by Cole Alpaugh
“We’re gonna get you all fixed up.” She smiled down an impossibly wide, camel-like grin that stretched from ear to ear. “You boys always gettin’ into somethin’.”
“I fell down.”
“Yeah, everybody falls down.” She struggled for breath as the deer path leveled off. “The trick is to keep gettin’ up, boy.”
The old woman delivered Bagg, white as a ghost from pain and blood loss, to the small cabin his parents shared with another family of three. She slipped away for a few minutes and then returned with a squeeze bottle of dish soap, some rags, and her sewing kit.
On Fish Head Island, the people around the fire pit had been dirty because people who worked hard got dirty. And if you didn’t have good showers, you stayed mostly dirty. One or two had cancer, which would shorten their lives considerably.
The man on Bagg’s left tapped his shoulder and passed him a grease-smeared bottle. Bagg held it up to the yellow, licking flames and caught a glimpse of the scar on the back of his right hand. The first small sip from the dirty bottle carried the aroma of paint thinner but wasn’t so bad going down. He took one more sip and passed it on.
Bagg sat in the light of the fire, now absently rubbing both sides of his scarred hand, feeling a bit of comfort from the storm.
Chapter 32
Sir William, the barker who had been in charge of riling up the early arrivals and igniting Enrique’s cannon fuse, was assigned the task of sending volleys of fireworks out over the inlet every evening to announce that the show was about to go on. Sir William was an anomaly among most circus folk, since he was nearly sixty and looked no more than forty. He was handsome—as long as you didn’t get too close—with most of his thick head of blond hair hidden under a U.S. Calvary hat he was never seen without.
Sir William had bolted metal pipes to stakes, loose enough to adjust firing height with a quick turn of the wrist. Six pipes were permanently set up near the water, giving him a clear shot at any low flying aircraft and passing boats. To anyone within a few hundred yards at dusk, it was obvious that something was taking place on the patch of ground along the inlet, especially when colorful flaming balls skimmed across your deck and you spied a smiling and waving man in an odd hat standing next to smoking launchers in the distance.
Strands of lights were switched on as the sun dropped behind the marsh. The music was cranked loud, competing with the metallic clack of the mini-coaster and truck ride. The main event was a forty minute show of non-stop action. Sir William gave the first clown the go-ahead signal when the last customers were settled into the bleachers. The lights went down for a ten count then came up with two spotlights trained on a sad face clown in the center of the ring. Sneaking up from behind was a smiling clown, who stole the other clown’s big red nose and took off running. The sad clown tried chasing after the other, but his enormous feet kept tangling and he would fall hard again and again. He resorted to throwing buckets of silver confetti and firing a marshmallow gun, always missing, hitting surprised adults and laughing children. The clown chase continued under the bleachers and down the narrow aisles, and bumping across spectator’s knees. It raised the energy level for the entrance of the zonkey-riding dog and some noisy chainsaw juggling. The slightly arthritic lion taming was followed by the bear act.
Graceful Gracie entered from the shadows and danced in wide circles, her pink tutu bright and shiny under the lights. She would then drop to all fours, stopping to beg a taste of cotton candy by rolling over and playing dead in front of the bleachers, sometimes catching peanuts in her mouth. Slim often joined her for a dance, doing the tango or the box step, depending on how much he’d had to drink.
Sir William signaled to the roustabout at the light controls to drop the blue gel over the spotlight and then jogged out to the center of the ring. “Ladies and gentlemen of all ages, I present to you a beautiful, mysterious and titillating talent from lands far away. The alluring gyrations of Miss Amira Anne!” Exotic music washed over the crowd as camera flashes worked a strobe-like effect on her delicate contorting. Men craned forward in their seats, and women seemed unsure whether to hate the tiny spectacle or be envious.
The chasing clowns returned with their frantic pursuit, as tiny Amira bowed and exited. Rising from the middle of one bleacher was a man in a police costume, oversized gold star pinned to his chest, who drew a sword from the sheath on his hip and bounded down to restrain the clowns. Cowering under the glare of the shining blade, the smiling clown returned the red nose to its rightful owner and the hero cop celebrated the justice he’d delivered by tilting up his chin and swallowing the long narrow sword. After withdrawing it slowly, he bowed to the cheering crowd and skipped out of the spotlight.
