by Cole Alpaugh
He unpacked his Samsonite—filling one drawer with his four good shirts and two pairs of slacks—and cranked the dial on the air conditioner to high. He wrapped his new gun and bullets in a towel from the bathroom, then tucked them back into the suitcase. Then, worried the maid would hunt for the missing towel, he unwrapped the gun and bullets and stood at the foot of the bed, turning in a slow circle, holding the gun as if ready to blast away.
Billy Wayne dropped to his knees and shoved the gun between the mattress and box spring, as far as he could reach.
Satisfied, he stood and carefully removed his dark blue suit jacket, the back and armpits sweat-soaked, and used a wooden hanger to hang it in the narrow closet. He unbuttoned his best shirt and folded it on the bathroom counter, with plans to rinse it out later. He draped his pants over a chair next to the bed, then flicked on the television and stood scratching his testicles through his white underpants. The tube warmed up and showed a snowy Phillies baseball game.
Not able to follow the action and not really liking baseball anyway, Billy Wayne sat at the foot of the bed and flipped through his book.
Step number thirteen in How to Become a Cult Leader in 50 Easy Steps: “Always be alert for opportunities to display your eminence. Put out a small fire, deliver a baby, or stop a purse snatching. Purchase a container of pepper spray and a small fire extinguisher and consider a midwifery course at your local health clinic or community college.”
He was sure he’d never be able to deliver a baby without passing out or throwing up and was afraid that if he started a fire, it might get out of control and he wouldn’t be able to put it out. He’d gone through a bit of a fire-starting stage as a teenager and didn’t want to risk tapping those old compulsions. Having the gun was already a better rush than setting things on fire, even without shooting at something.
Stopping a crime sounded intriguing and much more likely now that he owned the weapon. Billy Wayne fantasized about walking into a bank during a holdup. The lone masked robber would have forced everyone to the floor, waving his own puny gun, much smaller than Billy Wayne’s. When the robber demanded Billy Wayne get down, he would just stand there, glaring, refusing to obey. He’d show off a deadly, quiet strength, just like when his dad had kicked him and his mom out. Instead of cowering on the floor with all the others, Billy Wayne would reach into his holster, pull out his .38, and take aim.
“Go ahead,” Billy Wayne would whisper harshly, “make my day.”
And every person in the bank would love Billy Wayne Hooduk. He would be an instant hero, bigger than a movie star. His picture would be on the front page of all the newspapers. He would use the reward money for a down payment on a secluded cabin out in the Pinelands, where people would beg to come and stay, just to be in Billy Wayne’s presence and listen to his preaching, whatever that might be. He made a note to start trying to fill out that section of his book, since his time was getting closer and closer. Ascension, was what his book called it.
The empty ice bucket in the bathroom reminded Billy Wayne of the humming machines next to the elevator. He grabbed the brown plastic bucket and leaned back into the closet to rummage for change and dollar bills in his pockets, snatched the key off the dresser top, and headed for the door. Billy Wayne paused, looking down over his pale round belly toward his dingy briefs, then back across the room to where his pants were draped over a chair. He decided it wasn’t worth the trouble; the elevator wasn’t that far. He pulled open the door, ice bucket held like a football, and scurried toward the vending machines.
The ice dispenser was unplugged; a note had been torn from over the bucket cradle with only the top left corner and a piece of tape remaining. All six little lights glowed red to indicate the Coke machine was also empty. Billy Wayne went to work at the snack machine, feeding dollar bills and pressing buttons for three Snickers bars, two small bags of Doritos, and chocolate covered pretzels. Carefully packing them in the ice bucket, he turned to hurry back to his room but stumbled on an upright vacuum cleaner abandoned in the hallway, its cord a long gray snake coiled, dangling from the handle. Billy Wayne searched the deep shadows all around, almost expecting something terrible to step out and reach for him. Then he scampered barefoot toward his room, ice bucket clutched to his chest. The muffled music was louder and food smells more pungent than earlier; they seemed to close in on him. His hands were shaking as he fumbled to get the key into the lock and wondered why he hadn’t thought to bring his gun.
