The Bear in a Muddy Tutu (9 page)

Above the hum of the air conditioner, Billy Wayne heard a new noise coming from outside his window, a familiar music from his recent stops along the various boardwalks.
T
he whistling calliope notes rose and fell,
their
dancing
melody
both childish and hopeful.
The sound
always reminded him of old cartoons his mother didn’t approve of
a
nd the ice cream truck his mother would never let him run out to
m
eet. Listening to the calliope was like listening
in on
someone else’s childhood, and it made Billy Wayne’s bloodshot eyes fill with salty, self-pitying tears
that
formed
dark spots on the orange spread.

Billy Wayne was suddenly a depressed and uncertain God. He was a pasty, overweight God, with thinning hair and itchy balls.

“But I am still God,
”
Billy told the wafting co
bwe
bs
.
H
is voice was wavering and unconvinc
ing.
It was a good thing he was feeling too fat and tired to get up and reach under the mattress to load his new gun.

The calliope sang him to sleep.

En
rique
the Human Cannonball
stood naked in front of the full
-l
ength
mirror in his crampe
d trailer. He sucked in his paun
ch and flexed his small round biceps, striking a series of poses
that
allowed him to
admire
his physique as well as stretch his muscles prior to perform
ing
. His gray chest and pubic hair were a stark contrast to the artificially deep black hair on his head and lip. He reached for his nose clippers and mustache comb, pulling a bare bulb lamp close to make a few snips and adjustments.

“Enrique is
a
beautiful man!
”
He
step
ped
back and
then
glanced at the clock
.
S
even minutes to showtime.

Enrique knew
that
the
danger of being a human cannonball wasn’t in being blown up, since the only gunpowder used was for theatrics. Shooting a person from an authentic cannon would result in almost certain death, what with an explosion big enough to fire a two hundred pound projectile. It would, at the very least, blow the legs off the person involved. The propellant was compressed air under
the
platform
where
the performer stood. The platform inside the cannon was blasted forward by releasing the air
,
which was compressed at about two-hundred pounds per square inch. The platform stopped at the mouth of the cannon; the human cannonball did not.

Even with the much less dangerous compressed air cannons, roughly half of all the big name human cannonballs had been killed plying their trade. The most common accident occurred from either missing the net, or hitting the net and bouncing back out for a high-impact landing. And despite
how nets had
improved over the years, increasingly elaborate cannons were sending performers f
a
rther and f
a
rther
. S
ome
of the
top acts fl
ew
more than sixty yards. At that distance, the margin of error shrank, especially on windy days.

Enrique wasn’t concerned about the wind as he stepped into one leg of his spandex uniform. One leg was red and the other blue, matching the stripes on the fifteen-foot tall cannon.
Wearing
no underwear accentuate
d
his manhood
—
a tip from his papa. A large white letter E
was
emblazoned on his
barrel
chest, and
a
shiny red cape
,
reminiscent of Superman
,
trailed behind.

Enrique pulled on the thin leather helmet he’d painted bright blue and adjusted the
chinstrap
. The helmet wasn’t
meant
to protect his brain from impact, but rather to protect his hair from being ripped out when
he
crash
ed
into the rope netting
,
seventy feet from the release point. A deep pull from a pint bottle of Kentucky bourbon, and he strode through his trailer door and out into the New Jersey evening to the scattered chants of, “Enrique, Enrique
…
”
Now this is already Heaven
, he thought, smiling broadly.

A barke
r known as Sir William,
done with shit
cleaning
duty, was stir
ring
up the crowd of a hundred or so onlookers for this free show, clapping steadily and chanting, “Enrique, Enrique, Enrique
…
”
The human cannonball show was a last noisy draw to get customers into the main event tents. There were two
medium
-
size tents because one large tent couldn’t be safely tethered in most parking lots. Plus, one big tent was nearly
five
times the price of two
middle-sized
ones.
Enzo
and Donato also emerged from their trailers, scann
ed
the crowd
,
and
gestur
ed
impatiently
for Enrique to hurry the hell up
.

Enrique waved to the crowd
in the shadowy parking lot with
genuine appreciation and climbed the ladder up the side of the cannon with flare and gusto. He loved the showmanship, the over-the-top dramatics.
Enrique was Elvis
at
that
moment. He was Liberace and
Evil Knievel
rolled into one glorious, red-caped package. He
had been born a performer
,
and
being
the center of attention was what he lived for
, what he would proudly die for
. The spotlight was never boring, and being adored for his bravery could never be tedious, even after ten thousand shows. He dropped feet first into the
dark
,
round
opening, elbows supporting him to blow some final kisses to the
families who were caught up
in
the show and were now all chanting his name and clapping, ensnared by the spectacle.

