The address I had for Millie was still in Illinois, in a little town called Lakewood Shores. It wasn’t much to look at, but it was exactly the sort of place I could see having a certain appeal to Millie. It was small, intimate, and had enough open spaces to make her feel comfortable. I know she was never happier than when she was on the farm. I think living in Chicago made her feel a little claustrophobic.
Getting there wasn’t much of a problem. I took the bus as far as I could and then I started walking. I’m good at walking. I’ve had a lot of practice over the years.
By the time I finally got there, the sun had set and I was bone weary. I didn’t know if I could find her place in the dark and I wanted to be in better shape before I tried my luck, so I found a hotel to stay in. A lovely place, really. I was almost certain the sheets had been changed within the last week.
I didn’t want anything to go wrong with my visit to Millie, so I was a good boy and actually paid for the room. After a shower and a good night’s sleep, I headed down the road to find 381 Crab Apple Avenue. According to the information I had, that was where I would find her.
It was a nice house; two stories, with a well-tended lawn and beautiful flowers in the garden. It was, frankly, exactly the sort of place I would have loved when I was growing up.
My heart was racing, because I was finally going to see my little sister. I stepped closer to the front door and hesitated for a moment. Not out of fear, though there was some, but because there were no curtains inside and I could see the empty hallway and its well-polished hardwood floors.
And in the living room I could see the same thing, emptiness.
I stared through the window for a while, trying my best to imagine what the furniture should have looked like, what my sister would have looked like after almost sixty years. Was she old and stooped, or still thin and spry? Did she dye her hair an atrocious color of red? Or was she going gently silver? Did she smile? Or were the lines on her face the marks left by bitterness and disappointment? It was hard to know, because I had no point of reference. My mother was still a fairly young woman the last time I’d seen her, under forty and in good health.
All I could see was the light gently reflected by the hardwood floors and my reflection in the glass of the window. I didn’t look much like myself. I hadn’t in a very long time. Oh, I’d done my best when I escaped from the great beyond, but there were a few problems to consider. When I was growing up my hair was short and straight. Not so anymore. I seem to remember my face being longer, but that had changed as well. Everything about me was just to the left of what it should have been, but that was the price you paid when you escaped death, I suppose.
I turned around when I heard the sound of feet on the sidewalk. There was a man standing behind me, a tentative expression on his round, withered face. If he was a day younger than eighty, then mimes are some of my best friends.
“Are you looking for Millie?” his voice was as skittish as his expression.
“Yes, I am. I’m an old friend of the family, but I’ve been away for a while.”
His expression changed several times. First there was doubt. Mostly, I suspect, because I didn’t look old enough to be an old friend. What followed was sorrow as he shook his head.
“I’m sorry to tell you this, son, but Millie passed away a few months ago.”
I know I stared hard enough to worry the old timer. I couldn’t help it. I’d been back for a while, close to two years, but I hadn’t even thought to look for my sister until two weeks earlier. I’d had no special plans, no particular challenges to face in that time. I’d just chosen not to think about my little sister.
There are very few times when I’ve felt like a monster. Hearing that I’d missed my last chance to see my baby sister when she was alive was one of them.
My legs grew weak and I sat back against the front door and slid until my rear-end kissed the concrete.
The old man moved closer, his eyes showing concern for me. “Are you all right?”
If he knew the things I’d done in the past, he’d have run from me. Instead, he offered me a hand up and I took it.
“I’m sorry. I was hoping for better news.” It was all I could think to say.
“I’m sorry for your loss, son. Millie was a good woman. A dear friend.”
“Can you tell me how?”
“She died in her sleep. I think they decided it was a heart attack.” He had a kind face, old and weathered, but a smile that made him younger. He smiled not because of my sorrow, but because of his fine memories. As quickly as the expression surfaced he pushed it back under again. “I wish I could tell you more, but that’s really all I know.”
“Do you know what happened to her possessions?”
“I think her granddaughter collected all of them. Or she had them put into storage.”