The lion was tamed and the tight wire was tumbled across, then all the performers returned for two laps around the center ring, including most of the Freaks of Nature who’d come to join the procession from their own tents. Graceful Gracie was usually the last to exit the encore, scouring the dirt floor for any remaining peanuts.
* * *
The summer rolled on. When Gracie wasn’t performing, she was usually off doing surprisingly cub-like things. The old bear chased the noisy gulls and sometimes snuck up on workers napping in shady spots, pouncing and play-growling, gumming their soft spots in pretend death-grips.
When Gracie tired of digging up agonizingly delicious smells buried deep in the muck and had suffered enough pinches from the tasty crabs scooped out of the canal, her attention turned to the snoring prey huddled among partially repaired machines.
And there was nothing quite like the surprise attack of a snarling black bear, even one missing all forty-two teeth, to urge a person back to work. Waking up with several hundred mud-encrusted, reeking pounds on top of you—your neck suffering a hickey of epic proportions—pushed the limits on what was tolerable.
“Slim, get yer friggin’ mutt bear offa me!”
Gracie knew this was human speak for “I give up!” She’d let go of whatever soft spot she’d latched onto and give the ex-prey an affectionate kiss from chin to forehead, lest there be any hard feelings. And, heck, they were probably going to play the same game again tomorrow.
Gracie watched the cars rumble over the Fish Head Island bridge every afternoon but knew to keep her distance. Her good man had warned her that the people in those cars were not to be played with unless she was on a leash or it was during a show. Soon after the cars began arriving, the music from the kiddy rides was switched on and Gracie couldn’t help but dance wherever she had been exploring. The tent flaps for the noisy games and the Freaks of Nature were tied up shortly after. Gracie danced in two main event shows on some days and two extras on nights when the lots were overflowing with cars. She could sense how much people loved her circus, the happy screams and all the wonderful laughter.
And it was nice to stroll along the bay in the evening without all the usual biting insects, for sure.
Gracie and the other animals were in better spirits than they’d been in years. Instead of being packed up in their cages every week or so and jostled across steaming highways with choking exhaust and no chance to stretch their legs, they enjoyed the softness of the marsh grass and all the room to roam—more than any place they’d ever known. Sleep was easy and deep, because their rest wasn’t disturbed by car horns and piercing sirens. It was a quiet place, with salty smells from the edge of the earth.
Here on Fish Head, the lion still hacked, but not quite as much. The temperamental zonkey hadn’t bucked off a trained dog—or even the clown who sometimes worked her into his act—in weeks. Even Beelzebub, the ill-tempered guard dog, seemed to have found an inner peace, for days went by when he didn’t try to bite a single person.
* * *
Billy Wayne Hooduk, of course, took full credit, as instructed by his book.
Step number forty-seven from How to Become a Cult Leader in 50 Easy Steps: “When things go wrong, be fast and unwavering in assigning blame. When things go right, be equally prompt in acce
pting praise and basking in the glory and good will you deserve.”
Billy Wayne was also going to rely on the advice of step number forty-eight: “Give people the impression they have a clear choice, making certain the decision you want them to select is unquestionably the only reasonable option.”
Over small cups of vanilla pudding, Billy Wayne looked out at the bleachers and counted fifty-three people, which was a few more than when they’d landed on the island. Splashing around down at the edge of the bay were another eight or nine filthy kids, plus there was Flat Man, who needed his pudding delivered. Billy Wayne knew he’d have to be careful with his remarks this afternoon, since money could do funny things to people, especially those who weren’t used to having much of it. He certainly wasn’t used to being around the stacks of cash being emptied from the various tills.
