Modern American Memoirs (38 page)

Slowly she turned, revealing a shaven yoni from which a pair of golden wings fanned along her hips. On top of each breast sat two enormous and lovely parrots. She rotated again, moving at a slow pace until she faced the men once more. She now held a long fluorescent light tube. An electric cord ran behind the black curtain. She spread her legs for balance and tipped her head back. Only her neck and the point of her chin were visible. She lifted the light tube above her head and very slowly slid it down her throat. She took her hands away, and pressed a switch on the cord that turned on the fluorescent tube. The spotlight went black. Her body glowed from within, illuminating the birds in an ethereal, ghostly light, like a jungle dawn. She flicked the switch off and the tent was dark save for sun
light leaking beneath the canvas flaps. The houselights came on very bright. The stage was empty. She was gone.

The dazed men stumbled outside, blinking against the sun. I never missed her act and always tried to maneuver myself near the front. After ten or twelve shows, I was sufficiently familiar with the birds to begin watching her eyes. I expected a blank look but she gazed at the men with a blend of fury and desire. Eventually she saw me watching. I was embarrassed, as if caught peeping, a curious reverse of logic. The following day I stayed in the back but she found me. Her vision locked on me during the entire act. I left with the crowd, feeling devastated.

My tear-down job was pulling stakes, a chore relegated to the most useless worker. The stakes were car axles driven very deep into the earth. To pull them, I first had to loosen the dirt by pounding the ground with a sledgehammer. At times I worked in a rhythmic blur, grateful for the simple repetition. Other times I wore myself down in rage at my occupation.

I abandoned my bunk after a wave of lice spread among the workers, making us scratch like junkies. If our hands were full, we wiggled and shifted in vain attempts to relieve the itch. I boiled my clothes and the sight of swollen nits in the seams made me sick. Since I was being fed and housed, my pay was not enough to buy new clothes. When my toothbrush snapped at the handle, I decided to quit.

I told Barney, who said he'd speak to Flathead about my working as an all-purpose animal helper. For the next two weeks we traveled across the Deep South. In many of the smaller towns attendance at the circus included a black night and a white night. The Sunday matinees were the only integrated time, but the groups didn't mix. I swept manure, hauled feed and water, and hosed down Peaches twice a day. Barney lent me money against my raise. I bought clothes and a toothbrush. Luckily, I'd been keeping my journal in the glove box of Barney's pickup. Everything else had been stolen from the sleeper truck.

The new job gave me greater privacy. I slept under the truck and had time to write in my journal. I never reread an entry. They represented the past, and my journal was proof that I existed in the present. As an event unfolded around me, I was already anticipating
how I'd write about it later. A new entry began where the last one ended, continuing to the immediate, to the current act of writing. Each mark on the page was a gesture toward the future, a codification of the now. Through this, I learned to trust language.

The animal trainers were an odd lot who argued constantly, smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, and possessed only one friend apiece—their animal. Soon I began to roll my own cigarettes. During off-hours we sat in a circle debating the merits and dangers of various animals. Everyone teased Arnie, the gorilla trainer, about the simplicity of his job. Gabe the Gorilla was ancient and nearly blind.

One night the show was canceled due to a fire in town that destroyed four blocks. The entire circus left except the trainers who stayed to guard their animals. We passed a pint of whisky and began our usual bickering.

“Don't go getting the big head, Barney,” the tiger man said. “Elephant ain't the worst to work.”

“More of mine kill folks than yours ever did,” Barney said.

“Killing ain't the mark,” the man said. “Go a season with zebras and you'll wish you had a rogue. Zebras is the meanest there is.”

“Bull smoke,” said Arnie.

“Fact before God. Over in Africa the zebra's worst enemy is a lion. That makes them a mean fighter.”

The others pushed a lower lip out and raised their eyebrows in the animal trainer's sign of acknowledgment.

“My opinion,” the horse man said, “the all-time worstest is a camel. I purely loathe a camel. There ain't no safe place to work them from because they kick sideways. I never seen a sideways kick that didn't bust a leg to a compound. Humpy bastards are stubborn as a mule.”

Barney drank from the bottle as it went past him.

“The elephant is the closest animal to a man there is,” he said.

“Bull smoke,” said Arnie.

“Telling it true,” Barney said. “Its back legs bends forward like a human. They got tits up front, not in the back. They go off on their own to mate.”