“Her granddaughter?” I know I must have sounded stupefied. I was. Despite all the evidence, Millie was still ten years old in my heart.
“I think I have her address, if you think that would help.”
I smiled again, a real smile for the simple kindness of a stranger. It wasn’t something I’d ever gotten used to.
“I think that would help a lot, sir. And thank you.”
He waved the thanks away as he headed back to his house in the very next lot. I stayed where I was and looked back at where my sister had ended her time on earth.
One more chance to see my little sister, to apologize for lying to her. It hadn’t seemed that much to ask after all I’d been through.
The old man came back, waving not one piece of paper, but two. “I found her address! I also have a different address for where Millie’s possessions are. I was wrong about that. Her granddaughter had them put into storage, because she’s been on the road.”
The man handed the two scraps to me and I took them as if they were the finest treasures I had ever found. Here, at least, was a connection to Millie.
“I can’t thank you enough, sir. You have no idea how much I wanted to see Millie again.”
“Well, I like to keep this sort of thing around, just in case somebody does come along who needs to know.” He smiled and made himself younger again. I wish I could tell you how much I envied him that smile.
Before I could make another comment, the sound of screaming tires came around the corner. I could hear a booming bass coming from the car that cut into the road at high speed, even over the thunderous roar of the engine.
I’m not good with cars, forgive me. Most of the ones I know are as old as I am. Whatever the vehicle was, it was heavy and it was loud and it was large enough to seat the six youths inside of it with room to spare. The music coming from the speakers was filled with obscenities, and both my new acquaintance and I looked at the car as it came toward us.
I was raised in a different time. Try to remember that. I was brought up to believe that you didn’t “share your musical tastes” with the people around you unless they wanted to hear them. I was also brought up to believe that you were supposed to respect your elders, at least until they proved themselves unworthy of respect.
A teenaged boy, who probably wouldn’t be shaving for another two years, stuck his face out of the passenger’s side window and screamed, “Hey, Old Man Walker! Eat my dick!” The other kids inside the vehicle laughed like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard and from the back passenger’s seat a soda can came rolling through the air, spilling its contents into the air and across the lawn as it soared for the old man’s head.
Did I mention I’ve been known to juggle? Hand-eye coordination is a big plus for that. I snapped the can out of the air and sent it back the way it had come without much effort. I missed the window, but the can scraped along the side of the car and left a smear of soda and a few scratches for my efforts.
The car’s tires locked and the entire contraption stuttered to a halt in the road. Both of the younger heads I saw on the passenger’s side were looking at me as if I had committed a cardinal sin. The boy in the driver’s seat opened his door and moved around the car, his face already reddening. He wasn’t ashamed of how he’d let the passengers act, or how loudly he was playing his music—and I can barely qualify the noise as music, believe me—instead he was angry.
“What did you do to my car?” His narrowed eyes shot accusations my way as he moved closer to the scratches.
I pointed toward the boy in the back seat. “Don’t blame me, he’s the one who threw it.”
“My dad’s gonna’ fucking kill me!” And right then I understood his dilemma. He didn’t look old enough to drive down the street. He also didn’t look like he’d ever worked a day in his life with his soft gut and baggy pants. Listen, I speak as a clown here. I know that fashions change, but half the boy’s ass was hanging out of his jeans and the other half was only kept in place by the belt he used to hold the pants up. I have no idea who decided the look was fashionable, but they were very, very wrong.
“Did you hear what I said?” The kid was looking at me, the anger clear on his pudgy features.
I shrugged. “Heard. Don’t care.”
I don’t think I’d ever seen a kid gape so blatantly before. I guess I was supposed to feel sorry for his dilemma, or maybe offer to pay for the damages, but I thought about the old man next to me who’d likely have gotten himself a black eye at the very least, and I couldn’t make myself sympathize.
“You need to pay for this!” He pointed to the scratches in the paint with a trembling hand.
“No, I don’t see that happening.”
