The Bear in a Muddy Tutu (7 page)

A plump housefly landed on Graceful Gracie’s tongue, preened its wings, walked in two tight circles, and then seemed to fall asleep standing. Gracie did not expend the energy to pull her tongue back into her toothless mouth. For a bee, yes, but she let the fly have its peace.

The line of traveling circus trucks rumbled forward, as they always had and always would, in Gracie’s world. It was hot and the old dancing bear’s belly ached from the meaty things she’d discovered in the trash earlier that morning, just before being told to climb into her cage. Gracie had known
the meat
was spoiled, but self-control was not a bear-like trait. The absence of this trait had left her nose with tiny scars from the dozens of times she’d tried stealing from the disagreeable tiger’s food dish. The roll of fat around her middle, despite all the hours dancing, was from pilfering the guard dog’s dinners. He’d be off barking and threatening, while Gracie would be slinking away with a
stolen
plastic bowl of beef kibble
.

Bears might be fat, but dogs were stupid.

And now
, during
this long leg of the circus’
s
journey to Atlantic City
, Gracie had the runs
. She shifted her back legs, careful not to disturb the fly on her tongue, watching
the truck behind her through the bars of
her cage. The old lion and bad-tempered tiger rode on the back of that one, one cage stacked on top of the other. If their cages were next to each other, the cats would fight and complain the whole way.

The Pisani Brothers Circus caravan made a sweeping right turn up the slight hill of an entrance ramp
—
animals and people sliding a little to the left
—
and engines were gunned to speed up on
the
new
stretch of
highway. Speeding up was a relative term for a line of decrepit circus trucks, since they really
could
only manag
e
about half the speed limit.

The five container trucks wore exquisite American graffiti, acquired from artisans in towns called Sopchoppy, Monkey’s Eyebrow, and even Shoulderblade, Kentucky.

“Suck my Monkey’s Eyebrow,
”
read the side of one truck.

Two flatbed eighteen-wheelers carried the rides and animals on their oxidizing backs, followed by a dozen other pickups and passenger cars, all of which would have looked right at home at a demolition derby. The procession crawled across the flatlands of South Jersey on the AC Expressway, blatting a choking blue smoke from leaky engine blocks, a frustrating bulwark to silver-haired card
-
shar
k
s and all-you-can-eat aficionados.

And then it was apparently time to swap positions in a game of follow the leader
;
the lion
-
and
-
tiger truck driver pulled into the passing lane and began to slowly overtake Gracie’s truck. The car drivers weren’t the least bit happy about this new development and were all horns and flashing lights in the passing lane’s growing line. The cranky tiger in the top cage
arose
from his bedding
and
d
id
circles of his own, agitated by the ruckus below.

As the passing truck was side-by-side with Gracie’s, she turned her yellow eyes toward a driver who had brought his shiny car to
within
a foot of the rusting back bumper of the tiger truck. Even with her not-so-great eyesight, Gracie could tell the driver was spitting mad and wanting to get past the truck right at that instant. The driver,
who to
Gracie seemed an awful lot like the tiger up above
,
had opened his window to bark insults. Gracie did not understand human language much, but sometimes you got the gist.

The tiger did understand, roaring back a snarling reply.

Not satisfied with mere words, the tiger backed its ass against the rear of its cage, and Gracie nearly smiled, despite her rueful tummy. She knew what the tiger was up to,
had seen th
e long, sleek muscles extending and then contracting under its coat. The tiger shimmied one last time, arched its back, and then let go a thick, almost orange stream of urine. The pee was caught by the wind, turned into fine droplets by turbulence, and
sprayed
down on
to
the
windshield of the
tailgating car.

The driver tried rolling
up
his window with one hand, while reaching for the wiper switch with the other. The man’s car swerved,
and
its right front bumper thump
ed
Gracie’s truck hard enough to startle her, even though she’d been watching all along.

In the commotion, Gracie accidentally swallowed the fly who’d been dozing on her tongue. She felt a frenzied buzz and queer tickle in her throat, but it was too late for the fly. Its death made her sad. But that’s how it
was
wi
th
a traveling circus, even for a fly hitching a ride. You’re going along all peaceful and fine, getting comfortable with your day
, an
d maybe bravely considering the prospects of tomorrow.

