by Sara Gruen
I'm glad nothing requires my intervention, because I'm trying hard to maintain my composure. This is the first time I've ever seen a woman naked and I don't think I'll ever be the same.
COLLECTION OF THE RINGLING CIRCUS MUSEUM, SARASOTA, FLORIDA
Four
I spend the next forty-five minutes standing guard outside Barbara's dressing tent as she entertains gentleman callers. Only five are prepared to part with the requisite two dollars, and they form a surly line. The first goes in and after seven minutes of huffing and grunting emerges again, struggling with his fly. He staggers off and the next enters.
After the last of them leaves, Barbara appears in the doorway. She is nude except for an Oriental silk dressing gown she hasn't bothered to tie. Her hair is mussed, her mouth smudged with lipstick. She holds a burning cigarette in one hand.
"That's it, honey," she says, waving me away. There's whiskey on her breath and in her eyes. "No freebies tonight."
I return to the cooch tent to stack chairs and help dismantle the stage while Cecil counts the money. At the end of it, I'm a dollar richer and stiff all over.
THE BIG TOP STILL STANDS, glowing like a ghostly coliseum and pulsing with the sound of the band. I stare at it, entranced by the sound of the audience's reactions. They laugh, clap, and whistle. Sometimes there's a collective intake of breath or patter of nervous shrieks. I check my pocket watch; it's quarter to ten.
I consider trying to catch part of the show, but am afraid that if I cross the lot I'll get shanghaied into some other task. The roustabouts, having spent much of the day sleeping in whatever corner they could find, are dismantling the great canvas city as efficiently as they put it up. Tents drop to the ground, and poles topple. Horses, wagons, and men trek across the lot, hauling everything back to the side rail.
I sink to the ground and rest my head on raised knees.
"Jacob? Is that you?"
I look up. Camel limps over, squinting. "By gum, I thought it was," he says. "The old peepers ain't workin' so good no more."
He eases himself down next to me and pulls out a small green bottle. He picks the cork out and takes a drink.
"I'm gettin' too old for this, Jacob. I ache all over at the end of every day. Hell, I ache all over now, and we ain't even at the end of the day yet. The Flying Squadron won't pull out for probably two more hours, and we start the whole danged thing over again five hours after that. It's no life for an old man."
He passes me the bottle.
"What the hell is this?" I say, staring at the brackish liquid.
"It's jake," he says, snatching it back.
"You're drinking extract?"
"Yeah, so?"
We sit in silence for a minute.
"Damn Prohibition," Camel finally says. "This stuff used to taste just fine till the government decided it shouldn't. Still gets the job done, but tastes like hell. And it's a damn shame because it's all that keeps these old bones going anymore. I'm about used up. Ain't good for nothin' but ticket seller, and I reckon I'm too ugly for that."
I glance over and decide he's right. "Is there something else you can do instead? Maybe behind the scenes?"
"Ticket seller's the last stop."
"What'll you do when you can't manage anymore?"
"I reckon I'll have an appointment with Blackie. Hey," he says, turning to me hopefully. "Got any cigarettes?"
"No. Sorry."
"I didn't suppose," he sighs.
We sit in silence, watching team after team haul equipment, animals, and canvas back to the train. Performers leaving the back end of the big top disappear into dressing tents and emerge in street clothes. They stand in groups, laughing and talking, some still wiping their faces. Even out of costume they are glamorous. The drab workmen scuttle all around, occupying the same universe but seemingly on a different dimension. There is no interaction.
Camel interrupts my reverie. "You a college boy?"
"Yes sir."
"I figured you for one."
He offers the bottle again, but I shake my head.
"Did you finish?"
"No," I say.
"Why not?"
I don't answer.
"How old are you, Jacob?"
"Twenty-three."
"I got a boy your age."
The music has ended, and townspeople start to trickle from the big top. They stop, perplexed, wondering what happened to the menagerie through which they entered. As they leave by the front, an army of men enter by the back and return carting bleachers, seats, and ring curbs, which they fling noisily into lumber wagons. The big top is being gutted before the audience has even left it.