He gasped, as if I’d surely condemned him to death, and I smiled. I couldn’t help it. I’ve always liked to smile, and I’ve always loved to watch the occasional rube make an ass of himself.
Before he could find something to say, I gave a suggestion. “Maybe you should talk to your friend in the back seat. He threw the can in the first place.”
“Maybe you should go fuck yourself!” He took two steps in my direction and came no further. But he would. I knew that as surely as I knew my own name, because you have to read people when you work for a carnival. You have to know how they work.
The old man made a nervous noise and I looked his way. “You should go now. Thanks again, Mr. Walker.”
“Should I call the police?” His face was pasty and I shook my head.
“No, that’s all right. I think I can handle the situation.” He looked at me with a doubtful frown on his face. “No reason to get the lad in trouble. His father will see to that, don’t you think?” After another moment, he nodded his head and moved for his house.
I looked at the boy standing near me, still contemplating whether or not he could do me harm without getting himself in trouble. He might not have tried his luck but the other boys with him were climbing out of the car.
Now he had an audience, and there aren’t that many young men who can resist an audience when it comes right down to it. I know. I speak from experience. I was around the same age when I joined up with the carnival.
He just had one problem he hadn’t counted on.
I like an audience, too.
Gary Peck was a stand up guy, at least according to most of the people who knew him. Oh, true enough, he was a gossipmonger, but that’s hardly a crime and most of the time he was just passing on what he’d heard from others. Perhaps the sin he was most guilty of was liking to hear himself talk. Not surprising, really, as he’d spent several years doing voice over work before deciding he wanted to work on the stage instead of with the microphone. He still did the recordings from time to time when money was tight, but he much preferred the lights of Broadway as it were.
He bragged regularly that he could have recited every line from the show by heart, and it was true. That didn’t stop him from studying the text every day just the same. He didn’t want to screw up any of the storyline, especially since he still wanted in on the recorded soundtrack that was due for production around the same time the show got back to New York.
The deal was already in place for the recording, but the producers were contemplating getting Patrick Stewart or possibly Sean Connery to do the voice over in his place. They were known for their voices, and they were damned good. But if Gary could just keep everything going the right way, there was a chance he could still get the gig. As the only voice in the entire show, he felt he deserved it, but there were always a few big wigs that wanted to improve on what was already a sure thing.
He just had to convince them to leave well enough alone and that meant not screwing up a single line. Ever. Or at least until the contracts were signed and the checks were cut.
The royalties off the soundtrack would be huge, and he could always use the money.
The prop guys had done their job and set everything up the way it was supposed to be set. The lighting in the area came from several high wattage overheads that left pools of twilight between them. It had taken him a while to find the right spot where he could sit in peace and do his readings, but he’d managed well enough. There were two separate sections for the finale sequence—massive fifteen foot long walls of plastic and glass that looked like an enchanted forest of frozen trees—and the way the back area was arranged, there was only one location to put the massive displays where they wouldn’t get hurt. Between those two sections were three support posts and it was in between the posts that he had pulled up a chair, an ashtray, and a decent reading lamp.
He liked to pause from time to time and look at the frozen trees, and the illusion of glacial mountains in the distance. His little oasis was comforting and private enough to let him have the time he needed to study.
Right up until the time one of the new prop runners came into his area and leaned against a plastic tree. Youngish, mid twenties at most, long, curly hair and a Braves Baseball team hat that covered most of his face with shadows. The guy walked into Gary’s study hall, stopped in the dusky area between the lights and crossed his arms, smirking as he listened to Gary reading his lines softly.
When the man’s presence made him stumble across one of the lines he finally set down the pages of dialogue and glared. “Is there something I can help you with?” He tried to keep the irritation from his voice, but didn’t quite succeed.
“You’re Gary Peck, right?”
Perfect. Just what he needed…a fan. “Yes I am. What can I do for you?”
