When I turn back, the man is in my face, his breath rank with alcohol. "We don't got room for no bums on this train, brother. You can git right back off."
"Now hold on, Blackie," says the old man with the jug. "Don't go doin' nothing rash now, you hear?"
"Rash nothin'," says Blackie, reaching for my collar. I swat his arm away. He reaches with his other hand and I swing up to stop him. The bones in our forearms meet with a crack.
"Woohoo" cackles the old man. "Watch yourself, pal. Don't you go messin' with Blackie."
"It seems to me maybe Blackie's messing with me," I shout, blocking another blow.
Blackie lunges. I fall onto a roll of canvas, and before my head even hits I'm yanked forward again. A moment later, my right arm is twisted behind my back, my feet hang over the edge of the open door, and I'm facing a line of trees that passes altogether too quickly.
"Blackie," barks the old guy. "Blackie! Let 'im go. Let 'im go, I tell ya, and on the inside of the train, too!"
Blackie yanks my arm up toward the nape of my neck and shakes me.
"Blackie, I'm tellin' ya!" shouts the old man. "We don't need no trouble. Let 'im go!"
Blackie dangles me a little further out the door, then pivots and tosses me across the rolls of canvas. He returns to the other men, snatches the earthenware jug, and then passes right by me, climbing over the canvas and retreating to the far corner of the car. I watch him closely, rubbing my wrenched arm.
"Don't be sore, kid," says the old man. "Throwing people off trains is one of the perks of Blackie's job, and he ain't got to do it in a while. Here," he says, patting the floor with the flat of his hand. "Come on over here."
I shoot another glance at Blackie.
"Come on now," says the old man. "Don't be shy. Blackie's gonna behave now, ain't you, Blackie?"
Blackie grunts and takes a swig.
I rise and move cautiously toward the others.
The old man sticks his right hand up at me. I hesitate and then take it.
"I'm Camel," he says. "And this here's Grady. That's Bill. I believe you've already made Blackie's acquaintance." He smiles, revealing a scant handful of teeth.
"How do you do," I say.
"Grady, git that jug back, will ya?" says Camel.
Grady trains his gaze on me, and I meet it. After a while he gets up and moves silently toward Blackie.
Camel struggles to his feet, so stiff that at one point I reach out and steady his elbow. Once he's upright he holds the kerosene lamp out and squints into my face. He peers at my clothes, surveying me from top to bottom.
"Now what did I tell you, Blackie?" he calls out crossly. "This here ain't no bum. Blackie, git on over here and take a look. Learn yourself the difference."
Blackie grunts, takes one last swallow, and relinquishes the jug to Grady.
Camel squints up at me. "What did you say your name was?"
"Jacob Jankowski."
"You got red hair."
"So I've heard."
"Where you from?"
I pause. Am I from Norwich or Ithaca? Is where you're from the place you're leaving or where you have roots?
"Nowhere," I say.
Camel's face hardens. He weaves slightly on bowed legs, casting an uneven light from the swinging lantern. "You done something, boy? You on the lam?"
"No," I say. "Nothing like that."
He squints at me a while longer and then nods. "All right then. None of my business no-how. Where you headed?"
"Not sure."
"You outta work?"
"Yes sir. I reckon I am."
"Ain't no shame in it," he says. "What can you do?"
"About anything," I say.
Grady appears with the jug and hands it to Camel. He wipes its neck with his sleeve and passes it to me. "Here, have a belt."
Now, I'm no virgin to liquor, but moonshine is another beast entirely. It burns hellfire through my chest and head. I catch my breath and fight back tears, staring Camel straight in the eyes even as my lungs threaten to combust.
Camel observes and nods slowly. "We land in Utica in the morning. I'll take you to see Uncle Al."
"Who? What?"
"You know. Alan Bunkel, Ringmaster Extraordinaire. Lord and Master of the Known and Unknown Universes."
I must look baffled, because Camel lets loose with a toothless cackle. "Kid, don't tell me you didn't notice."
"Notice what?" I ask.
"Shit, boys," he hoots, looking around at the others. "He really don't know!"
Grady and Bill smirk. Only Blackie is unamused. He scowls, pulling his hat farther down over his face.
