by Cole Alpaugh
Bears might be fat, but dogs were stupid.
And now, during this long leg of the circus’s journey to Atlantic City, Gracie had the runs. She shifted her back legs, careful not to disturb the fly on her tongue, watching the truck behind her through the bars of her cage. The old lion and bad-tempered tiger rode on the back of that one, one cage stacked on top of the other. If their cages were next to each other, the cats would fight and complain the whole way.
The Pisani Brothers Circus caravan made a sweeping right turn up the slight hill of an entrance ramp—animals and people sliding a little to the left—and engines were gunned to speed up on the new stretch of highway. Speeding up was a relative term for a line of decrepit circus trucks, since they really could only manage about half the speed limit.
The five container trucks wore exquisite American graffiti, acquired from artisans in towns called Sopchoppy, Monkey’s Eyebrow, and even Shoulderblade, Kentucky.
“Suck my Monkey’s Eyebrow,” read the side of one truck.
Two flatbed eighteen-wheelers carried the rides and animals on their oxidizing backs, followed by a dozen other pickups and passenger cars, all of which would have looked right at home at a demolition derby. The procession crawled across the flatlands of South Jersey on the AC Expressway, blatting a choking blue smoke from leaky engine blocks, a frustrating bulwark to silver-haired card-sharks and all-you-can-eat aficionados.
And then it was apparently time to swap positions in a game of follow the leader; the lion-and-tiger truck driver pulled into the passing lane and began to slowly overtake Gracie’s truck. The car drivers weren’t the least bit happy about this new development and were all horns and flashing lights in the passing lane’s growing line. The cranky tiger in the top cage arose from his bedding and did circles of his own, agitated by the ruckus below.
As the passing truck was side-by-side with Gracie’s, she turned her yellow eyes toward a driver who had brought his shiny car to within a foot of the rusting back bumper of the tiger truck. Even with her not-so-great eyesight, Gracie could tell the driver was spitting mad and wanting to get past the truck right at that instant. The driver, who to Gracie seemed an awful lot like the tiger up above, had opened his window to bark insults. Gracie did not understand human language much, but sometimes you got the gist.
The tiger did understand, roaring back a snarling reply.
Not satisfied with mere words, the tiger backed its ass against the rear of its cage, and Gracie nearly smiled, despite her rueful tummy. She knew what the tiger was up to, had seen the long, sleek muscles extending and then contracting under its coat. The tiger shimmied one last time, arched its back, and then let go a thick, almost orange stream of urine. The pee was caught by the wind, turned into fine droplets by turbulence, and sprayed down onto the windshield of the tailgating car.
The driver tried rolling up his window with one hand, while reaching for the wiper switch with the other. The man’s car swerved, and its right front bumper thumped Gracie’s truck hard enough to startle her, even though she’d been watching all along.
In the commotion, Gracie accidentally swallowed the fly who’d been dozing on her tongue. She felt a frenzied buzz and queer tickle in her throat, but it was too late for the fly. Its death made her sad. But that’s how it was with a traveling circus, even for a fly hitching a ride. You’re going along all peaceful and fine, getting comfortable with your day, and maybe bravely considering the prospects of tomorrow.
Then something swallowed you whole.
Chapter 7
On the fourteenth floor of Atlantic City’s once luxurious Lucky Dollar Hotel and Casino, Acapulco de la Madrid Cordero coiled the long vacuum cleaner cord with hands and fingers gnarled from arthritis. The ancient, threadbare carpet was as clean as it was going to get, and the hunchbacked Mexican wanted off this evil floor as quickly as possible. The owners might fool guests into believing this was the fourteenth floor, but Acapulco knew better. Eleven, twelve, and then fourteen? ¡Eso ni pensarlo!
And he could feel what lurked in the closets and shadows of these rooms and halls. Just two weeks ago, he’d observed the ambulance workers remove an 87-year-old man from room 1412 on a stretcher, zipped up tight in a body bag. Acapulco had watched the pretty newsperson on television, later that night, following along well enough to understand police blamed a bad heart. But Acapulco had no doubt what had made the man’s heart stop working. It was surely the work of el Diablo.