“Gorilla's ten times closer to human,” Arnie said.

“Well, a cat ain't,” said the tiger man. “I'm put right out of this talk. The only thing a cat's like is a damn cat.”

“Horse is gabbier,” the horse man said.

“Bull smoke,” Arnie said. “Me and Gabe talk plenty.”

“I heard something on a gorilla maybe you can clear up,” Barney said. “But I ain't advising you to ask Gabe on it.”

“What?”

“A gorilla's got a harem, don't it?”

Arnie nodded. “In the wild.”

“Then it don't have to work too hard for company, if you know what I mean.” Barney tipped his head to me. “I'm trying to talk nice in front of the squirt.”

Everyone laughed and the tiger man handed me the bottle. “That boy knows what” he said. “He ain't missed the Parrot Lady since he joined on.” The men chuckled again.

“Way I hear it,” Barney said, “the gorilla's got the littlest balls of any creature on earth. They shrink up from not having to hunt no nookie.”

“Bull smoke,” Arnie said. “They're big as a man's.”

“Damn cat's got his snuggled up to his butt-hole,” the tiger man said. “I got to find me another animal to work if I want to keep up with this outfit.”

“Is that true?” the horse man said. “About the gorilla?”

“No,” Arnie said. “Gabe's balls are big as mine.”

“That ain't saying much.” Barney grinned at the men. “We might just have to get some proof on that.”

“We got eighty proof right here,” the tiger man said.

He opened another pint of local rotgut, took a hard drink, and sent it on its rounds.

“Might be tough to see Gabe's balls,” Barney said. “Little as they are.”

“All you got to do is get him to stand,” Arnie said. “We can squat low and put a flashlight on him. They're a good size, you can take my word for it.”

“Chris, there's a flashlight behind the truck seat. Get the elephant prod, too.”

I walked through the warm summer darkness, rummaged for the light, and returned. The men were swaying on their feet.

“Gabe ain't going to like this much,” Arnie said.

“He won't know,” the horse man said.

“He will. He's smarter than any nag you run.”

“All right,” Barney said. “We'll make it so Gabe don't know what we're up to.”

“Nobody better say nothing,” Arnie said. “Promise?”

“Deal,” Barney said.

The men nodded. We walked to the gorilla cage, which was bolted to a flatbed truck. Arnie fastened a banana to the end of the elephant prod.

“Gabe,” he whispered. “You awake in there.”

Gabe's tiny close-set eyes showed red in the flashlight's beam. Arnie waved the banana. “You hungry? I sneaked you a snack.” He lifted the elephant prod until the banana was above the cage, just outside of the bars. “Come and get it, big boy.”

Gabe moved to the front of the cage. We squatted for an up-angle view while Barney played the flashlight on Gabe's crotch. The gorilla used the bars to pull himself erect on legs that seemed permanently crooked. His big thighs were matted with fur.

“Up, Gabe,” Arnie said. “You almost got it.”

The gorilla stretched higher. He shifted his weight to one leg and reached his hand through the top of the cage, inches from the banana. He thrust his other leg out for balance. Clearly illuminated was a pair of testicles the size of chestnuts. The men collapsed on their haunches, laughing and hooting. Gabe quickly dropped to a crouch and backed into the shadows. The men laughed harder.

“Goddamn it!” Arnie yelled. “You promised to be quiet.”

“You win,” the horse man said. “By default.”

He handed the bottle to Arnie, who knocked it aside. He snatched the flashlight and aimed the light through the bars. Gabe sat hunched in a corner, head bowed. He glanced at us with an expression of terrible humiliation, then hid his head. The men hushed and slowly moved away.

“You sons of bitches,” Arnie said. “You promised!”

He continued cursing into the night until his voice broke and we heard a sob. He started talking to Gabe in low tones. I crawled under the elephant truck to sleep, remembering my former roommates' preoccupation with the heft of Marduk's lingam. Men's tendency to take an interest in one another's genitals is not so much sexual as simply wondering how they stack up against everybody
else. Most men need confirmation that someone's equipment is smaller than theirs, even if it belongs to a gorilla.