Camel turns toward me, clears his throat, and speaks slowly, savoring each word. "You didn't just jump a train, boy. You done jumped the Flying Squadron of the Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth."
"The what?" I say.
Camel laughs so hard he doubles over.
"Ah, that's precious. Precious indeed," he says, sniffing and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "Ah, me. You done landed yer ass on a circus, boy."
I blink at him.
"That there's the big top," he says, lifting the kerosene lamp and waving a crooked finger at the great rolls of canvas. "One of the canvas wagons caught the runs wrong and busted up real good, so here it is. Might as well find a place to sleep. It's gonna be a few hours before we land. Just don't lie too close to the door, that's all. Sometimes we take them corners awful sharp."
COURTESY OF THE PFENING ARCHIVES, COLUMBUS, OHIO
Three
I awake to the prolonged screeching of brakes. I'm wedged a good deal farther between the rolls of canvas than I was when I fell asleep, and I'm disoriented. It takes me a second to figure out where I am.
The train shudders to a stop and exhales. Blackie, Bill, and Grady roll to their feet and drop wordlessly out the door. After they're gone, Camel hobbles over. He leans down and pokes me.
"Come on, kid," he says. "You gotta get out of here before the canvas men arrive. I'm gonna try to set you up with Crazy Joe this morning."
"Crazy Joe?" I say, sitting up. My shins are itchy and my neck hurts like a son of a bitch.
"Head horse honcho," says Camel. "Of baggage stock, that is. August don't let him nowhere near the ring stock. Actually, it's probably Marlena that don't let him near, but it don't make no difference. She won't let you nowhere near, neither. With Crazy Joe at least you got a shot. We had a run of bad weather and muddy lots, and a bunch of his men got tired of working Chinese and moped off. Left him a bit short."
"Why's he called Crazy Joe?"
"Don't rightly know," says Camel. He digs inside his ear and inspects his findings. "Think he was in the Big House for a while but I don't know why. Wouldn't suggest you ask, neither." He wipes his finger on his pants and ambles to the doorway.
"Well, come on then!" he says, looking back at me. "We don't got all day!" He eases himself onto the edge and slides carefully to the gravel.
I give my shins one last desperate scratch, tie my shoes, and follow.
We are adjacent to a huge grassy lot. Beyond it are scattered brick buildings, backlit by the predawn glow. Hundreds of dirty, unshaven men pour from the train and surround it, like ants on candy, cursing and stretching and lighting cigarettes. Ramps and chutes clatter to the ground, and six-and eight-horse hitches materialize from nowhere, spread out on the dirt. Horse after horse appears, heavy bob-tailed Percherons that clomp down the ramps, snorting and blowing and already in harness. Men on either side hold the swinging doors close to the sides of the ramps, keeping the animals from getting too close to the edge.
A group of men marches toward us, heads down.
"Mornin', Camel," says the leader as he passes us and climbs into the car. The others clamber up behind him. They surround a bundle of canvas and heave it toward the entrance, grunting with effort. It moves about a foot and a half and lands in a cloud of dust.
"Morning, Will," says Camel. "Say, got a smoke f
or an old man?"
"Sure." The man straightens up and pats his shirt pockets. He digs into one and retrieves a bent cigarette. "It's Bull Durham," he says, leaning forward and holding it out. "Sorry."
"Roll-your-own suits me fine," says Camel. "Thanks, Will. Much obliged."
Will jerks his thumb at me. "Who's that?"
"A First of May. Name's Jacob Jankowski."
Will looks at me, and then turns and spits out the door. "How new?" he says, continuing to address Camel.
"Real new."
"You got him on yet?"
"Nope."
"Well, good luck to ya." He tips his hat at me. "Don't sleep too sound, kid, if you know what I mean." He disappears into the interior.
"What does that mean?" I say, but Camel is walking away. I jog a little to catch up.
There are now hundreds of horses among the dirty men. At first glance the scene looks chaotic, but by the time Camel has lit his cigarette, several dozen teams are hitched and moving alongside the flat cars, pulling wagons toward the runs. As soon as a wagon's front wheels hit the sloped wooden tracks, the man guiding its pole leaps out of the way. And it's a good thing, too. The heavily loaded wagons come barreling down the runs and don't stop until they're a dozen feet away.
