Side by side with twelve other girls, who are wearing their pieces of the flag, I come out in the dark and with a roustabout’s help, climb to the top of one of thirteen rope ladders that have been lowered from forty feet above in front
of the red velvet drape. At the end of the song, spotlights hit the thirteen of us, long silver gowns sparkling like nobody’s business.
The ringmaster reiterates that the Greatest Show on Earth supports our boys overseas and the American Way. There is a drum roll. The girls and I turn our backs to the audience and as one, pull the cords and drop our hidden, rolled up sections of fabric. Voila! A twenty- by thirty-foot American flag hangs in the Big Top.
While we are in our frozen tableau, twenty elephants are led out and form a circle around the perimeter of the three rings. Holding small American flags in the tip end of their trunks, the big twenty hold their trunks high and turn in circles in place, waving the flags to a cheering, foot-stomping crowd. I suspect the uproar can be heard in the next county.
The first time I was a part of this extravaganza, the sheer volume of the crowd’s response almost caused me to lose my footing. Frankly, I think we could go home right after that one, but this is only the beginning of what is truly the greatest show on earth.
I grab five of the eleven of my costumes, take them to my side of the dressing area then go back for the rest. The system is you hang the costumes on your own rack behind your assigned makeup table. You never throw your costumes over a chair, table or anywhere else. If you don’t hang them up immediately and the Section Captain catches you - in my case, Margie – you’ll be fined. The SC’s word is law and never challenged. We are also fined if we smoke, drink or eat in costume, so nobody does that, either. A buck fine coming out of a twenty-five-dollar paycheck is keenly felt, believe me. I was fined once for chewing gum in costume.
Margie can be tough and she shows no favoritism. My pal takes her job seriously and I can see her running this joint one day, the first female Boss Man. She doesn’t talk about it much, but she has aspirations.
At the end of each performance, you return the costumes to the racks for cleaning and repair. The wardrobe crew is the best and I always try to do right by them.
I enter the dressing area and find it filled with quiet but tense performers. Hardly anyone talks about Eddie, considered bad luck during a performance, but knowledge of his death crackles in the air like static electricity. Catalena and Coke being hospitalized adds to the unspoken anxiety. In my opinion, it’s a lackluster, preoccupied performance but the enthusiastic response from the audience seems genuine enough.
I sneak out into the wings to watch the knife thrower’s act instead of reading one of my books, which is what I usually do when I have any sort of break. Constantin comes out brandishing his knives to hefty applause, Ioana trotting behind. The thin twelve-year old girl has been pinned and gaffer taped into her sister’s lavender costume. Satin and tulle bunch awkwardly at her chest and thighs, emphasizing what a scrawny little kid she is.
I remember noticing recently Catalena had filled the costume out, bust and hips becoming more rounded. I thought it was the onset of womanhood, but rethinking, it must have been the pregnancy.
Wearing dark coveralls, one of the roustabouts follows Constantin around. He takes Ioana’s place handing equipment to Constantin and putting props where they belong. A few of the tricks have been cut but the finale is left intact. After all, it’s Constantin Baboescu’s signature piece.
With great showmanship, Constantin helps his younger daughter up on a platform and straps her to a giant wheel, skinny arms and legs spread eagle. He struts twenty to twenty-five paces away. The roustabout sets the wheel spinning and Constantin throws over a dozen knives outlining the girl’s body. The applause is appreciative and spirited.
The lights go down over the ring, save the turning wheel and Constantin’s form. There is a drum roll. The audience becomes as one, straining in their anticipation.
Constantin turns around, his back to the wheel. At arm’s length he holds a long, dagger-shaped knife by the tip of the blade. He hesitates dramatically. The wheel continues to spin holding the small girl. He throws the knife backwards over his shoulder and it lands at the top of the girl’s head, touching soft, brown curls. The silence is so intense; you can hear the blade cut into the wood of the spinning wheel. The audience is on its feet en masse in deafening applause. I let out a sigh of relief and watch Constantin help Ioana down. He hugs her, kisses the top of her head and displays her to the audience for applause. Like Doc says, 'Jesus, what a life.'
