Sideshow: Tales of the Galactic Midway, Vol. 1 Page 7

  After a couple of days Queenie decided that our “freaks"—no one but Thaddeus and I knew what they really were—needed a cook more than our nude dancers needed a costumer, and she set up a makeshift kitchen in the dormitory tent and went to work preparing their meals, after which the quality of food the aliens ate increased dramatically.

  The day after the Man of Many Colors returned to the sideshow was payday, and after the carnival had been closed up and the aliens bedded down, I wandered over to Thaddeus’ trailer to pick up my money. When I entered I found him with Jupiter Monk and Billybuck Dancer. They were sitting around talking and drinking beer, and Thaddeus told me to join them.

  I could tell that Thaddeus was in a good mood. He had taken in more money during the past four days than he had ever seen before, and he was smiling happily as Monk related a humorous tale of his first hunting expedition.

  “Needed fifteen gibbons for some zoo or another,” Monk was saying, “and they placed so damned many restrictions on hunters that I wasn't even allowed to carry a rifle. I mean it. So I finally hunt up a huge family of gibbons, and I start giving orders to my porters and trackers, and they start spouting Marxist philosophy, and finally they go on strike. We negotiate for two days, and then they just up and leave. The only thing they left behind was a truck, a batch of wood cages, and my supply of booze.

  “So, given my situation, I figured the only thing I could do was to get the gibbons drunk. I mixed up a huge batch of fruit punch, flavored with about a dozen fifths of vodka, and left it out for ‘em. It took ‘em a day to walk up and start drinking it, but within a few hours the whole goddamned tribe was so drunk they couldn't see straight. Then it was just a matter of rounding them up and tossing them into the cages.”

  “They let you do it?” I asked.

  “Well, some of them were so drunk they didn't give a damn what the hell I did. The others did put up a fight, but I was sober and they were drunk. I got cut up pretty bad, but within half a day I had my fifteen gibbons. So I deliver them and get an order for ten more, and I go out with an old-time tracker, a guy who ain't heard of Marx or Engels or Patrice Lumumba, and we hunt up some gibbons, and I pull out the medical kit and tell him how to patch me up after I drag them into the cages, and he kind of smiles and says that people have been getting monkeys and apes drunk for centuries, but I was the first guy who would rather wrestle with them than put the drinks inside the cages to begin with! So we did it his way and had our quota inside of an hour.”

  Thaddeus laughed so hard I thought he was going to spill his beer. The Dancer smiled politely, but as always I had a feeling that his mind was far away and long ago.

  “How about you, Dancer?” said Monk. “Ever shoot any animals with those pearl-handled pistols of yours?”

  “I don't shoot animals,” he said in that gentle Texas drawl of his.

  “What's the good of being a marksman if you don't go hunting now and then?” persisted Monk.

  “I don't like shooting at things that haven't got a chance to shoot back,” said the Dancer.

  “Hey, Dancer,” said Thaddeus, “is it really true that you outgunned a bandit down in South America?”

  The Dancer shrugged noncommittally.

  “Well, if it was me, I'd sure as hell brag about it,” continued Thaddeus. “If you're the best, you want everyone to know it.”

  “If you're the best,” said the Dancer pleasantly, “you don't much care what anyone else thinks.”

  “What do you care about?” said Thaddeus. “It sure as hell isn't money.” He turned to us. “You know that I send his paycheck home to his mama every week?”

  He started laughing again, but something about the Dancer's expression made him stop.

  “You feed me and house me and pay for my bullets,” said the Dancer after a long, uncomfortable pause. “What do I need money for?”

  “Everyone needs money,” said Thaddeus fervently.

  The Dancer shook his head. “Everyone wants money. That's not the same thing, Thaddeus. What would you do if you had all the money you wanted?”

  “Get the hell out of this business,” said Thaddeus devoutly.

  “No you wouldn't, Thaddeus,” said the Dancer.