Acapulco had come to America with a small group of neighbors from towns around Chihuahua, crossing the Rio Grande into Texas, following the directions from relatives and friends already employed in Atlantic City. Despite the long hours of pushing brooms and vacuums and emptying endless trash bins, he thought this work was wonderful because it wasn’t out in the sun. Acapulco felt blessed not to be hunched over bean plants, trying to grasp and twist frijoles all day long with his afflicted hands, the blazing sun making him feel like a forgotten tortilla on the back corner of a griddle.
Acapulco didn’t need to be told to be invisible while going about his job. Being invisible was instinctive among the older Mexicans who came to work in Atlantic City with no papers, hoping to make enough money for their own food and then to send American dollars back home for their families to spend at la tienda de comestibles.
What these rich Americans did with their money shocked Acapulco during his first days at the hotel and casino. It was physically painful for him to watch the elderly gringos with papery, translucent skin sitting on high bar stools, coveting big cups filled to the brim with shiny coins. They’d sit for hours, feeding coin after coin into what he saw as the hungry mouths of fancy slot machines. But Acapulco would always share in the elation of the winners, first being startled by the bells and flashing lights, then smiling warmly and compassionately at the person who’d just gotten their money back from the evil, money-gulping contraption. Acapulco would absorb as much of the radiating good fortune as he could before disappearing back into his invisible labor. His wallet was empty, but his heart was rich.
Acapulco and his fellow Mexicans never resented the well-to-do white people who came to risk their money in these machines. They understood the draw of la loteria, although the coin cups these wealthy people started out with would have made fabulous jackpots in Acapulco’s hometown. Acapulco would even light candles to honor the ones who died from staying on the fourteenth floor. There were no poor people in heaven, and they’d all meet again someday. All were God’s children, even if some spent their last years in musty maroon jackets with crooked name tags, hunting cigarette butts and polishing elevator buttons.
From the long hallway’s one small window, Acapulco had a bird’s-eye view of the caravan of colorful trucks making the sharp turn into the Lucky Dollar’s expansive parking lot. He lingered in this spot much longer than he normally would, there in the company of el Diablo, watching el circo bump over the curb in search of a place to park. He dangled the long cord from the handle, then stepped back into the shadows as what he first thought was a fat, naked white man rushed past him with one of the hotel ice buckets. Acapulco could hear the robot-like sound of the dollar bills being eaten by the vending machine next to the elevator, the metallic thuds of candy bars and rustle of chip bags.
The man, who Acapulco now saw was wearing small white underpants, collided with his vacuum cleaner as he hurried back down the hall, letting out a frightened, high-pitched cry. He looked directly at Acapulco but didn’t appear to see him, just frantically searched the shadows for anything that might wish to hurt him. His eyes were bulging, filled with fear that Acapulco understood all too well. The man lunged clumsily away from the old vacuum, nearly toppling it, ice bucket clutched to his chest like a baby. Acapulco knew what it was like to be in a strange place, surrounded by things wanting to get their hands on you and drag you down into terrible places. He was certain this man felt el Diablo in many places besides this hallway. He was sorry for him, and even said a quiet prayer.
* * *
Two old, stooped men climbed out of the first circus truck in the Lucky Dollar Hotel and Casino parking lot, began directing traffic and barking orders. Brothers Enzo and Donato Pisani were nearly eighty years old, bitching and cussing their flaring arthritis after too many hours without stretching. Each had suffered dozens of broken bones in pursuit of their dangerous trade and had developed skin tougher and more leathery than Alligator Woman. Both had, at one time or another, donned wigs and lipstick to fill in for the World’s Ugliest Woman. A buck was a buck, after all, and pride was the last vestige of the weak man. The Pisanis were both tough old goats, although their hearing was good enough to register most of the other names they were regularly called.