The man held up one open hand with wide spread fingers. There was nothing to see. But a moment later, with a flick of his wrist, the stranger tossed a small piece of paper in Gary’s direction.
He watched the stiff, index card sized paper arc through the air and gently roll until it landed on top of his script.
Gary picked up the photograph and stared long and hard at the image printed on the front of it. He knew the girl, of course.
“Is this supposed to mean something to me?”
The man stepped closer, a tight, thin smile playing at his lips. “We’re going to have a talk, the two of us, about that young lady. I want to know everything that you know about her, Mr. Peck.”
“She was with the tour last year, I think. I remember seeing her a few times.” He shrugged as casually as he could.
“Now, I doubt that. I bet you know a lot more than you’re telling me.” The voice was cold and condescending. The stranger reached up and plucked the baseball cap from his head, shoving it into the back pocket of his carpenter’s pants.
“That’s a bet you’d lose.” His voice didn’t quite tremble, because he was very good at what he did. Without even thinking, he carefully marked his page on the script and pushed back from the small makeshift desk he’d set up. He knew things were about to get bad. He could feel it in his bones.
The man stepped closer and Gary saw his face clearly for the first time. Was that make up he was wearing? Yes, either that or he was an albino. No one had skin that white.
And there was something wrong with his lips.
The man came closer, and his smile broadened. Perfect white teeth, straight enough to make any orthodontist jealous of the workmanship. And his lips? They were red, crimson. Christ, he was done up as a clown. What the hell?
“Is this some sort of joke?” Gary stood up, angered now.
“Do I look like I’m joking to you, Mr. Peck?” The man stepped directly under one of the spotlights overhead as he came forward and revealed the rest of his face. The dark blue triangles above and below his eyes, the small red dot on the tip of his nose, dimples painted above a broad painted grin, the eyes Gary had seen before, that looked as cold and murderous as the steel on a knife. The smile was gone from his mouth, his lips peeled back in a snarl of clenched teeth. “Do I look at all like I’m joking?”
“You’re kidding, right?” There was a tremor in his tone this time, a revelation of the growing anxiety in the pit of his stomach.
“The girl. Tell me everything you know about her.” It wasn’t a request.
“I barely even knew her.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“Look, why don’t you get your stupid clown face out of here before I call security?”
“Well you could, but the security guards are in a meeting right now. Orientation time for the new guys. It could be a while before you get a response.” The smile started creeping back. “And because there’s a cast party being held over at the Hilton; time to interview all the dancers and jugglers, even the acrobats.” The man tossed something in the air that flipped and wheeled in an arc. He caught it with his other hand threw it back in the air, only now there were two somethings. Both moving too fast to be clearly identified. Another toss and there were three. After that they simply moved through the air with the skill of a long time juggler. “I’m not part of the cast for this little show. I wasn’t invited.”
He’d forgotten all about the casting party. His stomach dropped a bit as he thought about it. He was supposed to be there, but he’d lost track of the time.
“I have to leave.”
“You were invited, weren’t you, Mr. Peck?”
“That’s why I have to leave. Maybe you can catch me later and we can discuss the girl you want to know about.”
Three hard rubber balls flew toward him, one after the other, and slammed into Gary’s face, his left shoulder and his solar plexus. The first one struck above his right eyebrow and staggered him back as easily as a haymaker from Muhammed Ali. The second reduced his left arm to a numb, useless lump of meat. The third knocked the wind from him and Gary stumbled before crashing back to the concrete floors.
“Poor Gary. Finally invited to a party and he forgot to attend…”
The clown stepped closer as Gary tried to gather his wits and stand back up. The shoe on his foot was old and scuffed, with heavy treads. The man brought it down and stomped Gary’s fingers hard enough to break the nail and bone of the index and middle digits.
Gary let out a scream that was little more than a gasp as the pain washed through him.
“Too late for parties, Mr. Peck. Tell me everything you know about the girl, before I have to start getting inventive.”
Gary looked into the face above him and started talking.