But the food made him feel better, and his thumping heart slowed back down with each bite. Chocolate worked like a medicine, his mother had told him, although he couldn’t remember exactly what it did. In the bathroom he drank two glasses of water, went back and swept crumbs from the bedspread and plopped down.
Room 1427 was clean enough, but everything was threadbare, and every sharp edge looked as if it had been gnawed on. Billy Wayne stooped forward to twist the volume all the way down on the television. Dropping the book to his side, he collapsed back on the orange bedspread, letting the cold air drift over his body, imagining these rooms filled with lost souls just waiting for someone to love and adore. They were waiting for someone like him.
The ceiling was a rough popcorn texture with flecks of glitter, now yellow from cigarette smoke. Tiny cobwebs drifted back and forth in the moving air. If you squinted, the ceiling became a moonscape, or what sand looked like after a rainstorm.
Above the hum of the air conditioner, Billy Wayne heard a new noise coming from outside his window, a familiar music from his recent stops along the various boardwalks. The whistling calliope notes rose and fell, their dancing melody both childish and hopeful. The sound always reminded him of old cartoons his mother didn’t approve of and the ice cream truck his mother would never let him run out to meet. Listening to the calliope was like listening in on someone else’s childhood, and it made Billy Wayne’s bloodshot eyes fill with salty, self-pitying tears that formed dark spots on the orange spread.
Billy Wayne was suddenly a depressed and uncertain God. He was a pasty, overweight God, with thinning hair and itchy balls.
“But I am still God,” Billy told the wafting cobwebs. His voice was wavering and unconvincing. It was a good thing he was feeling too fat and tired to get up and reach under the mattress to load his new gun.
The calliope sang him to sleep.
Chapter 10
Enrique the Human Cannonball stood naked in front of the full-length mirror in his cramped trailer. He sucked in his paunch and flexed his small round biceps, striking a series of poses that allowed him to admire his physique as well as stretch his muscles prior to performing. His gray chest and pubic hair were a stark contrast to the artificially deep black hair on his head and lip. He reached for his nose clippers and mustache comb, pulling a bare bulb lamp close to make a few snips and adjustments.
“Enrique is a beautiful man!” He stepped back and then glanced at the clock. Seven minutes to showtime.
Enrique knew that the danger of being a human cannonball wasn’t in being blown up, since the only gunpowder used was for theatrics. Shooting a person from an authentic cannon would result in almost certain death, what with an explosion big enough to fire a two hundred pound projectile. It would, at the very least, blow the legs off the person involved. The propellant was compressed air under the platform where the performer stood. The platform inside the cannon was blasted forward by releasing the air, which was compressed at about two-hundred pounds per square inch. The platform stopped at the mouth of the cannon; the human cannonball did not.
Even with the much less dangerous compressed air cannons, roughly half of all the big name human cannonballs had been killed plying their trade. The most common accident occurred from either missing the net, or hitting the net and bouncing back out for a high-impact landing. And despite how nets had improved over the years, increasingly elaborate cannons were sending performers farther and farther. Some of the top acts flew more than sixty yards. At that distance, the mar
gin of error shrank, especially on windy days.
Enrique wasn’t concerned about the wind as he stepped into one leg of his spandex uniform. One leg was red and the other blue, matching the stripes on the fifteen-foot tall cannon. Wearing no underwear accentuated his manhood—a tip from his papa. A large white letter E was emblazoned on his barrel chest, and a shiny red cape, reminiscent of Superman, trailed behind.
Enrique pulled on the thin leather helmet he’d painted bright blue and adjusted the chinstrap. The helmet wasn’t meant to protect his brain from impact, but rather to protect his hair from being ripped out when he crashed into the rope netting, seventy feet from the release point. A deep pull from a pint bottle of Kentucky bourbon, and he strode through his trailer door and out into the New Jersey evening to the scattered chants of, “Enrique, Enrique …” Now this is already Heaven, he thought, smiling broadly.