Billy Wayne had assumed the role of therapist, mentor, decision maker, and accountant since leading the troupe to Fish Head Island, despite never performing any of these jobs in his life. But even with a complete lack of understanding when it came to balancing a checkbook, Billy Wayne recognized that the Pisani brothers had been cooking the books by simply erasing a couple of zeros here and there, calling each season a marginal loss.
Not showing a profit and therefore not being able to raise wages was surely the motive of the two old brothers. Billy Wayne assumed it was a circus trick as old as tight rope walking and human cannonballing.
The eight major performers were paid two hundred dollars a week each, plus two percent of the Big Top ticket sales. The ten Freaks of Nature each made a hundred fifty, while the three dozen other workers made a hundred a piece. Adding in food for the people and animals, as well as other minor expenses, the cost of running the circus was about eight thousand dollars a week. Counting Big Top ticket sales, ride tickets, concessions, game booths, and Freaks of Nature tickets, the Pisani Brothers Circus was clearing more than thirteen thousand dollars a week.
Billy Wayne had a tall wood stool in front of him as he stood on the contortionist’s platform. People lounged in the bleachers across from him, scooping the last of their vanilla pudding. The midday sun had heated up the tent, and even with both flaps drawn open, the smell of hot manure was powerful.
“Good afternoon.” Bill Wayne began each daily speech the same way. “I’m not going to talk about garbage, although we do need to watch the canal up on the north end, since the wind has been blowing papers into those weeds and it’s getting pretty bad.”
Billy Wayne wanted to address his recent discovery that the ten port-o-potties were being emptied into an old water truck and then driven in extremely illegal pre-dawn missions to the neighborhoods off Great Bay Boulevard to be dumped. Instead, he decided to keep this meeting entirely positive.
“No, I’m here with important news.” Billy Wayne wished he hadn’t worn his suit jacket, since it had gotten hot as heck in here and smelled like zonkey shit. Sweat was running down his back and he had to keep wiping his forehead on his sleeves. Billy Wayne reached down and hoisted a sturdy steel toolbox onto the stool in front of him. He took a small key from his jacket pocket, twisted it in the lock, and lifted open the lid as it faced him. “In just a little more than one month,” he scooped up rubber banded thousand dollar stacks of mostly five and ten dollar bills, “We have profited more than twenty thousand dollars.”
There were hoots and mummers and holy-shits from nearly all the workers.
“I’ll take my share now!” someone called out.
“Hey, I want mine, too!”
“And it will be yours.” Billy Wayne pointed to someone in the front row who hadn’t said anything. “And yours and yours and yours, too. But if we divided the dollar bills among everyone, it would be just an extra couple weeks of salary, and then where would you be?”
Billy Wayne could almost see the rusty machinery grinding inside the heads of the people who were looking up at him. He knew some were imagining the endless bottles of middle-shelf booze, while others had already undressed the real hookers they were going to be able to score.
“You dumb fuckers will blow it all on booze and whores,” Mrs. Rooney glumly added.
Billy Wayne paused to draw upon step number forty-eight. Ensure the decision you want them to make is the only reasonable conclusion.
“We can split this money up, or we can put it toward making this place our permanent home. Sure, we could spend it on repairing the trucks.” Billy Wayne gestured toward one of the mechanics who responded with a nod. “The big trucks have a lot of miles on them and need more work than they’re worth. Good money after bad.”
“The one Peterbilt needs a new Allison, and the Freightliner’s goddamn differential’s all fucked to hell. And that don’t …”
“Thank you!” Bill Wayne called to the mechanic, who looked around, embarrassed.
“Lotta things broke,” the mechanic quietly added.
“So I bring a very important decision to you.” Billy Wayne placed the toolbox next to his feet and then formed the stacks of bills into a pyramid. “Do we fix the trucks and split up any remaining money, or do we dig in and build a home?”
