The Feet of God

83 - IT’S ALL AN ACT

The Amazing Stumppo shouted over the stunned silence, “Maestro, music if you please!”  And circus music cranked up loud again.  Patti opened her eyes and seemed to come awake as Mr. Big Stuff hoisted the sister act over his shoulder and carried them away.  Before they disappeared behind a flap I heard Patti yell at the he-man, “Who do you think you are?”  (Or slurred words to that effect.)

Stumppo desperately directed everyone’s attention toward another opening in the canvas wall and presented six performers who sprinted into the glare of the circus spotlight.  The promoter pointed, “The Fabulous Flying Filipinos!”

Four men and two women glimmered in multicolored beaded costumes as they bowed and waved to the audience.  I noticed each of the Filipinos seemed to be missing something, like a leg or a hand, which I thought was peculiar.

The puppy who’d been underfoot and shadowing me the whole time ran out into the midst of the acrobatic troupe, upstaging them while they was taking bows.  But they seemed happy as they bent down to pet and play with Pulito.  The fat little puppy rolled over on his back begging for tummy rubs.

Mr. Harry tugged at me.  “Let’s leave.”

“What’s their act like?” I asked.

“Not death-defying, that’s for sure.  You see that net?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Well, the six of them go up on a rope to the trapeze and then they start to swing back and forth and try to catch each other, but because they’re all missing important body parts essential to a successful trapeze act, they pretty much just go flying into the air and fall into the net.  They climb back up again and keep trying, and the audience roots them on.  After a few more tumbles the act is over.  It’s all amusing pratfalls for the rubes, but a travesty for any true artist.”

We’d reached the flap to the outside so I turned around.  “Hey, Pulito, come here.  Come on, boy, come on.”

Mr. Harry tugged at me again.  “Leave him.  They’ll take good care of him.  They’re real fond of dogs, you know.”

As me and Mr. Harry walked into the night I bummed another smoke.  “It’s been a long day,” I sighed, as I lit the cigarette and inhaled.

“I’m sure it has,” Mr. Harry agreed.  “You must be really tired.  You don’t need to see the midnight show, well, not tonight anyhow.  You can catch all the special acts later.  We’ll be pulling up stakes real early tomorrow after the last performance, so let me show you where you can bed down and get some rest before we start rolling.”

“How long you been doin’ this carnie shit?” I asked.

“Oh, almost from the beginning.  When I first started, the big act was just The Amazing Melted Man.  That was Stumppo’s father.”

“His old man was a freak?”

“An original.  A founding freak.  You see, back in the 70’s, Stumppo’s daddy was a traveling evangelical.  He had a tent and musicians and roadies hitting town to town, giving out the good news and, well, you get it.  Anyhow, they pulled into a town to spread the good news of faith and love for your fellow man, but the locals didn’t exactly share an interest in the miracle of love for each other and a few put on white robes with hoods and drove out to the camp meeting and set it on fire.  The tent over Stumppo’s daddy burned to the ground, and 80% of his body was covered in third-degree burns.  He survived, but barely.  This was very traumatizing.”

“Yeah, Stumppo’s dad must’a been royally pissed off,” I nodded.

“No,” Mr. Harry stopped in his tracks.  “Not him.  Stumppo was the traumatized one.  His daddy was just a sad pile of scar tissue.  Stumppo had the crisis of faith, the faith he’d been raised in.  Stumppo, the son, decided that faith in anything unseen or intangible like love was stupid, and the only miracles worth anything were the miracles you could see with your own two eyes, or touch with your own two hands.  Like cash.  Somehow this realization gave him the idea for a traveling roadshow featuring his father as The Amazing Melted Man.”

My eyes glazed over, “That’s amazing, all right.”

“We’re not called the Cirque De Bizarro for nothing, kid.”

“So whatever happened to Stumppo’s old man?  Is he still alive?”

“Oh him?  I believe he’s situated in a condo in Boca Raton near other retired freak folk.  I think he’s in a near-vegetative state now, but he’s rich enough to afford the best medical care, so I’m sure he’s comfortably drugged and not in excruciating pain.”

We continued walking for a few minutes without speaking, then Mr. Harry piped up, “Ahhh, here we go.  Scaly, my friend, here’s your bed for the next few days.”  He stopped at the back of one of the big trailers and swung open the doors.

“For real?”  I couldn’t hide my displeasure.  “These are my sleeping quarters?”

“You got it.  There’s some straw back there where we keep Randy the Remarkable Camel.  He’s actually a llama I painted brown.  Be careful, he spits.”

I climbed aboard the trailer truck.  The insides was big and empty, except for bales of hay stacked in the back.  Mr. Harry pulled down a few bales and in no time he’d constructed me a fortress of sorts, or at least some sorta semi-private living space apart from my llama roommate.  We pulled apart a couple more bales of hay and, presto, a bedtime nest awaited me.

Mr. Harry was ready to take off now.  As he moved to the door he looked back where I snuggled down in the bed of hay.  “Sleep tight,” he winked, “don’t let the bedbugs bite.”