A barker known as Sir William, done with shit cleaning duty, was stirring up the crowd of a hundred or so onlookers for this free show, clapping steadily and chanting, “Enrique, Enrique, Enrique …” The human cannonball show was a last noisy draw to get customers into the main event tents. There were two medium-size tents because one large tent couldn’t be safely tethered in most parking lots. Plus, one big tent was nearly five times the price of two middle-sized ones. Enzo and Donato also emerged from their trailers, scanned the crowd, and gestured impatiently for Enrique to hurry the hell up.
Enrique waved to the crowd in the shadowy parking lot with genuine appreciation and climbed the ladder up the side of the cannon with flare and gusto. He loved the showmanship, the over-the-top dramatics. Enrique was Elvis at that moment. He was Liberace and Evil Knievel rolled into one glorious, red-caped package. He had been born a performer, and being the center of attention was what he lived for, what he would proudly die for. The spotlight was never boring, and being adored for his bravery could never be tedious, even after ten thousand shows. He dropped feet first into the dark, round opening, elbows supporting him to blow some final kisses to the families who were caught up in the show and were now all chanting his name and clapping, ensnared by the spectacle.
Enrique waved a last wave, then pulled both arms in at his sides and allowed his body to slowly slip down the steep, seventy-five degree angle, to the platform below.
Inside the cannon sounds became a hollow echo, as though he was underwater. Enrique recognized the squeaky hinge of the toolbox holding the road flares, as Sir William began the ignition process. He heard the barker strike the flare to life, could hear the hiss of the flame and smell the rotten egg stench of the smoke as the crowd screamed and cheered, fully captivated. Enrique smiled, knowing this was going to be spectacular. Sir William called out, “Ten!”
Thick white smoke reflected the red fire overhead as Sir Williams counted, “Nine … eight … seven …” and Enrique listened for the sound of the flare sparking the comically fat fuse. It caught with a crackling flourish and raced toward the base of the cannon, purposely setting off a stash of small bottle rockets that were sent whisking out in an arc over the parking lot.
“Six,” counted down the barker. “Five … four …”
Enrique reached up with his right hand and crossed himself.
* * *
Acapulco de la Madrid Cordero stood next to a sparkling clean second floor window of the Lucky Dollar Hotel and Casino, damp rag in one hand, a bottle of Windex in the other. The window, directly overlooking the ruckus below, was nearly struck by one of the darting bottle rockets. Acapulco pushed the window open a few inches to allow sounds into the silent hallway. The smell was wonderful, like fresh hay and warm cotton candy. The man who had climbed into the mouth of the cannon would have made a fine Mexican wrestler, Acapulco thought.
The last two bottle rockets set off in the parking lot to the right of the cannon exploded over the heads of a flock of seagulls that had surrounded an overflowing dumpster. Acapulco watched the flock rise in unison, squawking and complaining, heading east toward the ocean where they could safely circle over the water until the coast was clear.
Not two seconds into their escape attempt came another, much bigger explosion directly in their path. The flock scattered as one of the humans suddenly took flight. This human was a flash of blue and red, with just one big red wing trailing behind. Much of the flock was able to avoid the flying human, but several took a direct hit, themselves exploding into big white and gray puffs of feathers.
The crowd seemed to marvel at this part of the show and began to clap and cheer even harder. How many of them had ever witnessed a human cannonball, let alone the part where the performer blasted his way through a flock of exploding birds? It was certainly new to Acapulco, although he also sensed something might have gone wrong.
The human cannonball was tumbling in midair over the parking lot, waving his arms wildly, getting them tangled in his cape. Pin-wheeling and tumbling were not terribly aerodynamic, Acapulco guessed, which probably contributed to the human cannonball’s failure to reach his net.
Two old men dropped to the pavement just as the human cannonball passed over their heads. The man in the funny blue helmet bounced once and slammed into the tiger cage.
