Under the Big Top: My Season With the Circus (33 page)

“
Hurry, hurry, hurry
…”

At the beginning of the year the sound of my own voice startled me. Blaring from the speakers and hurling through the air, it was painfully shrill—and way too fast. I couldn’t hold the squirming crowd. I couldn’t hold the silly accent I’d adopted for the part. I couldn’t even hold the microphone, I was shaking so hard. Elmo advised me to drop my accent, lower my voice, and speak into the microphone as if I was talking to a room full of children.

“
Step right up, boys and girls, and see the circus sideshow
…”

Within a few days I had slowed myself down, and within a few weeks I had deepened my tone in an attempt to mimic the full-bodied bass that Jimmy used so well. A former clown himself, Jimmy had a way of hanging on certain vowels and soaring with certain syllables (“
The Flying Rodríguez Faaaamily
…”) that gave his otherwise flat-footed phrases the ability to turn somersaults in the air. It was by listening to him over several months that I learned the central lesson of announcing, indeed the central lesson of clowning itself. The key was not to be myself, per se, but to be my clown. This notion, so simple, was surprisingly difficult to comprehend, though it ultimately proved pivotal to my ability to perform. It freed me from any embarrassment I might otherwise suffer from standing around in silly shoes with a pointy cap on my head. It allowed me to transcend my otherwise critical mind and act on behalf of my instincts. Above all, it empowered me to override my superego—the constraints learned from society—and live according to my id—my deepest, childlike urges.

This is the genius of clowns, and for some reason only children fully understand it. An adult looks at a clown and sees a person in makeup. A child looks at a clown and sees something else entirely—a caricature, a cartoon, an invincible creation doing what that child always wanted to do: being silly and not being reprimanded, being reckless and not being injured, being naughty and not being punished. Not surprisingly, the child is right. The makeup, so central to the adults, is not an end unto itself; it’s a means of escape. It’s a two-way mirror: allowing you to see what’s deep inside of me, and allowing me to reflect what’s deep inside of you. I was not myself in the ring. I was you. I was everybody. I was a clown.

“
Here he is, ladies and gentlemen, the world-famous fire-eater—Captain Blaaaze
…”

At the moment, however, I am king of the roost, a sideshow barker with a straw hat and a sassy attitude. As I start my pitch, Henry comes stumbling into the center ring, flinging behind him a Superman-like cape and waving in front of him a fiery torch. He staggers up to the elephant tub, and just as I’m about to brag about his “
amazing feats of fire consumption
…,” he points to his stomach, groans in pain, and collapses onto the ground.

“
Uh-oh, boys and girls! Captain Blaze can’t work tonight. Heeee’s got a stomachache. What are we going to do!? Is there a doctor in the house…?!?
”

The words are barely out of my mouth before a screech comes from the back of the seats, the band converts to an upbeat romp, and Marty comes speeding into the ring with flaming red hair, a long lab coat, and a four-foot stethoscope. With his manic pace and agitated action he looks like an absentminded physician—Dr. Jekyll
and
Mr. Hyde. He is followed closely by Arpeggio, wearing mud boots, a nurse’s cap, and a giant white dress that sticks out two feet from his bust and butt with oversized foam vital parts. The Playboy Bunny meets Florence Nightingale.

“
Boys and girls, please welcome…Dr. I. Killum and Nurse Anna Septic…
”

Stopping briefly to accept their accolades (Anna just can’t resist applause; at one point she actually shoves aside the doctor to blow a kiss to her fans), the two professionals from Clown Town Hospital lift the patient off the ground and carry him to a two-piece stomach pump that is waiting in ring one. After a giant suction cup is attached to the fire-eater’s stomach, the procedure is ready to continue.

“
Boys and girls, we need your help…, help us count to three…!
”

Standing at the front of the pump, a giant wooden box about the size of a washing machine, the nurse grabs the handle and pushes toward the ground.

“
One
.”

With each push on the bar she sticks out her butt and the patient’s limbs go flailing.