In the morning light I see what I couldn't last night--the wagons are painted scarlet, with gold trim and sunburst wheels, each emblazoned with the name BENZINI BROS MOST SPECTACULAR SHOW ON EARTH. As soon as the wagons are hitched to teams, the Percherons lean into their harnesses and drag their heavy loads across the field.
"Watch out," says Camel, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward him. He braces his hat with his other hand, the lumpy cigarette clenched in his teeth.
Three men on horseback gallop past. They swerve and cross the length of the field, tour its perimeter, and then swing back around. The one in the lead turns his head from side to side, shrewdly assessing the ground. He holds both reins in one hand and with the other retrieves flagged darts from a leather pouch, flinging them into the earth.
"What's he doing?" I ask.
"Laying out the lot," says Camel. He comes to a stop in front of a stock car. "Joe! Hey, Joe!"
A head appears in the doorway.
"I got a First of May here. Fresh from the crate. Think you can use him?"
The figure steps forward onto the ramp. He pushes up the brim of a battered hat with a hand missing three of its fingers. He scrutinizes me, shoots an oyster of dark brown tobacco juice out the side of his mouth, and goes back inside.
Camel pats my arm in a congratulatory fashion. "You're in, kid."
"I am?"
"Yep. Now go shovel some shit. I'll catch up with you later."
The stock car is an ungodly mess. I work with a kid named Charlie whose face is smooth as a girl's. His voice hasn't even broken yet. After we shovel what seems like a cubic ton of manure out the door, I pause, surveying the remaining mess. "How many horses do they load in here, anyway?"
"Twenty-seven."
"Jesus. They must be packed in so tight they can't move."
"That's the idea," Charlie says. "Once the wedge horse loads, none of 'em can go down."
The exposed tails from last night suddenly make sense.
Joe appears in the doorway. "Flag's up," he growls.
Charlie drops his shovel and heads for the door.
"What's going on? Where are you going?" I say.
"The cookhouse flag's up."
I shake my head. "I'm sorry, I still don't understand."
"Chow," he says.
Now that I understand. I, too, drop my shovel.
Canvas tents have popped up like mushrooms, although the largest one--obviously the big top--still lies flat on the ground. Men stand over its seams, bending at the waist and lacing its pieces together. Towering wooden poles stick up through its center line, already flying Old Glory. With the rigging on the poles, it looks like the deck and mast of a sailboat.
All around its perimeter, eight-man sledge teams pound in stakes at breakneck speed. By the time one sledge hits the stake, five others are in motion. The resulting noise is as regular as machine-gun fire, cutting through the rest of the din.
Teams of men are also raising enormous poles. Charlie and I pass a group of ten throwing their combined weight against a single rope as a man off to the side chants, "Pull it, shake it, break it! Again--pull it, shake it, break it! Now downstake it!"
The cookhouse couldn't be more obvious--never mind the orange and blue flag, the boiler belching in the background, or the stream of people heading for it. The smell of food hits me like a cannonball in the gut. I haven't eaten since the day before yesterday, and my stomach twists with hunger.
The sidewalls of the cookhouse have been raised to allow for a draft, but it is divided down the center by a curtain. The tables on this side are graced with red and white checked tablecloths, silverware, and vases of flowers. This seems wildly out of sync with the line of filthy men snaking behind the steam tables.
"My God," I say to Charlie as we take our place in line. "Look at this spread."
There are hash browns, sausages, and heaping baskets of thickly sliced bread. Spiral cut ham, eggs cooked every which way, jam in pots, bowls of oranges.
"This ain't nothin'," he says. "Big Bertha's got all this, and waiters, too. You just sit at your table and they bring it right to you."
"Big Bertha?"
"Ringling," he says.
"You worked for them?"
"Uh . . . no," he says sheepishly. "But I know people who have!"
I grab a plate and scoop up a mountain of potatoes, eggs, and sausages, trying to keep from looking desperate. The scent is overwhelming. I open my mouth, inhaling deeply--it's like manna from heaven. It is manna from heaven.
