Sideshow

by William Ollie

  Stanley looked up, grinning, smiling appreciatively, those bloodshot eyes filling up his ridiculously thick lenses.

  Geezers and farm boys alike roared their pleasure. Long-haired teenagers clapped and whistled, stomping their feet as a calypso beat filled the air around them.

  At the rear of the tent, the old Sideshow Barker flashed a wicked grin. Then he did a back flip; that stovepipe hat somehow staying on his head while his coattails followed his feet up and around and back to the floor, where the carnival huckster spun himself completely around, and then pointed a hideously long finger toward the stage.

  The stripper, smiling down at Stanley Johnston, pursed her lips in a sexy mock kiss, dipped the puff in the container and touched it lightly to her. “Ya’ll ready?” she called out to the crowd. “You ready, baby?” she said, grinning down at the young soldier.

  “Give it to me!” he shouted. He wanted her. Anything she had was his, everything was his, and he meant to take all of her, take her right on that very stage.

  “Give it to me!” he screamed. “Give it to me, you beautiful bitch!”

  Once again, she touched herself with the powder puff, and then upended the container onto Stanley, whose eyes were transfixed upon her when the powdery contents of the glass bowl rained down upon the young soldier’s face.

  “That’s how ya do it, boys!” she cried out with glee. “That’s how ya powder a pussy!”

  “You bitch!” Stanley growled. He tried climbing onto the stage but somebody grabbed him, tried again and somebody shoved him to the ground. He sat for a moment, struggling to get up. He felt dizzy, faint, the fiery burn of alcohol that had spurred him forward suddenly dissipating as he staggered up to his feet, where he made a halfhearted move for the stage but was pushed back. It was over now, over and he knew it. She wasn’t his, and would never be his. He’d been disgraced and humiliated, dishonored. And now the tent was closing in on him, the walls surging forward, the ceiling pressing down while the crowd hovered impossibly close, so close they could reach out and touch him, even though he knew they were several yards away and couldn’t possibly lay a finger on him. He stumbled for the exit, listing sideways as he hurried past geezers and farmers, and all those laughing and taunting figures at the periphery of his vision, and the Sideshow Barker, who smiled as he went past, and then followed him quietly into the night.

  Stanley felt dizzy as he stumbled beneath the starry night sky, his knees weak, his face… numb. “What did you… do… to me?” he whimpered. “You… buck-toothed…” He lurched forward, the ground slipping and sliding beneath his feet, the sky spinning, the swirling stars melding together above his head. Footsteps sounded behind him, followed by wild, cackled laughter. He turned to face the noise, and fell to his knees. He felt queasy, faint. He began to swoon. Soon he found himself flat on his stomach on the ground, cool and refreshing blades of grass pressing against his face, as his eyes closed and he found himself drifting down and around, around and down where nothing could find him, nothing but his grotesque goddess, who came swirling up in a faint, hazy cloud at the edge of his vision. She touched him, and her touch was as cool as he’d thought it would be, cooler, even—cold. Cold as the razor-sharp edge of a butcher’s blade, slick as the blood he soon found himself swimming in. She came to him, her and her master, with his stovepipe hat and tails, but now a longer tail—a forked tail of diamond-shaped scales ran from beneath his coat, dragging on the ground he walked upon. They swam at the edge of his consciousness, smiling, laughing and taunting as he lay before them, naked before her cold exhilarating touch, which was so much colder than he ever thought it would be, than he ever thought it could be, until she was gone, they were gone, and he opened his eyes to find daylight streaming in through the bars of the cage that confined him, patches of it painting the straw and sawdust floor he sat upon. He looked down at his hand, but he had no hand, looked at his arm but no arm was there. No hands or arms, no feet, no legs. But that was impossible. He had hands, he had arms and legs. He could see them propped up in the corner against the bars of his cage.

  He opened his mouth to scream but nothing came out. But he could hear it.

  He could hear it, all right.

  That high pitched keening rising steadily up from the base of his throat was the only thing he could hear.