Enrique waved a last wave, then pulled both arms in at his sides and allowed his body to slowly slip down the steep, seventy-five degree angle, to the platform below.

Inside the cannon s
ounds
became
a hollow echo
, as though he
was
underwater
. Enrique
recognized the squeaky hinge of the toolbox holding the road flares, as
Sir William
began the ignition process.
He
heard
the barker
strike the flare to
life
,
could he
ar
the hiss of the flame and smell the
rotten egg
stench of the
smoke as the crowd screamed and cheered, fully captivated. Enrique smiled,
knowing
this was going to be spectacular.
Sir William
called out, “Ten!
”

Thick
white
smoke
reflected the red fire
over
head
as Sir Williams counted, “Nine
…
eight
…
seven
…
”
and
Enrique
listened
for the sound of the flare
sparking
the
comically fat fuse.
It
caught with a
crackling
flourish and raced toward the base of the cannon, purpose
ly
setting off a
stash
of
small
bottle rockets that were sent whisking out in an arc over the parking lot.

“Six,
”
counted down the barker. “Five
…
four
…
”

Enrique reached up with his right hand and crossed himself.

*
*
*

Acapulco de la Madrid Cordero stood
next to
a sparkling clean
second
floor window of the Lucky Dollar Hotel and Casino,
damp
rag in one hand, a bottle of Windex in the other.
The window
,
directly overlook
ing
the ruckus below
, was nearly struck by one of the darting bottle rockets
.
Acapulco pushed the window open a few inches to allow sounds into the s
ilent hallway
. The
smell
was
wonderful, like fresh hay and warm cotton candy.
The man who had climbed into the mouth of the cannon would have made a fine Mexican wrestler, Acapulco thought.

The
last two
bottle rock
et
s set off
in
the parking lot to the right of the cannon exploded over the heads of a flock of seagulls
that
had surrounded a
n overflowing
dumpster
.
Acapulco
watched t
he flock r
i
se in unison, squawking and complaining, heading east toward the ocean where they could safely circle over the water until the coast was clear.

Not two second
s
into their escape
attempt
came another, much bigger explosion
directly
in their path
. T
he flock
scattered
as one of the humans suddenly took flight. This human was a flash of blue and red, with just one big red wing trailing behind. M
uch
of the flock was able to avoid the flying human, but
several
took a direct hit, themselves exploding into big white and gray puffs of feathers.

The crowd
seemed to
marvel at this part of the show and began to clap and cheer even harder.
H
ow many of them had ever
witnessed a human cannonball, let alone the part where the performer
blasted
his way through a flock of
exploding
birds
?
It was certainly new to Acapulco, although he
also
sensed something might have gone wrong.

The human cannonball
was tumbling in midair
over the parking lot
, waving his arms wildly, getting them tangled in his cape. Pin-wheeling and tumbling were not terribly aerodynamic,
Acapulco guessed,
which
probably contributed
to
the human cannonball’s
failure to reach his
net
.

T
wo
old
men
d
ropped to the pavement just as
the human cannonball
passed over their heads.
The man in the funny blue helmet
bounced once and slammed into the tiger cage
.

Both
old men
looked
relieved not to immediately find anything that seemed serious
ly
damaged, as they patted their bodies, each lifting to one elbow
. Not as comforting
, perhaps,
was the angry roar
that
came
from directly behind where they lay. The roar silenced the screaming crowd.
T
he
onlookers
wanted to believe it was all part of the show
, that a brave tiger tamer was waiting in the wings, about to crack his long whip as he haughtily marched out over the
exploded
prop birds and cringing old men.

This was a show!

No whips or wood
en
chairs in its face, the tiger let out what might have been the greatest roar of its life
, letting every beast within earshot know he was king of this paved jungle.
The tiny gray hairs on the back of Acapulco’s neck stood at attention.
He crossed himself with the
hand
holding the bottle of Windex
.

The tiger dropped to his haunches, zeroing in on the two feeble humans directly in front of him. His jaw slowly dropped open and
s
aliva seeped forth
in the form of
two thin strands
glistening in the
spotlight
.
The tiger’s
ears turned forward and twitched
;
o
ne paw reached in slow motion, followed by the other.
It
prepared for the kill.

The two old men
cr
aned
wrinkled
necks to look over their shoulders
; then
both instantly
looked away
,
as if bracing for
impact. T
he tiger
leaped forward as if jolted by electricity,
pounc
ing
on their bodies
simultaneously
,
crushing them
so
fast
that neither
could
muster
one last pathetic scream.