Then something swallow
ed
you whole.

On
the fourteenth floor
of Atlantic City’s once luxurious Lucky Dollar Hotel and Casino
, Acapulco de la Madrid Cordero coiled the long vacuum cleaner cord with hands and fingers gnarled from arthritis. The ancient, threadbare carpet was as clean as it was going to get, and the hunchbacked Mexican wanted off this evil floor as quickly as possible. The owners
might
fool
guest
s into believing this was the fourteenth floor, but Acapulco knew better. Eleven, twelve, and then fourteen?
¡Eso ni pensarlo!

And he could feel what lurked in the closets and shadows of these rooms and halls. Just two weeks ago, he’d observed the ambulance workers remove an
87
-y
ear
-o
ld man
from room 1412 on a stretcher, zipped up tight in a body bag. Acapulco had watched the pretty newsperson on television
,
later that night, following along well enough to understand police blamed a bad heart. But Acapulco had no doubt what had made the man’s heart stop working. It was surely the work of
el Diablo
.

Acapulco had come to America with a small group of neighbors from towns around Chihuahua, crossing the Rio Grande into Texas, following the directions from relatives and friends already employed in Atlantic City
. D
espite the long hours of pushing brooms and vacuums and emptying endless trash bins,
he thought
this work was wonderful because it wasn’t out in the sun. Acapulco felt blessed not to be hunched over bean plants, trying to grasp and twist frijoles all day long with his afflicted hands, the blazing sun making him feel like a forgotten tortilla on the back corner of a griddle.

Acapulco didn’t need to be told to be invisible while going about his job. Being invisible was instinctive among the older Mexicans who came to work in Atlantic City with no papers, hoping to make enough money for their own food
a
nd then
to
send American dollars back home for their families to spend at
la tienda de comestibles
.

What these rich Americans did with their money shocked Acapulco during his first days at the hotel and casino. It was physically painful for him to watch the elderly gringos with papery, translucent skin sitting on high bar stools, coveting big cups filled to the brim with shiny coins. They’d sit for hours, feeding coin after coin into what he saw as
the
hungry mouths of fancy slot machines. But Acapulco would always share in the elation of the winners, first
being
startled by the bells and flashing lights, then smil
ing
warmly and compassionately at the person who’d just gotten their money back from the evil, money
-
gulping contraption. Acapulco would absorb as much of the radiating good fortune as he could before disappearing back
in
to his invisible labor. His wallet was empty, but his heart was rich.

Acapulco and his fellow Mexicans never resented the well-to-do white people who came to risk their money in these machines. They understood the draw of
la loteria
,
although the coin cups these wealthy people started out with would have made fabulous jackpots in Acapulco’s hom
e
to
w
n. Acapulco would even light candles to honor the ones who died from staying on the fourteenth floor. There were no poor people in
hea
ven, and they’d all meet again someday. All were God’s children, even if some spent their last years in musty maroon jacket
s
with crooked name tag
s
, hunting cigarette butts and polishing elevator buttons.

From the long hallway’s one small window,
Acapulco had a bird’s
-
eye view of the caravan of colorful trucks making the sharp turn into the Lucky Dollar’s expansive parking lot. H
e lingered in this spot
much longer than he normally would, there in the company of
el Diablo
, watching
el circo
bump over the curb in search of a place to park.
He
dangled
the long cord
from the handle, then stepped back into the shadows as what he first thought was a fat
,
naked white man rushed past him with one of the hotel ice buckets. Acapulco
could hear the robot-like sound
of the dollar bills being eaten by the
vending
machine
next to the elevator
, the metallic thuds of candy bars and rustle
of chip bags.

