Revoltingly Young (25 page)

FRIDAY, August 26 – Sorry I skipped a day. Too much going on. I decided since I came this far I couldn’t just give up. I passed another miserable shift under shrubbery on Wednesday. Summer nights in Spokane, I discovered, are much colder than in Santa Monica. The ground seemed noticeably harder too. Next time I run away from home I’ll remember to bring a sleeping bag and air mattress.

It occurred to me that one of the ways rich people get ahead is by exploiting their family connections. There I was homeless and freezing under a bush when I had a brother who’d been in
People
magazine.

I didn’t recall the Hercules Circus having any jugglers, but I had seen a guy who had an interesting act balancing a small pug dog on his nose. That could be interpreted as a form of juggling. After defrosting in a nearby donut shop, I returned to the fairgrounds and tracked down the man, who was walking three pug dogs (all wearing cute bow ties on their collars) by an encampment of large trailers. I asked him if he knew Nick Twisp.

“
The juggler?” he asked warily as his dogs sniffed my shoes. “I’ve met him a few times. Why?”

“
He’s my brother and I need a job.”

“
How do I know you’re his brother?”

“
Well, ask me a question about him.”

“
What kind of car does he have?”

“
He drives a BMW. A gray one with a dent in the rear quarter panel from where a guy kicked it in a road-rage incident.”

“
If you say so. And where does he perform?”

“
Formerly at the Normandie casino in Vegas, but he’s moving to Paris.”

“
Really? I hadn’t heard that. OK, I suppose you could be his brother. Do you have an act?”

“
No, sorry.”

“
Any skills?”

“
Not really. But I work cheap.”

I had to wait around all day, but eventually I got in to see the head boss, a balding older Greek fellow (and husband of the lady with the big glasses) named Balasi Patsatzis. He asked me more questions about my brother, and some personal ones too, like was I really 17 and did my family know where I was? I answered those more or less untruthfully, and he finally agreed to try me out for a week or two to determine “the cut of my mustard.” My job is mostly janitorial: I clean the office and bunkhouse trailers, plus all the restrooms (called donikers for some reason). I also pick up litter on the lot and operate the bounce house on the midway before and after performances. This is a vinyl structure in the shape of a circus wagon, kept inflated by an electric blower, where kids go in with their shoes off and bounce their little brains out. I’m working 11 hours a day, seven days a week for $95 a week, plus room and board. All I have to do is stick it out for seven weeks, and I’ll be back financially where I was when I started. I hope my brother had a better time of it when he ran away to that circus in France.

Will try to write more tomorrow if I have the strength.

SATURDAY, August 27 – We jumped to Coeur d’Alene, Idaho this morning. Not that far; only took an hour. A scenic town on a big blue lake. Lots of townies turned out to watch the big tent go up. They even bused in school kids for the spectacle. A tractor tugs up the two tall center masts, then electric motors on the masts lift up the tent. Next, the crew installs the quarter poles and side poles, hammers in the stakes, unfolds the bleachers, connects up the lights and sound system, and rigs up the equipment for the aerial acts. If it’s a hot day like today, they connect up a truck with this huge swamp cooler to blow chilled air into the big top. Meanwhile, the marquee and dining tents are going up, and I’m struggling to unroll the heavy bounce house and get it inflated. In a bit under three hours, the show is ready to open and I’m ready to collapse.

Some circuses use elephants to put up their tents, but Mr. Patsatzis is not big on animal acts. He says they’re too much trouble, and he would rather pour a little gas into a tractor than a lot of hay into an elephant. The only exotic animals traveling with the show (excluding Marcel the clown’s little monkey and Mr. Barker’s pug dogs) are four ostriches ridden by a family of acrobatic Hungarians named Herczegh (pronounced like a vigorous sneeze).

The big tent has seating for about 1300. When at least 1,000 of them are occupied, Mr. Patsatzis looks slightly less fraught with worry. When the crowd is sparse, he slaps his forehead and moans “Tonight we eat the ostriches!” So far, though, they’ve stayed off the menu (except for their eggs which on a good morning can feed the entire company).