He knew a lot more than he intended to tell the stranger. In the end he told the man everything. He’d have told the stranger anything at all to make the pain stop.
The clown got very, very inventive.
Tia finally started learning names around the same time she saw the cast being interviewed. She couldn’t believe how many people had come to the party. Hell, she couldn’t believe the spread of food and the free drinks.
Her body still ached from the hard session of learning routines, but it was a good pain, the sort that meant she was accomplishing something. Not just dreaming, but doing. It was a wonderful thing.
Leslie had been there right along with her, making sure she learned every step and being as patient as a saint while she was at it. She’d heard stories about how catty performers could be, and she wasn’t naïve enough to believe the tales weren’t true, but it was nice to not deal with that in her first ever show.
The press was all abuzz with questions, most of which revolved around the disappearance and later confirmed murder of the star of the show. While there were a few photographers who wanted to take her picture, Tia knew she was not the main attraction for the night. That was Leslie, the new female lead and the only thing that seemed higher as a priority than getting as much information as they could about her, were the rumors of what might have happened to Elizabeth Montenegro.
The stories were everywhere and most of them were asinine. There were tales that she’d somehow gotten involved in the mob, and a few tall tales about her being murdered for drug money she owed. According to Mark Blake, one of the jugglers who was on stage for all of five minutes every night, the girl had been a coke fiend. Anything was possible, she supposed. As horrible as it sounded, the only thing the woman’s death meant to Tia was a chance to become a part of the show, and that was still a staggering change in her life.
There were more people moving with the show than Tia would have guessed. In addition to the main characters of the story, there were half a dozen women who dressed up as cats for the lion tamer, easily fifteen different people dressed as clowns, and a score of secondary characters to add color and flavor to the entire affair. There were several actual acrobats who performed the sort of stunts that would have made her pee herself if she even considered them, and what amounted to enough stage performers to populate a real circus. Then there were the people behind the performances, an on call doctor, two trainers, the choreographer and his assistant, a fairly large group of musicians, the stage hands, a lighting crew, and on and on. She’d never had any idea how big the Carnivale was until now and the scope was damned near staggering.
And she loved it. She might never get to know all of them, but she didn’t care. There was magic on the stage and some of it seemed to carry over into the atmosphere around her. Even dealing with a bunch of reporters and being at a party where the microphones and cameras were everywhere and practically rabid with questions, she felt energized.
She also knew she better enjoy it while she could, because later, she was supposed to go over the entire routine again.
The choreographer—and she still couldn’t remember his name to save her life—smiled in her direction and Tia smiled back.
“Sometimes dreams come true.” She was speaking to herself, but one of the reporters walking by heard her and smiled.
“I’m going to quote you on that.” He winked as he walked past and Tia laughed even as her face flushed with surprise. She had no idea anyone was listening to her as she spoke.
He kept his word. The next day there was a picture of her on the front page of the entertainment section in the Washington Post along with a quote.
From that moment on, Tia’s life went into a whirlwind of activity and a sudden plunge into the waters of celebrity.
Someone decided she was photogenic, and the quote, along with the picture of her and Leslie standing together and smiling, caught the attention of the media. Within a day, she was a media darling. Within a week, she would have her first performance on stage.
Right after Leslie had her accident.
Life on the Road: Part Four
My first time on the stage was something else. There were about ten of us dressed as clowns, and most of the others had a lot of time and practice behind their moves. Dexie the Dunce was a bumbling idiot on the floor, falling on his ass and rolling across the ground in ways that seemed impossible. Tumbles was the exact opposite, moving with insane grace as he did rolls, splits and tumbles that would have been hard for a lot of professional gymnasts. They were the two ends of the spectrum and they both got laughs like there was no tomorrow. I watched them for a few minutes before finally getting the nerve up to walk out into the ring.
