ain't she something? What a lady. And it's your lucky day, boys, because for tonight only, she'll be accepting a limited number of gentleman callers after the show.
This is a real honor, fellas. She's a gem, our Barbara. A real gem."
The men crowd toward the exit, slapping each other on the back, already exchanging memories.
"Did you see those titties?"
"Man, what a rack. What I wouldn't give to play with those for a while."
I'm glad nothing requires my intervention, because I'm trying hard to maintain my composure. This is the first time I've ever seen a woman naked and I don't think I'll ever be the same.
Four
Ispend the next forty-five minutes standing guard outside Barbara's dressing tent as she entertains gentleman callers. Only five are prepared to part with the requisite two dollars, and they form a surly line. The first goes in and after seven minutes of huffing and grunting emerges again, struggling with his fly. He staggers off and the next enters.
After the last of them leaves, Barbara appears in the doorway. She is nude except for an Oriental silk dressing gown she hasn't bothered to tie. Her hair is mussed, her mouth smudged with lipstick. She holds a burning cigarette in one hand.
"That's it, honey," she says, waving me away. There's whiskey on her breath and in her eyes. "No freebies tonight."
I return to the cooch tent to stack chairs and help dismantle the stage while Cecil counts the money. At the end of it, I'm a dollar richer and stiff all over.
THE BIG TOP STILL STANDS, glowing like a ghostly coliseum and pulsing with the sound of the band. I stare at it, entranced by the sound of the audience's reactions. They laugh, clap, and whistle. Sometimes there's a collective intake of breath or patter of nervous shrieks. I check my pocket watch; it's quarter to ten.
I consider trying to catch part of the show, but am afraid that if I cross the lot I'll get shanghaied into some other task. The roustabouts, having S a r a G r u en spent much of the day sleeping in whatever corner they could find, are dismantling the great canvas city as efficiently as they put it up. Tents drop to the ground, and poles topple. Horses, wagons, and men trek across the lot, hauling everything back to the side rail.
I sink to the ground and rest my head on raised knees. "Jacob? Is that you?"
I look up. Camel limps over, squinting. "By gum, I thought it was," he says. "The old peepers ain't workin' so good no more."
He eases himself down next to me and pulls out a small green bottle. He picks the cork out and takes a drink.
"I'm gettin' too old for this, Jacob. I ache all over at the end of every day. Hell, I ache all over now, and we ain't even at the end of the day yet. The Flying Squadron won't pull out for probably two more hours, and we start the whole danged thing over again five hours after that. It's no life for an old man."
He passes me the bottle.
"What the hell is this?" I say, staring at the brackish liquid. "It's jake," he says, snatching it back.
"You're drinking extract?" "Yeah, so?"
We sit in silence for a minute.
"Damn Prohibition," Camel finally says. "This stuff used to taste just fine till the government decided it shouldn't. Still gets the job done, but tastes like hell. And it's a damn shame because it's all that keeps these old bones going anymore. I'm about used up.
Ain't good for nothin' but ticket seller, and I reckon I'm too ugly for that."
I glance over and decide he's right. "Is there something else you can do instead? Maybe behind the scenes?"
"Ticket seller's the last stop."
"What'll you do when you can't manage anymore?"
"I reckon I'll have an appointment with Blackie. Hey," he says, turning to me hopefully.
"Got any cigarettes?"
"No. Sorry."
Water for E l e p h a n ts
"I didn't suppose," he sighs.
We sit in silence, watching team after team haul equipment, animals, and canvas back to the train. Performers leaving the back end of the big top disappear into dressing tents
This is a real honor, fellas. She's a gem, our Barbara. A real gem."
The men crowd toward the exit, slapping each other on the back, already exchanging memories.
"Did you see those titties?"
"Man, what a rack. What I wouldn't give to play with those for a while."
I'm glad nothing requires my intervention, because I'm trying hard to maintain my composure. This is the first time I've ever seen a woman naked and I don't think I'll ever be the same.
Four
Ispend the next forty-five minutes standing guard outside Barbara's dressing tent as she entertains gentleman callers. Only five are prepared to part with the requisite two dollars, and they form a surly line. The first goes in and after seven minutes of huffing and grunting emerges again, struggling with his fly. He staggers off and the next enters.
After the last of them leaves, Barbara appears in the doorway. She is nude except for an Oriental silk dressing gown she hasn't bothered to tie. Her hair is mussed, her mouth smudged with lipstick. She holds a burning cigarette in one hand.
"That's it, honey," she says, waving me away. There's whiskey on her breath and in her eyes. "No freebies tonight."
I return to the cooch tent to stack chairs and help dismantle the stage while Cecil counts the money. At the end of it, I'm a dollar richer and stiff all over.
THE BIG TOP STILL STANDS, glowing like a ghostly coliseum and pulsing with the sound of the band. I stare at it, entranced by the sound of the audience's reactions. They laugh, clap, and whistle. Sometimes there's a collective intake of breath or patter of nervous shrieks. I check my pocket watch; it's quarter to ten.
I consider trying to catch part of the show, but am afraid that if I cross the lot I'll get shanghaied into some other task. The roustabouts, having S a r a G r u en spent much of the day sleeping in whatever corner they could find, are dismantling the great canvas city as efficiently as they put it up. Tents drop to the ground, and poles topple. Horses, wagons, and men trek across the lot, hauling everything back to the side rail.
I sink to the ground and rest my head on raised knees. "Jacob? Is that you?"
I look up. Camel limps over, squinting. "By gum, I thought it was," he says. "The old peepers ain't workin' so good no more."
He eases himself down next to me and pulls out a small green bottle. He picks the cork out and takes a drink.
"I'm gettin' too old for this, Jacob. I ache all over at the end of every day. Hell, I ache all over now, and we ain't even at the end of the day yet. The Flying Squadron won't pull out for probably two more hours, and we start the whole danged thing over again five hours after that. It's no life for an old man."
He passes me the bottle.
"What the hell is this?" I say, staring at the brackish liquid. "It's jake," he says, snatching it back.
"You're drinking extract?" "Yeah, so?"
We sit in silence for a minute.
"Damn Prohibition," Camel finally says. "This stuff used to taste just fine till the government decided it shouldn't. Still gets the job done, but tastes like hell. And it's a damn shame because it's all that keeps these old bones going anymore. I'm about used up.
Ain't good for nothin' but ticket seller, and I reckon I'm too ugly for that."
I glance over and decide he's right. "Is there something else you can do instead? Maybe behind the scenes?"
"Ticket seller's the last stop."
"What'll you do when you can't manage anymore?"
"I reckon I'll have an appointment with Blackie. Hey," he says, turning to me hopefully.
"Got any cigarettes?"
"No. Sorry."
Water for E l e p h a n ts
"I didn't suppose," he sighs.
We sit in silence, watching team after team haul equipment, animals, and canvas back to the train. Performers leaving the back end of the big top disappear into dressing tents
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