Running a circus is hard on the nerves and on the wallet. Even when the house is full, not all of the seats are paid for. The sponsoring organization or club in each town distributes plenty of Annie Oakleys (free tickets) to kids. Then the kids drag along their parents, who have to fork over for admission, souvenir booklets, balloons, refreshments, etc. Thankfully, the sponsors are contractually obligated to provide port-a-potties, so I don’t have to swab up after thousands of slobs.

Since we moved today, only two performances are scheduled. Tomorrow we have three. Circus people are real masochists for work. Probably not the neatest folks on the planet either. All of the trailer restrooms were way overdue for scrubbing. I don’t know what they would have done if I hadn’t come along. Probably board them up as health menaces. Those roustabouts may be able to pound in huge metal stakes and muscle around great rolls of tent fabric, but they can’t hit the side of a barn when they take a piss.

I certainly hope I don’t have to spend my life swinging brooms, pushing vacuums, and swabbing toilets. I see now why Nick taught himself to juggle. There’s lots to be said for having a marketable skill out here in the real world.

SUNDAY, August 28 – I’ve been catching a few more snatches of the show. This Señor Alfredo Nunez seems to be something of a big shot in the circus world. He’s the only one of the four clowns who gets introduced by name. If there’s a Señora Nunez somewhere, she’s not in evidence. He lives alone in one of the fancier trailers and drives a big Dodge diesel pickup equipped with a booster seat and pedal extensions. Those trucks, I know, don’t come cheap. He’s been totally ignoring me on the lot and in the dining tent.

By the way, the eats are pretty good and they don’t skimp on the servings. They can’t really, because everyone works up massive appetites slaving so hard. Mostly the kids sit together for meals. There are quite a few, including some pretty girls around my age. Some are performers and some are just brats who travel with their parents. So far they haven’t had much to say to the new janitor. I think Randy has been bad-mouthing me to them. He’s a nasty little runt with yellow smoker’s teeth who claims to be 18, but I have my doubts. If Marty thinks I’m an uncultured clod, he should meet this guy–truly your redneck’s redneck. Randy works in the commissary as the helper assistant–a job I would rate as even crummier than mine. When I showed up, they made him move out of a bunkhouse trailer and sleep in the pantry of the commissary trailer. It wasn’t my idea, but he still hates my guts.

Depending on their length, the bunkhouse trailers have 10 or 12 tiny roomettes and one communal bathroom in the rear. The earlier you get up, the better your chance of getting in the shower and scoring some hot water. If you bogart the shower too long, a muscular and likely tattooed arm will reach in and yank you out by your hair. Each cell has half a bunk bed, a small closet, storage cupboard, two drawers, one window, a crank-up roof vent, and its own entry door to the outside. If you have an upper bunk like I do, that means the guy on the other side of the thin divider wall has a lower bunk. Fortunately, my neighbor doesn’t snore, but I can hear when he snorts, farts, or beats his meat. The actual floor space available for roaming measures 23 inches by 59 inches (less than 10 square feet), so it’s not for claustrophobes. Since there’s no air conditioning, the rooms can get pretty hot when you’re trying to sneak a nap after lunch (not that Mr. Patsatzis or his minions encourage such indulgences). His philosophy is “If you’ve got time to lean, you’ve got time to clean.” I prefer “You’ve got nothing to lose by swiping a snooze.”

10:48 p.m. Señor Nunez likes to linger in the cook tent after dinner and serenade the stragglers with his accordion. Not my kind of music, but he’s pretty good. Tonight he decided to come sit near the janitor while squeezing his box.

“
I hear you’re the brother of Nick Twisp, the juggler,” he commented, shifting his cigarette to a corner of his mouth.

“
That’s right.”

“
Then how come your name is Darko?”

“
I prefer it to Twisp.”

“
I knew your brother in Paris years ago.”

“
Then you had to know Sheeni Saunders.”

“
I knew her slightly.”

“
That’s not what she said in a letter to my brother.”

“
What did she say?”

“
That you helped her stay with your brother. That she once loved you.”