Camel coughs wetly, the effort wracking his body. I look to see if he needs a thump on the back, but he's holding up a hand to stop me. He snorts, hawks, and then spits. Then he drains the bottle. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks over at me, eyeing me from head to toe.
"Listen," he says. "I ain't trying to know your business, but I do know you ain't been on the road long. You're too clean, your clothes are too good, and you don't got a possession in the world. You collect things on the road--maybe not nice things, but you collect them all the same. I know I ain't got no talking room, but a boy like you shouldn't be on the bum. I been on the bum and it ain't no life." His forearms rest on his raised knees, his face turned to mine. "If you got a life to go back to, I reckon that's what you should do."
It's a moment before I can answer. When I do, my voice cracks. "I don't."
He watches me for a while longer and then nods. "I'm right sorry to hear that."
The crowd disperses, moving from the big top to the parking lot and beyond, to the edges of the town. From behind the big top, the silhouette of a balloon rises into the sky, followed by a child's prolonged wail. There is laughter, the sound of car engines, voices raised in excitement.
"Can you believe she bent like that?"
"I thought I was going to die when that clown dropped his drawers."
"Where's Jimmy--Hank, have you got Jimmy?"
Camel scrambles suddenly to his feet. "Ho! There he is. There's that old S-O-B now."
"Who?"
"Uncle Al! Come on! We gotta get you on the show."
He limps off faster than I would have thought possible. I get up and follow.
There is no mistaking Uncle Al. He has ringmaster written all over him, from the scarlet coat and white jodhpurs to the top hat and waxed curled moustache. He strides across the lot like the leader of a marching band, ample belly thrust forward and issuing orders in a booming voice. He pauses to let a lion's den cross in front of him and then continues past a group of men struggling with a rolled canvas. Without breaking stride, he smacks one of them on the side of the head. The man yelps and turns, rubbing his ear, but Uncle Al is gone, trailed by followers.
"That reminds me," Camel says over his shoulder, "whatever you do, don't mention Ringling in front of Uncle Al."
"Why not?"
"Just don't."
Camel scurries up to Uncle Al and steps into his path. "Er, there you are," he says, his voice artificial and mewling. "I was wondering if I could have a word, sir?"
"Not now, boy. Not now," booms Al, goose-stepping past like the Brownshirts you see in the grainy news trailers at the movies. Camel limps weakly behind, popping his head around one side, and then falling back and running along the other like a disgraced puppy.
"It won't take but a moment, sir. It's just I was wondering if any of the departments was short of men."
"Thinking of changing careers, are we?"
Camel's voice rises like a siren. "Oh no, sir. Not me. I'm happy right where I am. Yes sir. Happy as a clam, that's me." He giggles maniacally.
The distance between them widens. Camel stumbles and then comes to a stop. "Sir?" he calls across the growing distance. He comes to a stop. "Sir?"
Uncle Al is gone, swallowed whole by people, horses, and wagons.
"Goddammit. Goddammit!" says Cam
el, tearing his hat from his head and throwing it to the ground.
"It's okay, Camel," I say. "I appreciate you trying."
"No, it ain't okay," he shouts.
"Camel, I--"
"Just shut it. I don't want to hear it. You're a good kid, and I ain't about to stand by and watch you mope off 'cuz that fat old grouch don't got time. I just ain't. So have a little respect for your elders and don't give me no trouble."
His eyes are burning.
I lean over, retrieve his hat, and brush the dirt off. Then I hold it out to him.
After a moment, he takes it. "All right then," he says gruffly. "I guess that's all right."
CAMEL TAKES ME to a wagon and tells me to wait outside. I lean against one of the large spoked wheels and pass the time alternately picking slivers from beneath my nails and chewing long pieces of grass. At one point my head bobs forward, on the cusp of sleep.
Camel emerges an hour later, staggering, holding a flask in one hand and a roll-your-own in the other. His eyelids flutter at half-mast.
"This here's Earl," he slurs, sweeping an arm behind him. "He's gonna take care of ya."
A bald man steps down from the wagon. He is enormous, his neck thicker than his head. Blurred green tattoos run across his knuckles and up his hairy arms. He holds out his hand.