  ♠

  October…

  He was a tall man, long and lean and thin as a rail. His grey hair hung over his shoulders like a tangled clump of bristled wires. There was a black coat with tails on his back, a stovepipe hat on his head. The weather-beaten satchel he carried—a valise, really—was very old. Older than he, even. The fine pebbled leather, worn down over the years, was as soft and smooth as the underbelly of a cow. So long ago had he acquired the satchel that he could scarcely recall from whence it had come. Only that it was his, and it held the tools of his trade, which he had also been charged with many years ago.

  He had walked the back roads of this country for more years than he cared to remember. More years than he possibly could remember. And as he made his way down this lonely stretch of South Carolina flat land, he knew that he had a purpose in life, one he could not be swayed from. He was a man on a mission, a man with a job to do.

  He would do that job come hell or high water.

  He would do that job and nothing would stop him.

  Nothing.

  And nobody.

  Chapter One

  Justin Henry sat on the front porch swing reading an X-Men comic book, the sun, bright and orange in the midmorning sky hovering high above the landscape—every once in a while it would dodge into a patchwork of fluffy white clouds moving slowly across the horizon, and then suddenly reappear. There was a gentle breeze blowing through the Carolinas that morning, one whose temperature put Justin in mind of his second favorite holiday of the year. Soon the Halloween decorations would be out, the pumpkins carved and left on the porch. Up would rise the fake tombstones from the neighboring yards. Throughout the small community, scarecrows and sheet ghosts would be hung.

  Justin could hardly wait to see them.

  A cool breeze was blowing, the sun shining in the sky, the chores all done and put to rest, leaving Justin nothing to do but sit around soaking up another perfect Saturday morning. It was his favorite time of the week, the day young, a weekend full of untold of adventures lying before him while the ‘cloud statues’ rolled by overhead—another favorite of his: sitting on the porch watching the different shapes float by on the breeze. Here a snow white Irish Terrier, there a white-cotton bull, its thick horns trailing above it, rising up and away into the pale blue sky like twisting wisps of campfire smoke.

  Justin Gabriel Henry, the boy with three first names and no last, a tag he’d lived with since kindergarten. Not too bad a dig to endure, when you thought about it. At least he wasn’t fat. His face wasn’t all broke out like Mickey Reardon’s, either, his lifelong pal who obsessed over his affliction while damn near every kid he came across cheerfully nailed him with ‘pizza face’ and every other variant of his disorder they could come up with. A disorder, really, that was nothing more than the rigors of childhood, an onset of puberty most kids eventually found themselves traveling through. Except poor old Mickey seemed to have been trudging his way through the slings and arrows it had brought his way for an awfully long time now. Poor old Mickey, who lived alone with a mother, who left him home alone most nights so she could roam the bars and honky tonks, hoping to dig up a replacement for the man who had left her and her son high and dry while he went off ‘looking for himself’. Went off looking and never came back.

  Justin glanced up at the sky, smiling at the caboose of a train that had formed there while he’d been reading his comic, which was why he enjoyed those clouds so much. Look up now and see a caboose, ten minutes later the caboose would be gone, replaced by something else, a giant mouse, a duck with a hat, a galloping horse, maybe.

  He closed the book and laid it beside him on the slatted wooden sea
t of the porch swing. He was only on page 8, but he didn’t care—he knew the story backwards and forwards anyway. The breeze lifted a swatch of sandy brown hair away from his forehead as he looked out to see Mickey Reardon peddling his bike up the old dirt road.

  He sat on the swing while his friend laid his bike over in the front yard, bounded across the yard and up the front porch steps, and then leaned against the wooden railing that ran across the front of the house. He had on a red t-shirt, a soiled pair of Converse sneakers and, like Justin, faded Levi jeans. “D’ja hear?” he said.

  “Hear what?”

  “The carnival.”

  “Yeah,” Justin said. “Next week. It’s always next week, same time every year.”

  “No, man, there’s a Ferris wheel turning out at Godby’s field, right now.”