“
Two
.”

Until her final hefty push when the crowd has joined the call.

“
Three
.”

At which point the doctor goes to the machine and reaches into its core.

“
Doctor, Doctor, what was the problem…?
”

He pulls out a giant gasoline can and squeezes his nose in disgust.

“
Too much gas…!
”

The audience groans as the pun settles in. The next patient staggers to the door.

Since opening day the stomach-pump gag seemed to epitomize all the internal rhythms of Clown Alley. At the beginning of the year the gag was a source of constant friction. Elmo had designed the routine to be what he called a “big bang” gag. “You go through a bunch of business, the object goes bang, and a big surprise pops out.” As he saw it, the gag starts gradually, with each bit getting progressively funnier, until the big surprise at the end. “There’s a rhythm to the gag,” he explained. “You have to have three or four bits so the audience understands the routine.” Jimmy, however, didn’t like rhythm gags; he liked sight comedy—quick visual bits with immediate payoff. Caught in the middle, the clowns didn’t much care about either theory. All we wanted was laughs, which the original gag wasn’t getting. We set out making changes. First, the announcer was moved closer to the action. Next, the number of patients was reduced. Finally, the ailments that afflicted the patients were piqued to make the jokes punchier. By the time we reached New York the gag had been nearly halved in time and more than doubled in laughs. The playpen had performed successful group therapy.

Other changes in the Alley were evident as well. The early tension over my presence had given way first to begrudging admission that I was actually doing the show every day and then by the summer to a surprising brand of acceptance. One incident in particular epitomized the new atmosphere. After autograph party one night in Queens, I stopped by the side of the tent to speak with Khris Allen, who had come to discuss where we were having dinner after the show. As we were speaking, a woman in blue jeans with two small children started badgering me. “Hey, clown!” she shouted from her seat. “Come speak with my children.” When I signaled that the second half was about to begin, her requests became more blunt. “What are you doing?” she blared. “Stop talking to that man and come talk with us.” When I didn’t respond she stood up and started yelling. “Hey, you sorry-ass clown. Come over here and talk to my kids. That’s what you’re paid for. Entertain us!” I left without turning her way.

Back in the Alley when I described this outburst, the other clowns decided to seek retribution. During the stomach pump that evening, Marty, who was playing the fat lady, went to the woman’s side during the act and started dousing her with popcorn. At first she thought it was funny, until the popcorn didn’t stop. One handful in her face. Two handfuls at her mouth. And when she raised her arm to protest, another handful down her blouse. “We clowns have to stick together,” he said when it was over, and this time his slogan had more meaning. The change was showing in our work.

Almost shouting now, I call toward ring one.

“
Wait, Doctor, you’re not through yet…, here comes another patient…
”

As soon as I speak, four-foot-seven-inch Jerry steps into the ring.

“
It’s the circus short man…
”

Pointing desperately at his stomach, Jerry staggers in the direction of the nurse and collapses in her arms.

“
Looks like he’s got a stomachache, too, Doctor. What are we going to do…?
”

The doctor leads the short man to the examining table as the nurse heads toward the pump.

“
Now, boys and girls, we’re going to pump his stomach…Are you ready to count?
”

The children wriggle with anticipation. I raise my arm in the air.

“
One
.”

This time the count begins much louder. The doctor encourages the roar.

“
Two
.”

The entire audience enters the game. The nurse is primping her hair.

“
Three
.”

Until all eyes inside the tent are looking directly at the machine.

“
Doctor, Doctor, what was the problem…?
”

Marty reaches into the pump and withdraws a metal pie plate piled high with shaving cream. The audience coos in expectation.

“
Look at that, boys and girls
.” The doctor sneaks up behind the short man—“
Too
…”—lifts the pie above his head—“
much
…”—and steadies his arm for the final blow—“
SHORTCAKE!
”

Splat.