I hurry back to the dressing room to change into my pink ballet costume for the Dance of the Elephants, then dash outside behind the Big Top. All fifty elephants are lined up waiting for their cue, handlers by their sides. Patiently, they stand side by side decked out in their baby pink tutus and sparkling head harnesses with feathers and beads. Fifty elephants with tutus wrapped around their girths is quite a sight, even for a seasoned trouper like me.
I run to my little lady, Topsy, and find Whitey holding onto her harness. He signals for the elephant to raise and bend her leg.
“Sorry I’m late. Where’s Sandy?” I say, while I reach up and hop onto Topsy’s bent leg, using it as a step.
“He’s inside waiting for you,” Whitey answers.
Standing on Topsy’s leg, I croon to her, “Hey, little girl. It’s good to see you again. How’s my baby doll?”
I stroke her forehead and grab onto her harness. Half leaping and half pulling myself up, I throw one leg over her head. Whitey makes sure I don’t fall. Topsy snorts her greeting to me and I look down at the gorgeous, blonde man by her side.
“Did you get your jacket back?” I ask with a smile.
“Yeah, I got it,” Whitey replies, looking at me in a very strange way. He doesn’t return my smile. I’m perplexed but have no time to think about it. The lead elephant of our group had started into the arena and the others swivel in turn, grab a tail, and start entering the tent. Away I go.
I hear Whitey’s voice calling to me and look over my shoulder in his direction.
“Jeri! I --” He shouts and waves at me. Whitey hesitates, changing his mind about something. “Never mind. It can wait. It’s nothing, nothing.”
I nod, returning the wave, and turn back to the job at hand. I’ll have to find out later whatever Whitey wants or doesn’t want.
Inside the Big Top, Zolina heads for the perimeter of the Center Ring astride Modoc, followed by forty-nine other elephants and girls. Topsy’s and my place is outside the third ring, where she and I are the featured performers at the beginning and end of the act. Sandy taps his foot waiting for us. His job is to make sure my little girl behaves herself and does all her tricks just as she should. She always does.
With Balendron’s clever choreography, the elephants dance to the strains of Igor Stravinsky’s ballet music and we’re the usual big hit. When it’s time for Topsy’s and my showpiece, the other elephants leave the Big Top and Topsy strolls to the center ring, me on her head. With great fanfare, I dismount and lie on the ground. Drum roll. Topsy walks over, straddles my body, then lays down on top of me completely covering my body with hers, careful to never put her full weight down. I know she hears the gasps from the audience, same as I, as she lowers her body seemingly to the ground. She stops so close, I can feel the warmth of her skin.
A hush falls over the crowd. They’re wondering if I’ve been crushed to death. On cue, I stick out a hand and wave to
them. Wild cheering. After a few seconds, Topsy rises and carefully steps away from me. I stand up and strike a pose,
showing one and all I’m fine. The audience goes mad, screaming and cheering.
Now it’s time for our piece de resistance. Topsy sits down on her haunches, pulling her front legs upward and into the air. She looks like a large dog begging for a treat. At first shocked, the audience laughs and applauds. I grab onto her left front leg, swing up and sit on it, the
n hoist myself up by her harness, swing over, and kneel on her forehead. When I get my balance, I stand tall, arms held high in the air. For several seconds my pachyderm partner and I hold our positions, while cheers just about take the roof off. Everyone loves Topsy.
As the applause begins to die down, I hop back down to her left leg and to the ground. Sandy, always nearby, speaks to her with authority, but also kindness and not a small amount of affection. Once when she was sick, he never left her side, staying night and day on the hay next to her. One morning I went by and saw him cuddling as much of her as he could in his arms, both fast asleep. As I say, everyone loves Topsy.
Sandy gives the one-word command to her, as he taps her front end. “Down.”
My obedient, little sweetheart lowers her front legs and rises on all fours, shaking herself like a dog. But she’s not a dog. She’s the largest, most powerful animal on earth, capable of the same kind of mass destruction as one of MacArthur’s Sherman tanks. I saw a spooked elephant plow through two feet of solid concrete, coming out the other side with no more than a scratch. You don’t forget something like that.
