mío!” Marcos cried, pointing at the door. “Look who’s coming.”

  “That’s Pablo,” said Kris.

  “No, you fool,” Marcos said. “Behind him.”

  “Is that really him?” Kris struggled to see.

  “Yes, it is,” Marcos said, setting down his drink.

  “Oh, my God,” I said, when I finally saw. “Danny’s come home.”

  The three of us rose to our feet as Danny Rodríguez came sauntering into the bar just behind Big Pablo. He was wearing a Chicago Bulls light winter jacket. His long hair had been cut short in the back, bringing even more attention to his narrow face and bucktoothed grin. He reached toward Marcos and gave him a hug. Kris moved forward and slapped his back. Big Pablo looked at me.

  “Before you say anything,” he said, “I want you to know: he’s blood. What else could I do?”

  Finally Danny stepped toward me and we embraced.

  “Welcome back,” I said. “We missed you.”

  “It’s good to be back,” he said with a sincerity well beyond his eighteen years. “It’s nice to be home.”

  We ordered another round of drinks and, when they were gone, headed back to the lot.

  “So, you didn’t know he was coming?” I said to Pablo during the walk home. It was the coldest day of the year so far. The central Florida newscasts had called for a freeze and ran stories urging people to read the instructions on their space heaters before using them that night.

  “No, I didn’t know until I saw him. He came close to me, then stopped. He was about four feet away. I saw he was crying. That’s all I needed. I knew something had gone wrong out there. I knew he wanted to be let back in. I didn’t wait for him to come to me. I went to him. I hugged him. Then I said, ‘I don’t care why you left. I don’t care why you came back. You’re here, that’s all that matters. When you’re ready, you can come tell me yourself. That’s what brothers are for…’”

  A
rriving back at the trailer line, Danny hugged Little Pablo, who was out walking his dog. Kris offered Marcos a piggyback ride. Big Pablo faked shooting a basketball. For a moment the circus was made whole again. The dream had been revived.

  An American Dream

  The dream, in the end, begins with flight.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, our featured attraction, the World’s Largest Cannon…!”

  Inside the big top the anticipation soars as the back door opens for the final time and the world’s largest cannon slowly rolls into view—its siren wailing, its flashers beaming, and its barrel growing foot by foot with every gasp from the audience and every camera flash. Standing atop the silver barrel is the newest American daredevil himself. At first he looks like Elvis, only blond. Then Superman, only shorter. But when he finally arrives in the ring, with his blue eyes and blond hair aglow in the light and his white rhinestone suit shimmering like a torch with red and blue star-studded racing stripes, Sean Thomas looks taller than God.

  “Introducing…the Human Cannonball…Seaaaaan Thomas…”

  As Sean salutes and waves to the crowd, the seventy-five or so members of the cast line up just behind the back door and prepare to stream into the tent like apostles at the second coming. The atmosphere backstage is ripe with excitement, though slightly tinged with rue—another season passes safely, another year is borne by the body. As the performers inch into position most are busily saying goodbye; as soon as the show closes tonight in Palm Beach the cast will scatter in a dozen directions. A few are thinking of retiring—Venko Lilov, Dawnita Bale, even Jimmy James himself. Many more are thinking merely about going home—Michelle and Angel are heading to Spain; Sean and Jenny are going on a honeymoon; and Danny Rodríguez, who in the end said he didn’t like the pressure of earning money and missed being a performer, is returning home to Sarasota with his mother and father.

  I am truly going home: this show will be my last. Earlier, feeling celebratory, I asked Fred Logan if I could ride an elephant during spec of the last performance. With a silent nod and a gruff thumbs-up, he led me to the end of the elephant line and called for the last bull in the herd to kneel down. I placed my left foot on her right front leg, and without so much as a hint of strain she hoisted me almost ten feet in the air and all but flung me onto her back. Upon landing face-first on her shoulders, I was so surprised by the scratchiness of her skin and the intense heat from her neck that it was not until I tucked my legs behind her ears and dangled my shoes beside her face that I looked down to pat my three-ton chauffeur and realized that I was sitting on Sue, whose fortitude during surgery a year earlier had drawn me into this circus and whose strength this final night would carry me out.

  By the end of the evening as the moment approached for me to walk into the finale, I was feeling more nervous—more excitable and tense—than I had felt on opening day. At that time all I had noticed were the bodies and props of all the nameless people around me; now I felt the devotion and faith that ran throughout the company—more congregation than corporation, more cult than cast. Indeed, I felt a bond with this community that was greater than any I could recall feeling with any other group outside my family. The feeling is what I imagined military camaraderie to be like: the people on the show may have come from different backgrounds, we may have had different aspirations, but for nine months on the road we traveled to hell and back together and emerged in the end slightly wounded for sure but almost fanatically devoted to one another and to our near-religious cause. Onward, circus soldiers: the world needs your message of hope. And on that final night of the season the mood of fellowship was everywhere ascendant. Just before I stepped through the door with all the other clowns, Marty tapped me on the shoulder and offered his arms in embrace. “Well, Bruno,” he said, “you did it. I don’t know what kind of writer you are, but I know you’re a hell of a clown.”