  “Oh?”

  “You like fleecing marks, and you love playing God,” continued the Dancer. “Money's just a measure of how well you do it.”

  Thaddeus stared at his glass for a long moment. Then it was his turn to shrug. “Maybe you're right. About staying, that is. Not about the money, though. If nothing else, money buys you a higher class of woman.”

  “A higher class of woman would dump you quicker than Dancer can draw his gun,” laughed Monk. “Not everyone is as understanding as Alma, or as hungry for a spotlight as some of the locals you drag in here, Thaddeus.”

  Thaddeus uttered a harsh, contemptuous laugh.

  “Not all women will put up with being treated like shit,” persisted Monk.

  Thaddeus stared hotly at Monk and the Dancer, then turned suddenly to me.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  “Well what?” I said.

  “Everyone else is dumping on me. How about you?”

  “I don't think you treat women any differently than you treat men,” I said cautiously.

  “That's my whole point,” said Monk with a smile. “Tojo, it's a shame you're such a tongue-tied little bastard. They could use you in the State Department.”

  “He's my emissary to the freak tent,” said Thaddeus.

  “Speaking of the freaks, how are they doing?” asked Monk. “I haven't had a chance to drop by for a couple of days.”

  “All right,” I said.

  “How about the rainbow man?”

  “He's better.”

  “Hey,” said Monk, “that's not a bad name for him.”

  “The Rainbow Man?” repeated Thaddeus, toying with the suggestion.

  “Oh, not for the marks,” said Monk hastily. “Whatever you're calling him is good enough for them. But on the assumption that you don't intend to return the freaks to Mr. Ahasuerus"—he paused to see what Thaddeus would say, but Thaddeus just stared at him—"we ought to give them carny names. I mean, who the hell is going to walk up and say, ‘How's it going, India Rubber Man?’ I think we ought to call the sick one Rainbow.”

  “Fine by me,” said Thaddeus. “And the India Rubber Man?”

  “Easy: Stretch,” replied Monk.

  “Maybe they already have names,” I said.

  “Maybe we all do,” said Monk. “Is your name Tojo?”

  “It is now,” I said.

  “And mine's Jupiter now,” said Monk. “So what's wrong with giving names to the freaks?”

  “All but the Blue Man,” said Thaddeus.

  “You know his name?” asked Monk.

  “No,” said Thaddeus. “I just don't want you talking to him.”

  Well, they tossed ideas around for half an hour while I listened and Billybuck Dancer stared off into space, and they came up with seven more names. Along with Rainbow and Stretch, the Dog-Faced Boy was Snoopy; the Human Pincushion was Bullseye; the Missing Link was Dapper Dan; the Horned Demon was Scratch (for Old Scratch, I guess; they agreed on it so quickly that I was never quite sure of the source); the Cyclops, with true carny logic, became Four-Eyes; the Human Lizard was Albert the Alligator (Monk was a passionate Pogo fan, even though the strip had ceased publication years ago, and he once showed me a scrapbook in which he had pasted a three-year run of daily strips); and the Sphinx was Numa (though Thaddeus thought he looked more like a horse than a lion, and put up quite a fight for calling him Seattle Slew before yielding when Monk started explaining what a Sphinx was supposed to be).

  That left the two women.

  “You look at the head of the Elephant Woman, and what pops to mind?” said Monk.

  “That I'm having a bad dream,” replied Thaddeus.

  “Well, when I look at her, I think of a watermelon,” said Monk.

  “Yeah, I can see
that,” agreed Thaddeus.

  “So how about calling her Melon?”

  “No good,” said Thaddeus, shaking his head. “When I look at the Three-Breasted Woman, all I see is melons.”

  “You've got a point,” said Monk. “Hey, Dancer—what do you think?”

  They both turned to the Dancer, but he was staring off at some vision only he could see, oblivious to everything that was being said.

  “He's a little worse than usual tonight,” remarked Thaddeus.