“Up,” Sandy says, stroking Topsy’s trunk. She curls her trunk up and lowers her head. I climb inside the curl and, lying width-wise, arch my back and strike yet another
glamorous pose. To thunderous applause, Topsy carries me out of the tent. Another day; another fifty-cents.
The show nears its end and it’s time for the Grand Finale. That’s the parade where the various acts, performers and animals prance around the rings reminding the audience of what they’ve seen during the show. It’s a pain in the neck, but the crowds love it.
We change costumes, Margie, Doris and I, laughing and gabbing, as usual. I’m not sure why they adopted me seven years ago when I showed up at Radio City. They were two highly paid showgirls, a few years older than me, and I was a lowly swing dancer, just starting out. The three of us have been inseparable ever since, sharing laughs, hats and shoes along the bumpy road of life.
We joined the circus one freezing November day after reading a casting call in the New York Times. My pals decided that up north was no place to spend another winter and after what happened to me at Brinks, I needed some sunshine.
I needed more than that. Because of me, a little boy was dead. Brinks said it wasn’t my fault, but I know better. So we hocked our fur coats, got on a train, and three days later were lounging under the Sarasota sun, along with the oranges and alligators. It was supposed to be for one season but it’s been two years and we show no signs of leaving. A new home; a new life.
I stand nude by my makeup table save for my g-string. Doris, sitting beside me, glances over and sees the angry red and purple welt on my hip in a starburst of discoloration.
“Jeri, honey lamb! Who took a bull whip to you?” she cries out.
“Oh, I had a fall earlier today,” I say, trying to make light of the incident at Old Kirby’s wagon. “I’ll be all right.”
Through the routine of the show, I almost forgot the ugly events of the morning, but with Doris’ remark, they all come swimming back.
All the girls look at me, Margie included. She gets up, setting lime green and fuchsia organza sleeves in motion.
Crystalline green stones on her bustier catch the light as she comes over.
“Jer, can you strut your stuff with that? We don’t want you getting hurt.”
“Oh, please,” I say, once again trying to make light of it. “Remember when I broke my arm after I fell off one of the elephants? I worked with a cast for six weeks and never missed a performance. A little bruise isn’t going to stop me.”
“You’re such a trouper, kiddo, they’re gonna mount a statue to you.” Laughing, Margie adjusts her four-foot high fuchsia headdress, shiny green balls swinging from her movement.
I’m about to reply when the thin curtain to our small section flies open and Rosie steps inside, looking for a fight.
Her face is made up now, broad lines of color accentuating pallid features. She’s wearing a shimmering purple-beaded bodice and matching tights. Hair piled on top of her head, several switches included, her look is finished off by a violet-colored ostrich plume, dotted with flashy rhinestones, framing one side of her face. She does up well, as they say. She’s also more than a competent performer, a real crowd pleaser, so why she always seems to have a chip on her shoulder, I’ll never know.
“Well, look who’s slumming,” Margie says, turning to the shorter girl. These two have never liked each other. They both want to get some place, but Rosie’s a competitive bitch about it.
This time, Rosie ignores Margie but stares bullets at me. “You! What the hell do you mean by leaving the rigging unlatched and hanging in the middle of the air like that? Or are you too stupid like the rest of the grape stompers to learn how to do it right?”
It takes me a second or two to figure out what she was talking about, although, I know right away the crack about ‘grape stompers’ is a slam at my heritage. Rosie can be the queen of ethnic and racial slurs, when she sets her mind to it.
Being of Irish descent, you’d think she would know better, having her seen her share of bigotry, but apparently not.
I can feel Margie’s hackles rise. She shoots me a look and waits, giving me the opportunity to throw on a robe before I reply. I tie the belt in a knot while trying to keep my temper under control, and look at Rosie, who is shaking from anger.
“First of all, I don’t appreciate the name calling, so please stop it, at least in front of me.”
“Oh, you don’t?” Her mouth seems almost deformed by a snarl.