The man, who Acapulco now saw was wearing
small white underpants
, collided with his vacuum cleaner as he hurried back down the hall, letting out a frightened
, high-pitched
cry. He looked directly at Acapulco but
didn’t appear
to see him
, just frantically search
ed
the shadows for anything that might
wish
to hurt him
. His eyes were bulging, filled with fear that Acapulco understood
all too well
. The man lunged
clumsily
away from the old vacuum, nearly toppling it, ice bucket clutched to his chest like a baby
. Acapulco knew what it was like to be in a strange place, surrounded by things
wanting
to
get
their
hands on you and
drag you down into terrible places. He was certain this man felt
el Diablo
in many places besides this hallway
. He
was
sorry for him, and
even
said a quiet prayer.

Acapulco
grabbed the vacuum cleaner with his aching fingers and pushed it toward the elevator.

*
*
*

T
wo old,
stooped
men climbed out of the first
circus
truck
in the Lucky Dollar Hotel and Casino parking lot
,
began
directing traffic and barking orders. Brothers Enzo and Donato
Pisani
were nearly eighty years old
, bitching and cussing their flaring arthritis after too many hours without stretching.
Each had suffered dozens of broken bones in pursuit of their dangerous trade and had developed skin tougher and more
leathery than Alligator Woman. Both had, at one time or another, donned wigs and lipstick to fill in for the World’s Ugliest Woman. A buck was a buck, after all, and pride was the last vestige of the weak man.
The Pisanis were both tough old goats, although their hearing was good enough to
register
most of the other names they were regularly called.

While the Pisanis gestured like over-the-hill traffic cops, the mechanics checked a pencil diagram for where the rides were to be erected. The animals were parked in shade, as long rolls of hoses were unwound, and an outside faucet was tapped to get the panting beasts cooled down.
All
were
drills
that had
been repeated a thousand times before, always with the same snarling old man voices competing with the cage-weary animals and rattling of hundreds of feet of unassembled tent poles and fencing.

The two main tents
—
each with three sets of collapsible bleachers facing inward to create a perimeter for the performers
—
would take half a day to erect on the sweltering black pavement. Work on a dozen or so smaller tents, for games and other sideshows, would be tackled last.

The
mechanics bolted together
the kiddy rides, which included a mini-coaster, train, merry-go-round, motorcycles, trucks, and spinning swings. The work was rushed in order to be done in time for the city inspector to stop by for the usual bribe.

The sideshow tent
occupants
, b
illed as The Freaks of Nature
, v
aried
over time. Attractions such as
T
he
F
attest
M
an
A
live tended to have heart attacks more often. Even
T
he
W
orld’s
S
trongest
M
en were occasionally beaten beyond recognition by drunken challengers. Pinhead would get an infection that wouldn’t go away
,
Albino Man would fall asleep in the sun
,
and
Alligator Woman would find a
miracle
cream.

But then there was the core of the circus. Acts such as
T
he World’s Ugliest Woman, who
woul
d never run off with a boyfriend, and
T
he Flat Man, with his debilitating phobia of being more than an inch or so from solid ground. These people were more
or less the soul of the circus, acts the Pisanis wouldn’t have to replace any time soon.
The juggler and the clown could always leave to work
children’s
parties, like a journalist could always leave the front lines of a war. Employment options were few and far between if you had
part
of a congenital twin riding shotgun
on
your hip. And once a Freak of Nature found a home where their ailment made them ordinary
—
and no remedy would ever be found
—
they became a permanent member of the
Pisani
family.

The Human Cannonball and the lovely little contortionist named
Amira
arranged makeup trays
an
d hung costumes from hooks in the ceilings of trailers. They made sure their stands, special lights, and cannon were unloaded safely. The surly woman in charge of games made certain there were ample balloons
and
red star targets for the pellet guns
a
nd that the supply of Taiwan-made stuffed animals had not all split their se
am
s. Ropes were pulled and poles were hoisted, and the hot-top parking lot became a
bustling
community.
It was a family routine, repeated in town after town and state after state.

Slim Weatherwax let his stiff-legged dancing bear out of her cage to stretch and poop, while the cat trainer tried to get his animals to swallow bits of liverwurst with heart pills wrapped inside.

“You people
must have brains as good as new, bein’ that you never seem to use
’
em!
”
Enzo Pisani hollered at everyone within earshot. “Where the hell’s Slim? Slim, come get your goddamn bear’s nose outta my crotch
’
fore I get my shotgun!
”