“
She said that?”

“
Yup.”

He smiled, but his fingers shifted into an even sadder tune. Upbeat musically he was not. “She never had her baby, Jake Darko. She got rid of it.”

“
I don’t think so.”

“
What makes you say that?”

“
She has a photo of you. You’re holding a newborn.”

“
There are lots of babies in this world, Jake.”

“
Yeah, well this one was blond.”

“
That doesn’t prove anything.”

“
It proves something if Sheeni kept that picture all these years. And kept it hidden.”

“
You don’t know anything, Jake Darko. But you remind me of your brother. He was my friend.”

“
Yeah? Some friend you turned out to be.”

I just checked in with Veeva. She’s severely depressed because her brothers are back from summer camp. She feels that they are a plague upon her psyche. (I don’t particularly mind my brother and sister, but then I never had to live with them.) She’s also depressed because she went to Tyler’s first football game of the season Friday night, and was appalled by the number of girls cheering lustily just for him (his team won, naturally).

“
Did he pay any attention to you?” I asked.

“
Precious little, Jake. I don’t think my tits are big enough to suit him.”

“
Your tits are fine, Veeva. I’d like to have a session with them right now.”

“
Don’t be obscene, Jake. I swore Tyler to secrecy, and told him you were on the case up in Washington.”

“
I hope we can trust him to keep his trap shut. And I’m in Idaho now.”

“
How is it?”

“
Oh, not bad. Lot of trees and hills. Phone reception is OK so far.”

“
Made it with any girls yet?”

“
Not yet, but I’ve got my eye on a few.”

“
I’ll bet you have. I miss you, Noel.”

“
I miss you too.”

It was true. My whole body ached for her. I think it’s easier to do without sex when you’re a virgin, and the sexual appeal of chicks is all theoretical. Now that I know what I’m missing, the pangs are way more acute. But one thing to be said for working like a slave, it does help take a guy’s mind off Uma.

MONDAY, August 29 – Stoney Holt called me as I was eating my bacon and eggs. This I do warily after I found a still smoldering cigarette butt between my pancakes yesterday. I had assumed the lump was a pat of dairy fresh butter. Mr. Povey, the stout black man who commands the big six-burner stove, claimed ignorance of how it happened, but I know it was sabotage by Randy. I had seen him loitering near the griddle when I was passing along with my tray. The butt was his brand too.

Stoney has made progress toward becoming a woman. She reported she went on a date Friday evening with Scott Chandler. They went horseback riding and afterwards he kissed her in the barn as restless stallions looked on enviously.

“
How was it?” I asked.

“
Very nice, Noel, though the sexy stubble is not so great up close. It feels kind of creepy, like you’re kissing a dog’s butt. Scott told me I was the 34
^th
girl he’s kissed since the fourth grade. The guy’s been keeping track on his little pocket computer.”

“
Yeah, well some guys are into statistics, Stoney. Don’t let it get to you. Did you see him again on Saturday?”

“
I wish. He went to a big pool party at your ex-bitch goddess’s house.”

“
What!”

“
Yeah, he says he likes me, but since we’re not going steady, he sees no reason why he can’t go out with other chicks too. I’m thinking of giving him a reason, like maybe breaking both of his arms.”

“
Just be feminine and seductive, Stoney. You’ll be going steady with the guy soon if you play your cards right.”

“
I hope you’re right, Noel. Otherwise, I may have to tangle seriously with that Uma bitch.”

Uma hosted a pool party for Scott and pals on Saturday night. So much for her feeling “miserable” about our breakup. She seems to have recovered quickly from that trauma. Damn, I wish I could say the same.

Stoney also reported that Detective Moroni checks in regularly to see if she’s heard from Jamal (she hadn’t) or me. She assured me that she hasn’t told him zip about me. I hope she’s telling the truth. She claims the Winnemucca cops may have big hard-ons to find Carlyle, but actually they’re secretly pleased that he put our little town on the law enforcement map. She says hunting for Carlyle is a nice diversion from their usual fare of rousting card cheats at the Silver Sluice and busting meth dealers.