Next to the rest of them I looked like a fucking amateur, which was fair, because that’s exactly what I was. Every step I took in the ring was exactly the wrong one, and half the time I wound up scrambling to get out of someone’s way. I guess it worked well enough for the audience, who was laughing at every move I made, but I didn’t much like it and I know the other clowns were annoyed. So, I decided to do something different. I walked out of the ring and started doing a few simple magic tricks. Listen, when it comes to the easy stuff, it’s all sleight of hand. Once you get that down, it’s just a question of what you use to keep the rubes entertained. I used a few quarters, a long runner of scarves I’d tied together before the show, and four wild roses I’d picked from the field behind where we were set up for the show.
It was better for me out of the ring, and that’s where I started staying. None of the other clowns minded at all, and a lot of the locals thought I was something pretty special, especially the girls who got the roses. You know how you pick the right girl to give a flower to when you’re a clown? Simple. You pick the one who isn’t smiling. They need them the most. My choices usually came down to the sad-faced girls or the ones who, for whatever reason, made me think of Millie.
After the first time out, it became easier to be a clown, and Halston not only liked but also encouraged my forays into the audience. I think he’d always been afraid someone would react poorly to a clown up in the stands, but it never happened on my watch. Well, once or twice, maybe, but that was later, after I died.
When we were traveling, I practiced my routines. They needed a little work, but I was already a pretty damned good escape artist. Within a month or so, I was ready for the big time as it were.
But before I could go on stage in that capacity, I had a month of time as a clown to deal with. It got comfortable very quickly, that make up. Every town we went to, big or small, started with building up the tents and stands—most of the stands were owned by individuals who took care of them alone or hired someone to help, but everyone worked on the canvas tent—and ended with a parade through the town proper to advertise our presence.
I’d always assumed people would be happy to see a circus, but that wasn’t always the case. In a surprising number of towns, people came out to cheer and to watch as we did a few tricks, but in just as many, the people who looked at the Alexander Halston Carnival of the Fantastic scowled and merely stared as if they were watching a funeral procession.
I was a little taken aback, but Carter explained it to me. “It’s the religious folk. A lot of them see us as a temptation.”
“Temptation? What? To laugh and have fun?”
“We aren’t like other people, Cecil. We live on the road and we don’t attend church regularly.”
“So because we don’t wear our Sunday best we’re bad people?”
Carter shook his head and I could see his smile even past the one he’d painted on his face. He stopped for a moment and did a spectacular series of back flips and I took the cue from him and started juggling four throwing knives I’d borrowed from Lou Hawkner, who also did a show involving sword swallowing and some amazing work with knives and moving targets. Carter was definitely more impressive.
When he was finished, we started walking again, heading down the main street of Alberta, Illinois where the cheers and jeers over our arrival were a fairly even mix.
“Okay, Cecil. I’m going to point this out, because maybe you’re not getting the whole picture. After this, we don’t talk about it. It’s something that happens, but we don’t discuss it, understood?” I nodded my agreement. “There are girls here who perform with snakes, and do exotic dances, and read fortunes and all sorts of other stuff, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Some of them make money on the side.” I stared blankly. I had no idea what he was talking abut and I said as much.
“They sell their services.” I’ll admit it; I was rather ignorant. It must have shown on my face. Carter sighed and leaned in closer. “Ten dollars on the side and the men get to fuck them.”
“You’re kidding me.”
He shrugged. “It’s how they make a living. Sometimes working on the road isn’t so easy, okay? It’s not all the girls, at least that I know of, but it’s what they do to make ends meet.”
“So people get upset with them for it?”
“People always get upset when a woman sells herself. You have the men, who buy it, deny it and condemn it as the devil’s work. You have the women, who are angry because their husbands are sneaking off to be with strange women, and you have the losers who look at any girl with a nice rack and take it for granted she’s there to spread around discontent and maybe herpes.”
I shook my head. I’d barely met any of the girls on the tour with me, except as a nodding acquaintance. I wasn’t exactly a ladies’ man. Frankly, they scared the hell out of me. I never knew what to say or do, so I avoided the situation when I could. Still, I couldn’t imagine any of them selling themselves. Well, actually I’d had a few fantasies about one or two of them and didn’t much take to the idea that any man could have them for the right money. It went against the way I was raised.