While the Pisanis gestured like over-the-hill traffic cops, the mechanics checked a pencil diagram for where the rides were to be erected. The animals were parked in shade, as long rolls of hoses were unwound, and an outside faucet was tapped to get the panting beasts cooled down. All were drills that had been repeated a thousand times before, always with the same snarling old man voices competing with the cage-weary animals and rattling of hundreds of feet of unassembled tent poles and fencing.
The two main tents—each with three sets of collapsible bleachers facing inward to create a perimeter for the performers—would take half a day to erect on the sweltering black pavement. Work on a dozen or so smaller tents, for games and other sideshows, would be tackled last.
The mechanics bolted together the kiddy rides, which included a mini-coaster, train, merry-go-round, motorcycles, trucks, and spinning swings. The work was rushed in order to be done in time for the city inspector to stop by for the usual bribe.
The sideshow tent occupants, billed as The Freaks of Nature, varied over time. Attractions such as The Fattest Man Alive tended to have heart attacks more often. Even The World’s Strongest Men were occasionally beaten beyond recognition by drunken challengers. Pinhead would get an infection that wouldn’t go away, Albino Man would fall asleep in the sun, and Alligator Woman would find a miracle cream.
But then there was the core of the circus. Acts such as The World’s Ugliest Woman, who would never run off with a boyfriend, and The Flat Man, with his debilitating phobia of being more than an inch or so from solid ground. These people were more or less the soul of the circus, acts the Pisanis wouldn’t have to replace any time soon. The juggler and the clown could always leave to work children’s parties, like a journalist could always leave the front lines of a war. Employment options were few and far between if you had part of a congenital twin riding shotgun on your hip. And once a Freak of Nature found a home where their ailment made them ordinary—and no remedy would ever be found—they became a permanent member of the Pisani family.
The Human Cannonball and the lovely little contortionist named Amira arranged makeup trays and hung costumes from hooks in the ceilings of trailers. They made sure their stands, special lights, and cannon were unloaded safely. The surly woman in charge of games made certain there were ample balloons and red star targets for the pellet guns and that the supply of Taiwan-made stuffed animals had not all split their seams. Ropes were pulled and poles were hoisted, and the hot-top parking lot became a bustling community. It was a family routine, repeated in town after town and state after state.
Slim Weatherwax let his stiff-legged dancing bear out of her cage to stretch and poop, while the cat trainer tried to get his animals to swallow bits of liverwurst with heart pills wrapped inside.
“You people must have brains as good as new, bein’ that you never seem to use ’em!” Enzo Pisani hollered at everyone within earshot. “Where the hell’s Slim? Slim, come get your goddamn bear’s nose outta my crotch ’fore I get my shotgun!”
Chapter 8
“The first piece of shit who gets caught with a fourteen-year-old local gets strung up by the balls from this rope.” Enzo Pisani dropped a thin coil of nylon rope at his feet. The brothers had called the usual pre-opening meeting in the bleachers of one of the main tents. “Bugger their wives and grannies all the goddamn much you want, but I’ll rip the nuts off the next one of you who messes with a kid. Understood?”
Pinhead, named for hundreds of scalp and face piercings—several were always infected—held up his hand, but the surrounding freaks elbowed him and nudged his piercings, so he put it back down. His wisecrack about whether hand jobs should be considered sex had sent both old Pisanis right over the edge last time.
“I want zero trouble from the law,” Donato Pisani said. “No fights, no boozing, and if anyone gets in trouble outside this parking lot, you better pray to God I don’t find out you told them you worked for us. Got that?”
There was enough general mumbling for Enzo to continue. “We open at three tomorrow with games and rides, right after the little shits get outta school. Performers who don’t need makeup will take first shift on games, while you barkers are on shit patrol until it gets dark. Enrique’s cannon goes off at eight, followed by the main events. I know you ain’t got any questions, so get the fuck outta here and finish settin’ up.”
“Hold up!” Donato shouted, and the barkers and ticket sellers who’d already made it out of the tent stuck their heads back in to hear the old man, lit cigarette hanging from his lips. “This is a good gig we got here, people. This one could be gold if some dumbass doesn’t screw it up. We got a permit for two weeks, and there’s word ’bout another circus on hard times down in Delaware lookin’ to sell two Africans.”