As soon as the words come out of my mouth Marty takes the plate of cream and smashes it into Jerry’s clown face. The timing couldn’t be more perfect. The audience couldn’t be more thrilled. We clowns are working as well together as we have worked all year. Meanwhile the performers all around us are viciously tearing themselves apart.

By August I had a hard time remembering my early days on the show—the sense of excitement, the feeling of wonder, the idea that around every corner was an undiscovered dream. These impressions had been replaced with an almost oppressive feeling of familiarity with the circus, and with it a sense of isolation from the outside world. Various things marked this transition. At the start of the year the number of trucks and trailers on the show seemed too many to count; now on any highway in the middle of the night I could identify any vehicle by the shape of its taillights alone. At the beginning of the season the sheer volume of costumes was almost overwhelming; now I could pick up any spangle on the lot and identify whose costume it fell off of. On opening day I carried a watch and nervously counted the minutes between acts; now I no longer looked at the time but listened to the music instead. More than merely joining the circus, I had completely melted into the show.

To be sure, living in such an intimate community has its advantages. It’s cozy, for one. There’s a certain comfort that comes from living and working so closely with people, a kind of unspoken trust that comes from constant contact with your neighbors and from an encyclopedic knowledge of their most intimate noises. If nothing else, I had complete faith that after six months in this world everyone in the circus would defend me to the death from the threat of outside force. Circus people may tear themselves apart, but to the outside world they present a resolutely unified face.

Still, if this world felt so safe so much of the time, why did it seem so perilous to inhabit? Why did people flee in the middle of the night? The answer, I came to feel, exists in the nature of the melting pot itself. With such a wide variety of ingredients, the only way for this kind of community to thrive is by letting each individual component live according to his or her own rules. The circus, as a result, is fundamentally liberal. Its essence is its freedom. Its peril is its license. In this way, more than most, the circus is a startling mirror of America, presenting an image that is either a precise reflection or a gross exaggeration. Either way, it’s definitely a world where bodies are primal, where people work with, express themselves through, and spend a remarkable amount of their leisure time worrying about their physical selves. And what about their minds? Some pray. Some read. Some sing. But many more watch Geraldo, read the
Enquirer
(that’s how Kris Kristo, for one, learned English), and talk about their neighbors.

Above all, it was this lethal strain of gossip that so soured me. The sudden departure of Danny Rodríguez brought forth a seemingly endless stream of accusations and innuendo. This wasn’t the tame sort of gossip about who got pregnant before they were married or who was knocking on whose trailer last night. Instead it was a more venomous breed, designed to weaken and destroy. When I first joined the show I was fascinated by all the tales of family intrigue around the lot. I was curious about the number of angles, affairs, and character assassinations that could be flown around one group of people. By August I was sick of them. Did I really want to know that a man I like, a man I admire, tried to make a pass at his own son’s wife? Did I really want to know that another man I like, a man I respect, is married to two women at one time? These activities may be part of “real life,” but if they are, then I know why people go to the circus, for their real lives are too much to bear.

“I knew this was going to happen,” Jimmy James berated me when I told him about my frustration. “You’ve gotten too close. You’ve been at the fair too long. You can’t get attached to these people. You can’t think you’re doing it for them. You’re doing this, we’re all doing this, for the ring. For the love of the circus. It’s like a day-care center all around this lot. That’s why I just retire to my trailer after the show and pull my curtains down. You can’t let circus life ruin your love for the circus.”

After thirty years of living in the same day-care center, Jimmy had tapped into one of the few consistent veins that joined people on the show: the only way to survive in the circus was to build a private world of one’s own. Circus people, I realized, are like tigers: they have a tendency to devour their own. Those who survive do so by living in a tiny cage and only coming out when they have to perform. Right down the line of performers—Nellie and Kristo Ivanov; Venko and Inna Lilov; Dawnita and Gloria Bale—each of these people told me at one time that the only way they survived in the circus was by minding only their own business and nobody else’s. They survived by reaching some mysterious vigilante nirvana, where they trusted no one else and worried only about themselves. They had their forty acres and a mule. They were free.