Billy Wayne’s own rusty machinery had been grinding away, imagining the beautiful air conditioned building where he would minister to his flock. He pictured a pulpit of sorts, with a large portrait of himself on the wall behind. There would be a kitchen, with an oversized refrigerator stuffed with ice cold sodas and big tubs of chilled pudding. There would be a real bedroom, with a downy bed that didn’t reek of piss, where he could surely convince the contortionist, his lovely and exotic Amira, to come visit. Billy Wayne stood behind the stool stacked with cash, shifting his legs to conceal the beginnings of another erection. The lack of a lockable door, or any door for that matter, had made Billy Wayne’s masturbation ritual an often interrupted affair. More times than not, he was left to relieve himself while on his side, late at night, facing away from the tent flap, which never properly closed. His new bedroom would have a solid door with an excellent lock, Billy Wayne dreamed.
It was the sulky reporter who spoke up first. “I grew up in a place kind of like this.” Bagg addressed the people surrounding him in the bleachers. “We also started out with tents and built some basic shelters that were good enough to keep us warm all winter. You people with campers just need kerosene, right?”
“I’m tired of all the packin’ up,” someone in the back shouted.
“The animals sure like it here,” said another.
“I’m not sure I have a vote,” Bagg said. “But I’d vote to give this place a chance.”
Billy Wayne made a mental note to thank the reporter later, then waited a couple of minutes for the idea to completely settle with the roustabouts. He watched the resignation come across the faces of the men who’d already mentally spent their windfall on imaginary high-class hookers. Or maybe even on the forty dollar variety.
“We’ll put the matter to vote.” And Billy Wayne raised his own right hand. “Raise your hand to vote in favor of staying.”
One after another, hands were raised. A few people who had been suffering intolerable hangovers had to be elbowed in the ribs, but the motion carried almost unanimously. Billy Wayne stood behind the pyramid of cash that he now saw as a down payment on a dream he couldn’t have begun to imagine when he first swiped How to Become a Cult Leader in 50 Easy Steps from the library.
Triumphantly, Billy Wayne scanned the crowd of jabbering circus people, finally catching the eye of Amira Anne. She was sitting next to the reporter, dressed in frumpy gray sweats, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. What a perfect wife she would make, Billy Wayne thought. His heart ached at the simple beauty of this woman. A woman who could twist and stretch in so many heavenly manners. When my cathedral is complete, I’ll ask her to marry me, Billy Wayne fancied, not noticing that, hidden behind the hulking body of the fat lady in the bleachers, Amira’s tiny and delicate hand was firmly clasped in the reporter’s.
“Then the
last order of today’s business is to decide on a new name to christen our island. I think we could come up with something more adventurous, more inviting to the magic of our home than Fish Head Island, don’t you think?”
There were no offers. Billy Wayne prodded some more, while in the back of his mind hoping perhaps the reporter would suggest Hooduk Island, in honor of the man who had made this all such a success. “Maybe something which describes the family that we’ve become?”
“Save your breath, douche bag, and just call it Fuck Head Island.” Mrs. Rooney rose from the third row of bleacher seats with a flourish, pushing people out of her way as she stomped down the metal stairs and stormed out the mouth of the tent. She made a quick u-turn and popped her head back in to add, “It smells like zonkey shit in here, you assholes.”
Billy Wayne lifted the toolbox back onto the stool and began replacing the cash. “We’ll work on the name.” People began to file out into the sun.
Chapter 33
All the hammering wasn’t doing Warden Flint’s throbbing head a bit of good. From a couple hundred yards it wasn’t particularly loud, but the monotonous beat went on and on, sinking an imaginary nail deeper and deeper into his left temple.
Flint took full responsibility for his current condition, which had him laying face down underneath his pickup truck, naked except for one work boot on his right foot. Thank Christ for all the poison, or he’d have been eaten alive spending a warm August night in the middle of a marsh, within spittin’ distance of the Atlantic Ocean.
Flint reached down to adjust his testicles and scratch his ass.
That dopey little Hooduk had been bringing by those convenient plastic bottles of vodka that didn’t break when you fell down a flight of stairs, or whatever, but last evening had been Christmas if there ever was one.
Flint was sitting on the front steps of the ranger shack when Hooduk pulled in and began wrestling a big box out of his trunk. His eyesight had been crap for years, but Flint could read the red letters on the white box, even before Hooduk freed it from the back of the Dodge.