Camel appears from nowhere. "Here. Give this here to that fella there, at the end of the line," he says, pressing a ticket into my free hand.
The man at the end of the line sits in a folding chair, looking out from under the brim of a bent fedora. I hold out the ticket. He looks up at me, arms crossed firmly in front of him.
"Department?" he says.
"I beg your pardon?" I say.
"What's your department?"
"Uh . . . I'm not sure," I say. "I've been mucking out stock cars all morning."
"That don't tell me nothin'," he says, continuing to ignore my ticket. "That could be ring stock, baggage stock, or menagerie. So which is it?"
I don't answer. I'm pretty sure Camel mentioned at least a couple of those, but I don't remember the specifics.
"If you don't know your department, you ain't on the show," the man says. "So, who the hell are you?"
"Everything okay, Ezra?" says Camel, coming up behind me.
"No it ain't. I got me some smart-ass rube trying to filch breakfast from the show," says Ezra, spitting on the ground.
"He ain't no rube," says Camel. "He's a First of May and he's with me."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
The man flicks the brim of his hat up and checks me out, head to toe. He pauses a few beats longer and then says, "All right, Camel. If you're vouching for him, I reckon that's good enough for me." The hand comes out, snatches my ticket. "Somethin' else. Teach him how to talk before he gets the shit kicked out of him, will ya?"
"So, what's my department?" I ask, heading for a table.
"Oh no you don't," says Camel, grabbing my elbow. "Them tables ain't for the likes of us. You stick close to me till you learn your way around."
I follow him around the curtain. The tables in the other half are set end to end, their bare wood graced only with salt and pepper shakers. No flowers here.
"Who sits on the other side? Performers?"
Camel shoots me a look. "Good God, kid. Just keep your trap shut till you learn the vernacular, would ya?"
He sits down and immediately shoves half a piece of bread into his mouth. He chews on it for a minute and then looks across at me. "Oh go on, don't b
e sore. I'm just looking out for ya. You saw how Ezra was, and Ezra's a pussycat. Sit yourself down."
I look at him for a moment longer and then step over the bench. I set my plate down, glance at my manure-stained hands, wipe them on my pants, and, finding them no cleaner, dig into my food anyway.
"So, what's the vernacular then?" I say finally.
"They're called kinkers," says Camel, talking around a mouthful of chewed food. "And your department is baggage stock. For now."
"So where are these kinkers?"
"They'll be pulling in any time. There's two more sections of train still to come. They stay up late, sleep late, and arrive just in time for breakfast. And while we're on the subject, don't you go calling them 'kinkers' to their faces, neither."
"What do I call them?"
"Performers."
"So why can't I just call them performers all the time?" I say with a note of irritation creeping into my voice.
"There's them and there's us, and you're us," says Camel. "Never mind. You'll learn." A train whistles in the distance. "Speak of the devil."
"Is Uncle Al with them?"
"Yep, but don't you go getting any ideas. We ain't going near him till later. He's cranky as a bear with toothache when we're still setting up. Say, how you making out with Joe? Had enough of horse shit yet?"
"I don't mind."
"Yeah, well I figure you for better'n that. I been talking to a friend of mine," Camel says, crushing another piece of bread between his fingers and using it to wipe grease from his plate. "You stick with him the rest of the day, and he'll put in a word for you."
"What'll I be doing?"
"Whatever he says. And I mean that, too." He cocks an eyebrow for emphasis.
CAMEL'S FRIEND IS a small man with a large paunch and booming voice. He's the sideshow talker, and his name is Cecil. He examines me and declares me suitable for the job at hand. I--along with Jimmy and Wade, two other men deemed presentable enough to mix with the townsfolk--are supposed to position ourselves around the edges of the crowd and then, when we get the signal, step forward and jostle them toward the entrance.
The sideshow is on the midway, which teems with activity. On one side, a group of black men struggles to put up the sideshow banners. On the other, there's clinking and shouting as white-jacketed white men set up glass after glass of lemonade, forming pyramids of full glasses on the counters of their red and white striped concession stands. The air is filled with the scents of corn popping, peanuts roasting, and the tangy undertone of animal.