"How do you do," he says.
"How do you do," I say, perplexed. I swing around to Camel, who's zigzagging through the crispy grass in the general direction of the Flying Squadron. He's also singing. Badly.
Earl cups his hands around his mouth. "Shut it, Camel! Get yourself on that train before it leaves without you!"
Camel drops to his knees.
"Ah Jesus," says Earl. "Hang on. I'll be back in a minute."
He walks over and scoops the older man off the ground as easily as if he were a child. Camel lets his arms, legs, and head dangle over Earl's arms. He giggles and sighs.
Earl sets Camel on the edge of a car's doorway, consults with someone inside, and then returns.
"Stuff's gonna kill the old fellow," he mutters, marching straight past me. "If he don't rot out his guts, he'll roll off the goddamned train. Don't touch the stuff myself," he says, looking over his shoulder at me.
I'm rooted to the spot where he left me.
He looks surprised. "You coming, or what?"
WHEN THE FINAL SECTION of the train pulls out, I'm crouched under a bunk in a sleeping car wedged against another man. He is the rightful owner of the space but was persuaded to let me hang out for an hour or two for a price of my one dollar. He grumbles anyway, and I hug my knees to make myself as compact as possible.
The odor of unwashed bodies and clothes is overwhelming. The bunks, stacked three high, hold at least one and sometimes two men, as do the spaces beneath them. The fellow wedged in the floor space across from me punches a thin gray blanket, trying in vain to form a pillow.
A voice carries across the jumble of noise: "Ojcze nasz jest w niebie, sie imie Twoje, krolestwo Twoje--"
"Jesus Christ," my host says. He pokes his head into the aisle. "Speak in English, you fucking Polack!" Then he retreats back under the bunk, shaking his head. "Some of these guys. Right off the fucking boat."
"--i nie wodz na pokuszenie ale nas zbaw ode zlego. Amen."
I nestle against the wall and close my eyes. "Amen," I whisper.
The train lurches. The lights flicker for a moment and go out. From somewhere ahead of us a whistle screeches. We begin rolling forward and the lights come back on. I'm tired beyond words, and my head bumps unbuffered against the wall.
I wake some time later and find myself facing a pair of huge work boots.
"You ready then?"
I shake my head, trying to get my bearings.
I hear tendons creaking and snapping. Then I see a knee. Then Earl's face. "You still down there?" he says, peering under the bunk.
"Yeah. Sorry."
I shimmy out and struggle to my feet.
"Hallelujah," says my host, stretching out.
"Pierdolsi," I say.
A snort of laughter comes from a bunk a few feet away.
"Come on," says Earl. "Al's had enough to loosen him up but not enough to get mean. I figure this is your opportunity."
He leads me through two more sleeping cars. When we reach the platform at the end, we're facing the back of a different kind of car. Through its window I can see burnished wood and intricate light fixtures.
Earl turns to me. "You ready?"
"Sure," I say.
I am not. He grabs me by the scruff and smashes my face into the doorframe. With his other hand, he yanks open the sliding door and chucks me inside. I fall forward, my hands outstretched. I come to a stop against a brass rail and straighten up, looking back at Earl in shock. Then I see the rest of them.
"What is this?" says Uncle Al from the depths of a winged chair. He is seated at a table with three other men, twaddling a fat cigar between the finger and thumb of one hand and holding five fanned cards in the other. A snifter of brandy rests on the table in front of him. Just beyond it is a large pile of poker chips.
"Jumped the train, sir. Found him sneaking through a sleeper."
"Is that a fact?" says Uncle Al. He takes a leisurely drag from his cigar and sets it on the edge of a standing ashtray. He sits back, studying his cards and letting smoke waft from the corners of his mouth. "I'll see your three and raise you five," he says, leaning forward and flinging a stack of chips into the kitty.
"You want I should show him the door?" says Earl. He advances and lifts me from the floor by the lapels. I tense and close my fists around his wrists, intending to hang on if he tries to throw me again. I look from Uncle Al to the lower half of Earl's face--which is all I can see--and then back again.
Uncle Al folds his cards and sets them carefully on the table. "Not yet, Earl," he says. He reaches for the cigar and takes another drag. "Set him down."