  “Don't knock it,” replied Monk. “We all try to shut the carnival out of our minds. He just does it a bit better than most.”

  “I knew a kid like that when I was growing up in California,” said Thaddeus. “Finally one day he just stopped eating and talking and moving. They had to carry him off to the funny farm; I mean, they just lifted him where he stood and hauled him away. I don't think he even knew what was happening to him.”

  “You grew up in California?” asked Monk, dropping the subject of Dancer's trance-like state.

  “Yeah. Can't you tell a beach boy when you see one?”

  “What did your parents do?”

  “They were divorced. My mother was a nurse. I never knew my father well.”

  “Dead?” asked Monk.

  “I suppose so. MIA.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Vietnam. Missing in action. They never found out what happened to him.

  He was there when they still called us advisers.”

  “Tough break,” said Monk. “Do they have carnies in California?”

  “Not like this one,” said Thaddeus.

  “Now that we've got those freaks, I don't imagine any body has one like this one.”

  “That's not what I meant,” replied Thaddeus. “They've got games and Ferris wheels, but it's all kind of scrubbed, if you know what I mean. Gotta compete with Disneyland.”

  “No meat shows?”

  “Uh-uh. Strange, isn't it? Seems to me they'd figure out that the only way to compete is to give ‘em what they can't get at Disneyland, like meat shows and freak shows.”

  “Maybe we ought to head off for California,” suggested Monk.

  “Too many cops to pay off,” said Thaddeus.

  “You've got the freaks now,” Monk pointed out. “You could get rid of the girls and go legit.”

  For just a minute a strange look came over Thaddeus’ face, as if he was actually considering it. Then the wistfulness vanished.

  “Too many problems,” he said at last, and I knew he was thinking of Mr. Ahasuerus. “Besides, the girls bring in more money than you and the Dancer do.”

  “Well, I'm a little past my prime, but I'd venture to say that if Billybuck let the ladies do to him what the men do to the strippers, he'd match them dollar for dollar.”

  I shot a quick glance at the Dancer, but he was still oblivious to what was being said.

  “He'd probably shoot them all,” replied Thaddeus with a dry chuckle. “I wonder how the hell he ever got to be so good with a gun?”

  “Why not ask him?” suggested Monk.

  “Take a look at him,” said Thaddeus. “He's off in Dodge City or Tombstone, protecting proper young ladies and their maiden aunts from the Clanton Brothers.”

  I wouldn't have bet against it. He had that faraway look on his face, the look of a dreamer at work. I guess this business makes dreamers of us all; the Dancer just gives in to it more readily. But Monk dreams of working in the center ring of a real circus, Alma dreams of respectability, Thaddeus dreams of God knows what. And me—I dream of being six feet tall and having perfect diction. The only thing we have in common is that none of us is ever going to realize those dreams.

  “Well,” said Monk, taking a final swallow and setting his empty glass down on a table, “I've got to go and clean up after my animals.”

  “Take Wild Bill Hickok with you,” said Thaddeus.

  Monk poked the Dancer on the shoulder, and he rose with the same animal grace as one of the leopards.

  “Thank you for the beer, Thaddeus,” he said, touching his fingers to his Stetson and walking out the door. Monk just chuckled, shook his head, and followed him.

  “How about you?” Thaddeus asked me. “Are all your animals clean?”

  “They're not animals,” I said.

  “How about the Elephant Woman? Have you found a way to bathe her?”

  “Yes. I had Gloria stop at a pet store when she went into town to do some shopping. She bought a kind of dry shampoo they use on show dogs.”

  “Good,” said Thaddeus.

  “I'm surprised that you give a damn,” I said.

  He looked uncomfortable. “I've got to protect my investment,” he said hastily.

  I didn't know what to say next, but something about his attitude led me to believe that he wanted to talk further, and I knew that if he did he certainly wouldn't think twice about physically restraining me if I tried to leave.