I go on as if she hasn’t interrupted me, “Secondly, I’m sorry about not locking the trapeze back in place but when Catalena started screaming I just dropped from the swing and went to help. I realize it should have been re-latched but considering the circumstances--”
“You always have some damned excuse,” she interrupts with a sneer. “Like to use your highfalutin words and all that, don’t you, you Guinea Grease Ball? Makes you feel important. Well, you’re just trash in my book.”
“Watch it,” Margie says to Rosie through gritted teeth but the warning comes too late.
I slap Rosie’s face as hard as I can and stand there, waiting for whatever might come. Go ahead, I think, it’s out in
the open now. Jump me, pull my hair, kick me, bite me, try something; I’m ready for you. Nothing.
Her face registers shock and the outline of my handprint glows an angry pink on her cheek. Still nothing. She turns to Margie.
“Did you see that? The Dago bitch slapped me. As the Section Captain, it’s your duty to write her up. Report her. I want her thrown out on her ear.”
Margie shrugs and saunters away, heading back to her makeup station. She concentrates on an errant curl, her green eyes flashing.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Rosie. I didn’t see anybody slap anybody. But I did hear you use foul language. That’s a buck fine for each word, you know that. I’m writing you up for a dollar.”
“Why, you fucking, kike bitch,” Rosie roars.
Margie swivels and stares down at the shorter woman. My friend’s heart-shaped face, usually warm and inviting, looked more like cut crystal. An easy 6’4” in her heels, she can be intimidating.
I hold my breath. I’ve heard one or two people make ethnic slurs at Margie in the past and they’ve regretted it for a long time. Not physically, because Margie’s a non-violent girl, but she can use words to hit somebody just as hard as I’d slapped Rosie. Margie decides to go the cash-and-carry route.
“That’s three dollars, Toots. Care to make it four? And if you call me one more name, I’ll see that you lose your paycheck for a week.”
Rosie’s head snaps around at the other eight women in the dressing area, who are staring up at her in silence. “Are you all going to sit there and let these two do this to me?”
The women shrug or ignore her, going back to their makeup and hair,
except for Doris.
“Land sakes alive, Rosie O’Reilly,” my southern friend drawls, “you make more noise than the finals at a Georgia hog calling contest. Now shoo. Go away. We’re getting ready for the finale.”
Rosie returns her focus to me, fury distorting her face. I glare right back at her.
“You! I’ll get even with you for this.” She spins back to Margie and Doris. “The three of you! Just you wait! Don’t any of you think about turning your back on me.”
“Gee, I’m shaking in my boots,” retorts Margie.
“There’s a wind blowing in here, girls,” says Doris, using her most southern, gentile voice. “Or is somebody passing gas? It’s hard to tell but I sure enough smell something.”
Rosie wheels around to leave, knocking into one of the freestanding changing lights over by the exit. The tall metal pole, topped with three lights aiming left, right and center, teeters and crashes to the ground, glass shattering into the sawdust. Rosie kicks at it and stalks out.
“And that’s another two bucks for damaging circus equipment,” Margie shouts to her departing figure.
There’s a moment’s quiet and then collective giggling. A little dazed, I sit down and start putting on my last costume. I’m running late; I’ll think about Rosie later.
After ten grueling numbers, where I work hard in the air and on the ground, I get to take a ride during the Grand Finale, dressed up as a Spanish aristocrat inside a howdah. That’s sort of a box with a saddle base worn by a camel or elephant. I ride atop a pachyderm named Mabel, known for her prickly disposition. She’s willing to walk around in a circle with someone sitting on her back and that’s about it.
I step into my last costume, newly made for me. My gown is voluminous and heavy, another one weighing in at forty-plus pounds. Yards of dark blue velvet, embroidered
with metallic gold threads and encrusted with pearls encircle the skirt. Shades of blue, red and lavender are woven into a tapestry bodice, as beautiful close up as from a distance. A rhinestone-studded gold crown is covered by a black lace mantilla that flows down my back and along the sides of my face. When I unpin and fluff up my black hair, I feel like an aristocratic Spanish senorita of bygone days.
Death of A Clown Page 6