Earl lowers me to the floor with my back to Uncle Al. He makes a halfhearted attempt to smooth my jacket.
"Step forward," says Uncle Al.
I oblige, happy enough to be out of Earl's reach.
"I don't believe I've had the pleasure," he says, blowing a smoke ring. "What's your name?"
"Jacob Jankowski, sir."
"And what, pray tell, does Jacob Jankowski think he is doing on my train?"
"I'm looking for work," I say.
Uncle Al continues to stare at me, blowing lazy smoke rings. He rests his hands on his belly, drumming a slow beat on his waistcoat.
"Ever worked on a show, Jacob?"
"No sir."
"Ever been to a show, Jacob?"
"Yes, sir. Of course."
"Which one?"
"Ringling Brothers," I say. A sharp intake of breath causes me to turn my head. Earl's eyes are wide in warning.
"But it was terrible. Just terrible," I add hastily, turning back to Uncle Al.
"Is that a fact," says Uncle Al.
"Yes, sir."
"And have you seen our show, Jacob?"
"Yes, sir," I say, feeling a blush spread across my cheeks.
"And what did you think of it?" he asks.
"It was . . . spectacular."
"What was your favorite act?"
I grasp wildly, pulling details out of the air. "The one with the black and white horses. And the girl in pink," I say. "With the sequins."
"You hear that, August? The boy likes your Marlena."
The man opposite Uncle Al rises and turns--he's the man from the menagerie tent, only now he's minus the top hat. His chiseled face is impassive, his dark hair shiny with pomade. He also has a moustache, but unlike Uncle Al's, his lasts only the length of his lip.
"So what exactly is it that you envision yourself doing?" asks Uncle Al. He leans forward and lifts a snifter from the table. He swirls its contents, and drains it in a single gulp. A waiter emerges from nowhere and refills it.
"I'll do just about anything. But if possibl
e I'd like to work with animals."
"Animals," he says. "Did you hear that, August? The lad wants to work with animals. You want to carry water for elephants, I suppose?"
Earl's brow creases. "But sir, we don't have any--"
"Shut up!" shrieks Uncle Al, leaping to his feet. His sleeve catches the snifter and knocks it to the carpet. He stares at it, his fists clenched and face growing darker and darker. Then he bares his teeth and screams a long, inhuman howl, bringing his foot down on the glass again and again and again.
There's a moment of stillness, broken only by the rhythmic clacking of ties passing beneath us. Then the waiter drops to the floor and starts scooping up glass.
Uncle Al takes a deep breath and turns to the window with his hands clasped behind him. When he eventually turns back to us, his face is once again pink. A smirk plays around the edges of his lips.
"I'm going to tell you how it is, Jacob Jankowski." He spits my name out like something distasteful. "I've seen your sort a thousand times. You think I can't read you like a book? So what's the deal--did you and Mommy have a fight? Or maybe you're just looking for a little adventure between semesters?"
"No, sir, it's nothing like that."
"I don't give a damn what it is--even if I gave you a job on the show, you wouldn't survive. Not for a week. Not for a day. The show is a well-oiled machine, and only the toughest make it. But then you wouldn't know anything about tough, would you, Mr. College Boy?"
He glares at me as though challenging me to speak. "Now piss off," he says, waving me away. "Earl, show him the door. Wait until you actually see a red light before chucking him off--I don't want to catch any heat for hurting Mommy's widdle baby."
"Hang on a moment, Al," says August. He's smirking, clearly amused. "Is he right? Are you a college boy?"
I feel like a mouse being bounced between cats. "I was."
"And what did you study? Something in the fine arts, perhaps?" His eyes gleam in mockery. "Romanian folk dancing? Aristotelian literary criticism? Or perhaps--Mr. Jankowski--you completed a performance degree on the accordion?"
"I studied veterinary sciences."
His mien changes instantly, utterly. "Vet school? You're a vet?"
"Not exactly."
"What do you mean, 'not exactly'?"
"I never wrote my final exams."
"Why not?"
"I just didn't."
"And those final exams, those were in your final year?"
"Yes."