  “And the stars of the Clyde Beatty—Cole Bros. Circus…”

  At last I step into the lights. The ground seems light beneath my feet. With waving arms and beaming face I dance to the lyrics “Join the circus like you wanted to when you were a child…” In a moment I arrive in the front of ring three and stand beside the passenger door to the cannon, where the silver lettering announces GUN FOR HIRE. In ring one the giant yellow-and-blue air bag is being filled by means of portable fans. In between the bag and the barrel the cast slowly arrive at their places and stand solemnly at attention as if pointing the way for the gun to fire.

  “All eyes on the giant cannon…”

  The music changes to a fearsome dirge as the mouth of the thirty-foot silver barrel slowly rises into the air. At the top of the barrel Sean surveys his path. His face is etched with well-worn concern. His eyes squint in the manner of a ten-year-old boy trying to remember the answer to a test. His whole body seems remarkably slight.

  “Lieutenant Thomas prepares to enter the gun barrel…”

  With one last tuck to keep his hair in place, Sean slides a white helmet over his head, removes the temporary foam lid from the mouth of the cannon, and flings it almost casually in my direction. At the start of the year, when I was still unsure on my feet, this manhole-sized cover would often hit me in the head and knock me from my place. By the middle of the season, much surer-footed, I started trying to catch it in the air. By year’s end, I was nearly fleet of foot, and Sean’s throws became more challenging. I would often snag the lid with an artful flourish, as I do on this final night of the year. The audience flickers with applause: the Human Cannonball is jamming with a clown. The ringmaster beckons us back to our tasks.

  “A final farewell…”

  Sean positions a pair of lemon goggles over his eyes and scampers into the open barrel. Before his head disappears from sight he waves goodbye to both sides of the house and gives a final thumbs-up to the crowd. Then in a sequined flash he is gone. The music suddenly skids to a halt. Only the pulse of the tympani drum disturbs the spreading silence. The pause is almost painful to bear. The tent is dense with fear. Jimmy James augments the alarm.

  “With an ignition of black gunpowder, combined with the chemical lycopodium for safety, he will blast off at a safe speed of fifty-five miles per hour…”

  Ta-dum! The drumroll grows even louder. Oh no! The children cover their eyes. Please! I whisper to myself even after five hundred shots.

  “Countdown!” Jimmy calls, and all the performers raise their hands in salute. With each booming call from his proud bass voice the audience joins the cry.

  “Five.

  “Four.”

  Until every voice in the six-story tent begins to chant in rare harmony.

  “Three.

  “Two.

  “One…”

  And all our dreams confront their test.

  “Fire!”

  Inside the barrel Sean Thomas waits.

  “When I first get in the barrel I check all the parts. I look at the slide to make sure it’s all greased. I look at the cable to make sure it’s not snagged. Then after I rest my butt on the seat and put my feet on the stand I look out through the mouth of the cannon to make sure I’m pointed in the right direction.”

  Outside Jenny stands at the controls—four levers and a series of flashing lights—and makes the final preparations. She wears a headset to communicate with Sean. A small video screen reveals the distance the launching capsule has been retracted. Every show the measurement is adjusted. Though the front of the cannon is always precisely one hundred feet from the front of the bag, the amount of power Sean requires depends on the density of the air, the slope of the lot, and the relative strength of the cannon propulsion system itself.

  “There’s no reason anything should go wrong,” he said. “It’s pretty close to a science.”

  Not particularly scientific himself, Sean approaches each date with the cannon as if he’s preparing for battle.

  “I call it the Beast,” he said. “Elvin says be friendly to it and it will be friendly to you. But it can turn on you
like that. It can kill you in an instant. It’s like the enemy and we’re at war. I feel like it’s always trying to get me, so I’ve got to find another angle. Every show it’s something else. Every day it’s like wrestling with fate.”

  Lying prone in the capsule with his rear end on a saddle, Sean prepares for battle. He grips his fists alongside his face and looks once more toward the mouth of the barrel.

  “Inside, just at the lip of the cannon, there’s a bumper sticker that says: ‘NO GUTS NO GLORY.’ I used to have a surfing T-shirt that said that. There was this big wave and this tiny guy who was just a dot on the shirt. It was my favorite shirt, but it got ruined the first night I wore it. I got into a big fight and blood went everywhere. Later I saw the sticker and put it in the cannon. It’s the only thing that keeps me company.”

  From his pad Sean announces he is ready. From her post Jenny passes on the word. From the ring Jimmy informs the world.

  “Countdown.”

  Inside, Sean receives the command as it echoes down the solid-steel barrel. When he first slid into the cannon, two years earlier, Sean was reckless, even cavalier. Even at the start of his second season, he was ruthless with the Beast—kicking it, beating it, tempting it to challenge him. But by year’s end he had been transformed.

  “Five.”

  “I’m much calmer now,” he said in the front seat of the cannon just minutes before his final shot. He was listening to Percy Faith love songs on the cassette player in the dash. A picture of Jenny was taped next to the speedometer. The handle of his white plastic brush was broken in two. “I’m a much better person than I used to be. I don’t know if it has to do with reading the Bible or what. I think it has more to do with getting married and kind of growing up a little bit.” His voice was lower than it was when I first met him. He was less likely to punch me in the arm for fun.