“Don’t be that way.”
“What way?”
“You’re being a rube.” Carter’s voice was soft.
“What’s a rube?”
“Someone who doesn’t understand the circus. A mark, a shill, a rube. Someone who comes in all smiles and happy, and leaves the circus just as happy but a lot poorer.”
“I don’t get it.”
“They leave poorer because they’re naïve, Cecil. They come in thinking the world is black and white, and it isn’t.” He stopped talking again and we both went into our routines. There was a certain rhythm to it and I was gradually picking up on it. The people on the street stared at us and a lot of them were smiling, delighted by the distraction from the tedium of the day. “You’re an escape artist. You’re also a clown when you have to be. Miriam the snake charmer is a snake charmer and a dancer; she’s also a whore when she needs to be. It’s the way it’s done and the way it’s always been done. That doesn’t make Miriam any different than when she’s being a snake charmer.”
He’d pointed out Miriam because he knew I already knew her. We’d talked a few times and somehow got stuck working together on putting up the tent. She was a nice lady, maybe ten years older than me, who was pretty when she was helping pitch the tent and absolutely beautiful when she was fully made up. Yes, I’d had a few thoughts about her, even knowing that she was much older, but I’d have never considered doing anything about them. When I was around her she was just Jane Hanover, from Massachusetts and when she was working she was a different woman entirely.
I nodded my head and gave thought to what he’d told me. We were all out there to make a living and so far, the pay hadn’t been spectacular. I could see where a woman might be tempted to do whatever it took to make ends meet and to set some aside for the future.
I could also see where it would cause problems in some towns. Chicago might have been tolerant of prostitution, but the farm area where I was raised? They’d have driven anyone guilty of that sort of activity out of town in an instant and half of them would have been quoting the Good Book along the way.
Sometime later, when we were back in the field we’d rented for the circus, the atmosphere was different. Most of the people who showed up were glad to have a chance to spend a little money and have a night out. I suppose the only entertainment otherwise was the cinema I saw in the town proper, and the movie they were playing there had been out on screens for a long while. The people came in droves, and I did my part to entertain them.
The weather made it a little harder to do, however. There were violent storms in the area and the winds were enough to make the walls of the tent rattle and snap like the sails on an old wooden ship.
Because the weather was so bad, several of the sideshows were moved under the big tent, shoved into corners and placed wherever they could fit. A few of the others were forced to stay outside, and in most cases they went ahead and closed up.
I saw the freak show for the first time that night. I’d known it was there, and I’d seen a few of the attractions as they walked along and ate, but I’d only been with the carnival for a few days and I still hadn’t met everyone.
The freak show was in a smaller tent, jet black, and oddly intimidating in the middle of the light and splendor. Admittance was only permitted to adults or kids who had supervision. Even then, there were parts where anyone under age was forbidden access.
I spent my off time—between the main attractions in the center ring handling their performances—near the entrance to the freak show. My curiosity had gotten the better of me and I wanted to see the wonders that the signs proclaimed. I wanted to see the Succubus and the Hound of Hell. I wanted to know exactly what the Amazing Snake Man looked like, and what made the Ape Man of Darkest Africa so special. It was simple curiosity, of course. I’d lived a very mundane life and even after seeing some of the more unusual specimens out in the open, there were plenty I had not had the chance to observe.
Curiosity has always been one of my biggest flaws, or greatest assets, depending on whom you ask.
After my seventh time hanging around the outside of the tent, the man who ran it—his name was Ames, I believe, but it’s been a long time—smiled at me and gestured for me to come closer. “Listen, kid, you work here. So no charge if you want to go through, just always ask first, okay?”
I thanked him and he nodded his head. The lion tamer was on stage and would be for a while, so I slipped inside with Ames’s blessing. I walked from the world I knew into a place of terrible magics.