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As with his view of himself, Sean’s view of the show had also evolved. The first day I met him he climbed on the ca
“Two.”
Finally, about a week before the end and with our friendship well established, the newly humbled Human Ca
“One.”
And there I realized that certain dreams are better left preserved.
“Boom!”
Emerging from the ca
“Flying is the greatest sensation,” he said. “When I take the hit and leave the barrel I feel as if I could fly forever. That’s when I know I can do anything. My mind slows down. I know I’m going to hit the bag. And then at the peak my momentum stops and finally I feel that I’m free-falling. Falling, falling, falling, falling, then, boom!, I land on my back. It’s not like anything in the world. It’s not like diving off a diving board. It’s not like surfing on a wave.”
“Is it like sex?”
“What, are you nuts? I mean it’s good, but it ain’t that good! It doesn’t make me blow a nut.”
Sean lands in the bag with a giant puff. I breathe my final smile of relief. The audience slowly rises to its feet as Sean steps out of the yellow-and-blue pond with a slightly dazed look on his face. He tosses his helmet to the prop boss and skips to the center ring.
“Ladies and gentlemen…the Human Ca
Sean plants his feet slightly apart, lifts his arms high into the air, and beams at the last row of the crowd as if to say, “Hey, look, I did it. Now let’s hear some applause.” For a full minute he draws that applause, and at the end of that time he looks off to the side, where Elvin Bale has returned for the final show of the year and is sitting in his wheelchair with his arms in the air like a proud parent who watches his child succeed and knows just how it feels.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, you have just witnessed another milestone in American show business history….” Jimmy straightens his red tailcoat and steps to the center of the world’s largest tent. “Tonight’s performance concludes a ninety-nine-city tour, through sixteen states, covering over twelve thousand miles, and giving five hundred and one performances. None of it would have been possible without you, the American circus-going public. We sincerely thank you for your patronage…”
With a final blow on his ringmaster’s whistle and a gentle sweep of his arm toward the door, Jimmy draws the season to a close. The band marks the moment with a teary rendition of “Auld Lang Syne.” The cast quickly streams from the tent. Outside, the performers barely pause at the door before sprinting to their trailers and shedding their spangles for the final time. Quickly, desperately, they want to be free.
The last person out of the tent is the ringmaster himself. Not so fast on his feet, less desperate to flee, Jimmy slowly pads from the tent with a fog of tears eclipsing his eyes. His smile is weary. His bow tie is gone. In his hand he carries a small tote bag.
“So now you know…,” he says as he stops by my side.
“Yes, I do,” I reply. We both shake hands.
“I hope you tell the truth,” he says. “Soon all of this will be gone.”
Back in the Alley the others have gone. I slip off my oversized red-and-white shoes and unhook my floppy gold tie. Piece by piece I remove my costume: my bright orange pants, my white di
By the time I step outside, the city is already halfway torn down. The flying rigging is being dismantled. The tympani drum is being carted away. The bears and tigers have already gone. By twenty after ten the last lights have come down, leaving behind the empty whale where elephants and horses so recently danced. A few men pull down the outer poles. Ropes dangle everywhere. In a moment a light mist begins to fall. By eleven o’clock the tent is dark. All the seats have been removed. All the magic has been excised. One by one the quarter poles are released and the heavens are slowly winched down to earth, until at twenty minutes before midnight, with a silent, swelling slap, the world’s largest big top spanks a final time against the pale, wet Florida grass. Few people are around to witness the sight—the crew, a few of the mechanics, and, fittingly, the owner.
Joh
Quietly and with casual sleight of hand he produced a bag from behind his back and laid it in my arms.
“I want you to have this,” he said, “and I want you to know: no matter what else, you were a damn good clown. You made our show better this year.”
I thanked him for his generosity, then peered into the bag. Inside were several bundles of faded cloth, four tattered talismans: CLYDE BEATTY, COLE BROS., CIRCUS, and on top of the others, the American flag.
“You can never say goodbye to the circus,” he said, “no more than you can ever say goodbye to your childhood. We’ll see you again. I’m sure of that. Now you’re one of us.”
Joh