“We gettin’ slaves, boss?” asked one of the two mechanics.
“African Elephants, you fuckwit,” Enzo shouted. “And you know what that means?”
The barkers who had afternoon shit patrol cringed.
“Means we could be in the big time soon,” Donato answered. “Means we triple the head count and make some real money.
“Now get the fuck outta here!” ordered Enzo, and they did.
Chapter 9
Billy Wayne had even less experience with guns than he did with women. He’d never touched a gun, or even seen a real one other than the game warden’s and those strapped in police holsters. But just like with women, it turned out that anyone could possess a gun with the right amount of cash.
Convenience was also something money could buy. An extra eighty dollars bought him the privilege of shopping in the back room of a pawn shop, where “preferred” customers could make purchases without the hassle of paperwork.
It took Billy Wayne almost an hour and a half to find the Parkway and then the Expressway, crossing the long marshy flats into Atlantic City. There was something magical about the place. Not so much the tenements and abandoned cars, but all the names were the same as on the Monopoly board in his bedroom back home. He sometimes played for hours against himself, since the game had too many small pieces for his mother’s sausage-like fingers to manipulate, and the game board didn’t fit right on her TV tray. Billy Wayne built houses and hotels, owned railroads, and forced himself to pay to get out of jail. He sometimes wondered if Betty Katz liked Monopoly and maybe would have played with him.
Steering with his left knee, Billy Wayne reread the directions written in the squiggly, drunken script of the game warden, as he guided his Dart down busy Atlantic Avenue searching for the U Pawn-It Store sign. He certainly didn’t expect to see so many black people. Billy Wayne was nervous around black people, especially those who sounded like they might be from Haiti. There were more Haitians living near his mother’s house than all the other foreigners combined, and Billy Wayne didn’t trust them one bit. It was the tone of voice from the women who waited for their laundry to tumble dry. They sat with their hair wrapped in dingy cloth, smoking harsh-smelling, unfiltered cigarettes, and eyeing him like he was a suspicious piece of meat. Billy Wayne’s mother had told him about voodoo and how these women might decide to snatch some of your hair and make a little doll with it,
if they caught you looking at them. Once the doll was made, they’d stick pins in your eyes and twist your legs all the way around—whatever they wanted. Billy Wayne walked past them as fast as he could, his hands cupping his eyes as if he were trying to see through a dark window. The women had laughed at him, but they’d never gotten any of his hair.
He also didn’t expect all the Mexicans and circus people at the hotel he checked into—him and his shiny Smith & Wesson .38 Special, a box of bullets stuffed inside his Samsonite. The Lucky Dollar Casino had a weekly room rate of $125, which gave Billy Wayne plenty of time to unearth some disciples and begin his new life.
Now he was packing heat and feeling wonderfully safe, a swagger in his step for the first time. No more panicky fast walking for Billy Wayne Hooduk. The feelings associated with becoming a gun owner were both surprising and edifying. Billy Wayne feared nothing, despite the exotic salsa music and strange cooking smells seeping out from behind the doors as he hunted for room 1427. Having such stored power at his finger tips—should he unlatch his suitcase and load his gun—heightened his senses, lengthened his stride. He was James Bond. He was Superman.
The carpet underfoot was so worn it had no real color remaining, and half the lights in the hallway were dark. The gold-and-white-flowered wallpaper was frayed and peeling near the sconces, giving Billy Wayne the impression of an old wild west saloon, upstairs where the loose women serviced cowboys, like in the movies. All the muffled Spanish swearing gave it a Tex-Mex aura, like a saloon at the Alamo, Billy Wayne fancied. He was Davy Crockett, or maybe Sam Bowie … no, he was Billy the Kid!
Texas or Atlantic City, this was the farthest Billy Wayne had ever been from home. The farthest he’d been from his mother. And as he turned the room key and stepped inside, some of Billy Wayne’s exaltation shrank a little, drained away by the sight of the small, boxy, steaming-hot room.