  “Godby’s field? That’s—”

  “I was riding along and this big-assed Ferris wheel sprouted up out of the ground like some kinda crazy tree.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I saw it,” Mickey said. “Through the trees out at Godby’s field, rising higher and higher like some kinda crazy trick photography. It just grew, man. Up, up, and up it went, ‘til it was towering over the tree line.”

  “Reardon.”

  “I’m telling you, there’s a Ferris wheel turning out at Godby’s field!”

  “Heck, that don’t make any sense, no sense at all. It’s out in the middle of nowhere, for God sakes.”

  “It ain’t that far out.”

  “It’s not the middle of town, either, and that’s where they always set up. Why would they put it out in that old field, anyway? Nobody goes anywhere near that place. And there damn sure wasn’t no Ferris wheel growing up out of the ground.”

  “I saw what I saw.”

  “Yeah, and you are what you are.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Justin was about to crack wise about Mickey and his crazy mom—she was crazy, all right. As pretty as she was, there was something about her, the look in her eyes, the far off stare of them, the way she carried herself. She was crazy, so was he, kinda. The taunt was right on the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t let fly with it. He looked at his friend, who had something in his eyes as well, something that never left them, something floating behind the fun and good cheer, just beyond those brassy, one-line put downs he loved tossing out to the bullies and creeps—a sad glint accessible only to those who truly cared for him, which, sadly, seemed to be few and far between, these days. Justin thought he could probably have counted them on the fingers of his right hand and have plenty of fingers left over. He couldn’t let it fly, but he wasn’t about to let him off the hook, either, so he gave him a little smirk, and said, “Figure it out, dude.”

  “Yeah?” Mickey said. “Well figure this out, dude. If there’s a Ferris wheel spinning round Godby’s field—and there is—then there’s gonna be two carnivals this year, and you and me can hit both of ‘em. Startin’ right now. Sooo… why don’t we just ride on over there and check it out?”

  “You know what?” Justin said. “I’d love to.”

  He grabbed his comic book, stood up and walked to the front door, opened it and tossed the comic onto a chair sitting just inside the doorway. “Hey Mom! Me and Mickey’s riding into town!” he called out, turning his back to the screen door as it slammed shut behind him.

  But they weren’t riding into town, not really. They were heading much further than that, past the apartments and the rundown houses on the east side of town, past the bars the unemployed drunks staggered from when the money ran out and the bottles stopped pouring, past the alleyways the crack heads roamed, to a ruinous field on the outskirts of Pottsboro, South Carolina, a place they had no reason venturing to, to visit something that—as far as Justin could tell—had no reason being there at all.

  Chapter Two

  They hopped off the porch, onto Justin’s front yard, where Mickey snatched his bike off the ground and stood it upright, straddling the seat while Justin came around the side of the house on a bike of his own. Then they were off, racing side by side down the old dirt road as fast as they could go, the sun on their backs, smiles on their faces and wind in their hair. Working their way toward town took them past farmhouses and fields and thick wooded lots. Occasionally a dog would perk up as they went by, a neighbor would give them a smile, a wink or a wave of a hand. Or in the case of old man Terwillegher, a scowl and a disgusted shake of the head.

  Justin glanced over at Mickey Reardon, who had the same look of awe on his face as when he’d bounded up those front porch stairs crowing about his Ferris wheel. Of course, Justin didn’t believe any of that sprouting up out of the ground nonsense, but he did believe there was a Ferris wheel. Mickey could be loopy, a little dopey sometimes, but Justin had never known his friend to out and out make stuff up. Sure, he could spin a tall tale or two with the best of them, and he could darn sure slather on some stuff to turn a mundane happening into a terrific event. But that look on his face hadn’t materialized out of thin air. Something was going on out at that field, and Justin wanted to see just what that something was, even if it did turn out to be another of his friend’s tall tales—which was what Justin figured Reardon’s cockamamie story to be, a little garnishment to set the mood for their big carnival outing. Surely they would find their way out there, if not tonight, then next weekend for sure. Which begged the question: why were they setting it up on a Saturday afternoon? Why not open on Thursday (like they did every year like clockwork) so people could have a full four day’s worth? What kind of carnival shows up out of nowhere on a Saturday morning? And stays a day and a week! They’d never hung around that long before. They’d always opened on Thursday afternoon and shut down late Sunday night—was it possible they’d only be here a day and a half? That didn’t make much sense to Justin. And what about the timing; they had never shown up this week. It was always next week, the last week of October, regular as Christmas. And why were they out at the old field? Was it even the same people? Couldn’t be, could it?