  “You never mentioned that you were from California,” I said, trying to make conversation.

  “Is it that hard to believe?”

  “No. It's just that you never speak about your past.”

  “It's not important,” he said. “Today and tomorrow are all that count. You start thinking about yesterday and you're likely to wind up like the Dancer.”

  “Was it nice out there?”

  “It was warmer,” he said with a smile. “And the girls—well, the song is right. There really is something different about California girls. I used to lay on the beach and watch them go bouncing by, spilling out of their bikinis. It was a nice way to grow up. I'll tell you something Tojo: California girls never say No. Never once.”

  He leaned back, his eyes half closed, a smile on his face as if he were reliving his days in the sun.

  Suddenly he sat up. “I'll tell you something else too, you'd never catch one of them working in a meat show. They've got too much class.”

  “You shouldn't talk about the strip show like that,” I said. “They're decent people, Alma and the others—and they pay your bills.”

  “You look at it all wrong, Tojo,” he said. “Someday it'll drive you crazy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Decent people don't do what they do for a living,” he said slowly, taking a long swallow from the bottle. “You've heard them talk about it. It's like they're spectators and the audience is providing the show. It's the only way they can live without going nuts—they've got to shut off all their emotions. You've got to do the same thing. You start thinking of them as decent people and suddenly you can't let them go on, and then where would we all be?”

  Suddenly he looked embarrassed, as if he said more than he meant to.

  “Talk about something else, you goddamned dwarf,” he said irritably. “And stop staring at me like that.”

  “What do you want me to talk about, Thaddeus?” I asked him.

  “I don't know. How are the freaks doing?”

  “They're unhappy. And they're not freaks—they're aliens.”

  “Whatever,” he muttered. He finished his beer and opened another. “Why the hell do you suppose they came here? I mean, wherever they lived, it couldn't be this grubby.”

  “Curiosity,” I said.

  “Just like the girls,” he said. “They let the audience put on a show for them.”

  A frown crossed his face, and I could tell that he had just drawn the parallel one step further, and realized that he was forcing himself to view them as he viewed the strippers.

  “You know, you're pretty lousy company tonight,” he said.

  “I'm sorry.”

  He rose unsteadily to his feet.

  “I think I'll hunt up Alma and bring her back here,” he announced.

  “I don't think it would be a good idea,” I said.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “She's mad at you.”

  “Big deal,” he said. “She's always mad at me.”

  “This time is different.
”

  “Every time is different,” he said, lurching toward the door.

  I walked over and stood in front of the door.

  “Don't, Thaddeus,” I said.

  “You're hiding something, you little wart,” he said. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Out with it!” he yelled.

  “She's spending the night in Queenie's trailer,” I said.

  “Are you trying to tell me she's a fluff butch?” he demanded with a harsh, unbelieving laugh. “Because I happen to be in a position to know that she's not.

  “No,” I said. “I'm trying to tell you that she's hurt and lonely, and that she's found a way to feel less hurt and less lonely.”

  He frowned again, and for a minute I thought he was going to hit me. Then he uttered a deep sigh and walked back to his chair.

  “You're really not kidding,” he said quietly, after staring out the window for well over a minute.

  “No, Thaddeus.”

  “She hates me that much?”

  “It's not a matter of love or hate,” I said. “It's a matter of need.”

  “But Queenie, for Christ's sake?”

  “Queenie cares.”

  “Queenie can afford to care,” he said bitterly.

  We sat in total silence while he drank two more beers and started in on a bottle of rye. Then, almost without warning, he passed out.

  I knew I wasn't strong enough to carry or even drag him to the bedroom, so I covered him with a blanket, turned out the lights, and returned to the dormitory tent, wondering if he was dreaming about Alma or about golden-skinned California girls with tasteful bikinis and gently swelling breasts and ready blushes, who would live and die without knowing that anyone like Alma even existed.