After lunch, Flathead always strolled the grounds to ensure that everyone was ready for the afternoon show. Sometimes the clowns or the magician were so hung over they needed an injection of sucrose and Dexedrine. Flathead carried a small case of prepared syringes. That morning Gabe refused to eat breakfast, keeping his back turned in the cage. Flathead wanted to give him an injection but Arnie refused, promising to have his gorilla ready for the matinee. Gabe missed both performances and Flathead was furious. If Gabe didn't perk up, Flathead warned, they'd sell him to a Mexican zoo.

The animal trainers avoided each other all day. They took care of the animals and went to sleep without talking. Sometime late in the night, Barney woke me by rapping on my feet. The trainers stood in an awkward circle. The horse man pushed his shoes against the earth while the tiger man paced back and forth. Barney was very still and Arnie stood by himself, facing away.

Barney handed each of us a banana. He stepped to the gorilla cage and held the flashlight so that it shone on his face.

“I'm sorry, Gabe,” he said. “I was a little drunk. When I was married, I cheated on my wife. Now you know something on me.”

He peeled the banana and gently slid it into the cage. One by one, each of us took our turn apologizing to Gabe, who sat motionless in the shadows. Everyone told him something personal and gave him a banana. On my turn I faced the darkness and muttered my greatest secret—the transvestite in New York. Gabe didn't answer.

Arnie went last. He was crying. He opened his pants and said, “See, they ain't that much to mine either.” Arnie stuffed four bananas through the cage and claimed credit for bringing all the men to apologize.

We slipped away, leaving them to talk in private. The next day, Gabe performed exceedingly well. After the show, the trainers sat in their customary circle, arguing the fine points of manure, each defending his animal.

The circus roamed deeper into the South and I was rewarded for my diligence with a promotion that, like most advances I've received, proved my undoing. Someone had quit and Flathead
offered me the job because of my size—the circus diet and strenuous labor had cost me several pounds. I was practically a wraith. Flathead introduced me to Mr. Kaybach, a dirty-haired man whose odor was a point of personal honor. As long as I stayed upwind, we got along well.

He showed me how to wriggle into my costume, an oilskin sheath with a hidden zipper. He warned that it was hot and I should wear only underwear. Tattered quilting padded the interior to swell my torso. Two flippers hung from my chest which I could operate by careful insertion of my hands. The back of the costume tapered to a pair of rubber flippers set close together. A surprisingly realistic mask completed my transformation into a walrus. I peeked through tiny slits between two tusks. Kaybach explained our routine and I waited eagerly inside the dark tent for my debut.

The audience encircled a pool of water containing fake ice floes and false rocks. The dark hump they saw was Louie the Great Trained Walrus, direct from the Bering Straits, the Smartest Walrus in Captivity. To further the illusion, Kaybach dumped a wheelbarrow load of ice cubes into the fetid water. He explained that Louie communicated with standard head shakes, and could clap his flippers in mathematical tally.

He called my name and I plunged off the rocks and through the shallow water. By squatting inside the oilskin bag, I could make Louie appear to rear on his haunches.

“Are you a girl walrus?”

I vigorously shook my head no.

“He's a male, folks! Take a look at those tusks. We lost three Eskimos capturing him. Very sad.” A pause for the audience to consider their own danger. “Are you married, Louie?”

Again I shook my head.

“You got a girlfriend, Louie?”

I shook my head.

“Do you want one?”

This was my cue to launch myself across the pool toward the nearest woman in the audience. She usually screamed and people backed away. Kaybach yelled at me to settle down. I appeared to defy him momentarily before slinking back to the center of the pool. By this time, enough water had leaked in to make my skin slimy.

“You know how bachelors are, folks,” Kaybach continued with a broad wink. “And everyone knows what seafood does to a fellow.”

He asked a few more questions—what state we were in, who the local mayor was—arranging a multiple choice for me to answer yes or no. When I was correct, he threw a dead fish which I forced through the mouth flap to lie cold and smelly against my chest. Kaybach told the audience that I could only count to ten and invited them to stump me with problems of arithmetic. Someone asked the sum of five plus two. Kaybach yelled the question to me and I clapped my front flippers seven times. After a few more tests, a circus plant bullied his way to the front and shouted that he'd seen this on TV and it was a fake. He said the walrus was trained to respond only to the voice of its master, who spoke in code. Kaybach assured everyone that this was not true. He suggested that the man ask his own question, providing the answer didn't go past ten.