  Those were the questions piquing Justin’s interest, not anything Mickey Reardon had said, especially not a BS story about a Ferris wheel rising up from the ground like Jack’s magical beanstalk.

  They continued on their way, off the dirt road, onto the paved surface of a tree-lined lane that would lead them into town. Here the going wasn’t so tough; the loose dirt and rocks didn’t fight them; their legs didn’t have to churn so furiously to keep the momentum going. They coasted through these outlying neighborhoods, with their tract housing, their white picket fences and lush green yards. Every once in a while, Mickey would mention something that had happened during the school week, some prank he had pulled on Mrs. Teeter, how he’d managed to keep one step ahead of Bo Johnson, the class bully who’d been in the same class several years too long. He’d been looking high and low for whoever had chalked a stick figure along with the words ‘Bo Johnson Sux’on the side of the school, a stick figure with a cock in its mouth and one pointed at its butt. Somehow Mickey had been able to dodge his way out of harm’s reach while the guy went up through the ranks savaging every person he’d thought had reason enough to mock him. Which was turning out to be quite an extensive list of nerds and geeks. Of course, it was Mickey who had done it. And Mickey, the class clown, would never be able to deny it, not and still keep a straight face, not even with the hand of doom bearing down upon him. No way would he be able to keep from giving himself away. He’d smile, he’d laugh. A goofy look would do him in. A roll of the eyes, a twinkle of them would bring the fists, and the blows would find him. Shortly thereafter would come a savage beat down…

  They soon found themselves in the heart of their little town square, which wasn’t much of a town square at all. A drug store and a general store lined the main thoroughfare, a dime store and an Ace hardware. Down the street stood a faded red brick structure that served as the town jailhouse, the headquarters of Rusty Piersol, the head of Pott
sboro’s two man police force. Next door to the jailhouse was the town hall, a steepled wooden building housing the oldest town clock in the state of South Carolina, a distinction many residents were quite proud of. There were liquor stores but no movie theaters, taverns but no hospitals. But there was a schoolhouse, and a church, and they passed both of them on their way through town.

  They were approaching the general store, when Mickey said, “Let’s grab a Coke or something.”

  “I don’t have any money,” Justin told him.

  “Yeah, you never got any money, do ya?” They pulled up to the curb. Justin kicked down his stand and Mickey leaned his bike against the metal cage of a newspaper rack. “C’mon,” he said. “I’ll pay.”

  They crossed the sidewalk on their way to the store. The rusty spring on the old screen door squalled when Mickey snatched the door open, and then drew the door shut when they stepped inside.

  Jim Kreigle looked up from his perch behind the counter as they ventured down the candy aisle. He was a tall man with silver hair and narrow shoulders. A God fearing man, like most of the folks in his community, he went to work in the morning, to church on Sundays, and paid his taxes on time. He had on a pair of jeans and a red and white checkered shirt. “What’s up, boys?” he said. Behind him through the open doorway of his office, Helen Kreigle sat staring at a computer monitor. She had curly brown hair streaked with grey, and soft brown eyes that sparkled when she smiled up at them.

  “Hey, Mr. K,” Mickey called out on his way to the coolers, where he slid open a door and withdrew two bottles of Coke, one of which he screwed the lid off. The other he handed to Justin, who said, “Thanks”, and then twisted the cap off his. He brought the plastic bottle up to his mouth, tipped it back and took a good long drink. The Coke, cool and refreshing, felt great going down his parched throat. He stood for a moment, and then followed Mickey back up the aisle, smiling when two Snickers candy bars were plucked from the shelves. On up to the counter Kreigle stood behind they went, where Mickey showed him the candy and tossed a five dollar bill on the counter.