Both old men looked relieved not to immediately find anything that seemed seriously damaged, as they patted their bodies, each lifting to one elbow. Not as comforting, perhaps, was the angry roar that came from directly behind where they lay. The roar silenced the screaming crowd. The onlookers wanted to believe it was all part of the show, that a brave tiger tamer was waiting in the wings, about to crack his long whip as he haughtily marched out over the exploded prop birds and cringing old men.
This was a show!
No whips or wooden chairs in its face, the tiger let out what might have been the greatest roar of its life, letting every beast within earshot know he was king of this paved jungle. The tiny gray hairs on the back of Acapulco’s neck stood at attention. He crossed himself with the hand holding the bottle of Windex.
The tiger dropped to his haunches, zeroing in on the two feeble humans directly in front of him. His jaw slowly dropped open and saliva seeped forth in the form of two thin strands glistening in the spotlight. The tiger’s ears turned forward and twitched; one paw reached in slow motion, followed by the other. It prepared for the kill.
The two old men craned wrinkled necks to look over their shoulders; then both instantly looked away, as if bracing for impact. The tiger leaped forward as if jolted by electricity, pouncing on their bodies simultaneously, crushing them so fast that neither could muster one last pathetic scream.
The tiger looked impossibly heavy, and bit and bit, and both men were surely dead before the single shot rang out and stopped all the biting. The sounds of tearing flesh and splintering bones were replaced by the screams and pounding steps of retreating circus goers as they ran away from the gory scene in the parking lot—the dead tiger, the two mangled corpses, and the crumpled human cannonball.
The fat man who had nearly trampled Acapulco’s vacuum cleaner up on the fourteenth floor earlier was the only live person not running away. He was boldly stepping forward, still holding what looked to be a .38 Special out in front of him, pointing it at the dead tiger. Like frightened animals after the danger has passed, people began to pop up from dark corners, behind tent flaps, and from around the sides of trucks.
The gunman strode confidently up to his kill and nudged the flaccid beast with the toe of his right shoe. The bullet had pierced the old tiger’s pelt just behind the shoulder, entering its chest cavity and creating a large red bloom on the fur over its heart. The gunman looked up and greeted the cowering circus folk with his best, most friendly and all-knowing smile, as they emerged, hollow-eyed, like zombies from the grave.
“My name is Reverend Billy Wayne,” he said in his best, most God-like voice. “I am God and you have all been saved.”
Acapulco shuffled on to the next window and pointed the bottle of Windex.
Chapter 11
Step number eighteen in How to Become a Cult Leader in 50 Easy Steps: “Always act as if you know exactly what you are doing. The more precarious the situation, the more stone-cold absolute you must be in handling the predicament. Ambivalence breeds contempt; confidence is king!”
Billy Wayne Hooduk puffed out his chest, feeling the slight breeze tickle the few hairs not sweat-pasted to his scalp. If his mother could see him in his shining moment, she’d be reminded of the statuesque men adorning the covers of the romance novels she occasionally read in binges. The idea of ripping open his shirt danced through his mind on wings of adrenaline, and he would have done it if not for the seventy pounds of dimpled fat clinging to him from the neck down, chapter on Successfat or not.
Billy Wayne’s first pronouncement was a simple nine words completing the chain of events triggered by the cannon blast. He stood at the edge of the spotlights shining toward Enrique’s missed net, then took a casual sideways step into their full brightness. “I am God and you have all been saved.”
After the police had finished interviewing enough people to confirm it had all been a tragic accident, they had given them a perfectly clear and unmistakable order: “Pull up stakes and get the fuck out of our town.”
Billy Wayne re-emerged from the rear entrance of the Lucky Dollar Casino with his Samsonite in one hand and his guidebook in the other. He strode up to the lead truck’s passenger door and climbed in as if he owned it, leaving his Dodge Dart behind like a rusty, unwanted toy. He relished the idea that he now had the power to send someone to collect it later. Billy Wayne made his second declaration from high atop the black pavement of the parking lot: “We turn left.”