To the ringmaster, the doctor was hardly a welcome sight. “As soon as the doctor came from the audience I knew we were in trouble,” said Jimmy James. “Real doctors don’t do things like that anymore. It’s a new ball game out there. These days you can’t say, ‘Is there a doctor in the house?’ Because they won’t touch you for insurance reasons. As a result, you don’t know what’s coming out of the audience. You have to be very careful.”

In a maelstrom of European and Latin excess, Jimmy James, from Columbus, Georgia, was a paragon of Southern gentility. Between phrases he paused to let his vowels stretch out to their full magnolia glory. Between shows he hung his tailcoat on a seat wagon so his tails wouldn’t sully themselves in the mud. Between sentences he thought before he spoke.

“At the time, I was standing in ring three. I saw the accident right away. The first thing I did was signal Willie to have him kill the lights. The second thing I did was make sure the next act was up and ready to go. In this case we had a few minutes while the Estradas finished their act, but unfortunately the act after them was the bears. The bears couldn’t work because of where Danny was still lying, but the bear man didn’t tell me that until he was in the ring, which made it worse. I considered going to a clown walk-around. If I had really gotten into a jam I would have just called for a blackout and introduced the band to play a march. But in this case I got lucky; the Ivanovs were ready. I announced the cradle act and they went up in the center ring. At that point I could turn my attention back to the ground.”

While Jimmy was struggling to rearrange the show, Danny was being swarmed by a growing number of family and friends. His sister Elizabeth started to cry. His mother stroked his cheek. The emergency personnel had to push their way through the assembled crowd.

“When the paramedics came they asked me if I could move my fingers, my arms,” Danny said. “They pushed particular places around my head and asked if it hurt—my neck, my back, my spine. One dude knew right away, but he wasn’t allowed to say. They couldn’t move me until they got me on a stretcher with a neck brace. At the hospital I waited for about an hour. The brace was pinching my nerves. I asked them if they could please take it off, and they said the only way I could take it off was to sign a paper saying they weren’t responsible. I decided to leave it on….

“All that time I kept telling my mom how stupid I was. It was my fault and I could have prevented it. What happened was there was Sno-Kone juice on the swing. After the act they shove the swings back into the corner, and someone must have dropped some Sno-Kone on the part where we stand. By the time I noticed it I was already swinging. I lifted my foot and mentioned it to my brothers. While I was talking to them it was time for me to go off but I wasn’t paying attention. That’s when they knocked me off. Shit happens. But I still could have prevented it. That’s why it upsets me more. The truth is, I fucked up.”

A little over an hour later the X rays arrived and confirmed what the paramedics had suspected all along: when Danny flew off the Russian swing and landed on his neck he snapped his collarbone. It would take eight to ten weeks to heal, the doctors said. After that he should be okay. But after that he wasn’t, for Danny, it turns out, might have fallen off the swing for reasons other than the one he confessed to.

Meanwhile the act must continue. With Danny disabled the family was forced, at least for a few months, to shuffle its lineup again. Little Pablo started doing a straight jump along with his brandy in, back somersault out. Mary Chris even considered doing a trick or two herself. But most of the slack was taken up by Big Pablo, who returned to jumping despite his still crippled foot and now aching knee. Because he was twenty pounds overweight and difficult to push, the family had to recruit Kris Kristo to join their act for added weight. He donned a black Howard Stern-like wig, slipped into Danny’s old costume, and learned to dance the mambo. Now the Rodrinovich Flyers were not only Mexican but part Bulgarian as well.

For the finale, Papa Rodríguez, who up to now has been holding the net, hands it off to a prop man and fetches two twelve-foot-high aluminum poles connected at the top by a slender cable wrapped in bright pink towels. He douses the towels with lighter fluid and sets the wire ablaze. The crowd breathes an audible “ahhhh.” Jimmy James responds on cue.

“From the Russian swings, a backward somersault, bliiindfolded…”

Big Pablo slips a black cotton pillowcase over his head, squeezing his arms through two narrow holes and pulling the remainder almost to his chest. His brothers and sisters start clapping their hands until the entire tent catches on. The brass flare gives way to a tympani roll.

“The last trick is always a safe trick,” Pablo explained. “You can’t afford to end with a miss. But you want something that the people are going to enjoy. That’s what the fire is for. It’s not a threat. You can see fairly good with that blindfold anyway. But people like it. It makes them go ‘ahhh.’”

“So how do you know what makes people go ‘ah.’”

“Fire makes people go ‘ah.’ Darkness makes people go ‘ah.’ Somebody jumping over something high makes people go ‘ah.’ Our last trick has all of that. It’s the perfect ending.”

After four swings the platform reaches the ultimate height and Pablo tells his pushers he is ready to fly. On the next rotation he pushes off with his legs and vaults his body into the air, searching for that elusive nirvana, that tunnel of air, which will carry him to his destination. With a cymbal crash for flourish and a communal ‘Hey!’ for effect, his back is sucked into the vacuum of the net and he comes sliding down the blue nylon chute and lands upright on his feet. He peels off the blindfold and beams at the crowd. He looks confident. He looks poised. Deep inside, he wants more.

“At first I feel pretty good, like I just hit a home run. It’s like after a big ride at a carnival you say, ‘Damn, that was cool.’ It’s a feeling of, well, accomplishment. I have done something right. I have done something good…. But after a moment that high goes away. That’s when I realize I’m not satisfied. The act could be better. The swing needs to be two feet taller. I need to be fifteen pounds lighter. The way the act is now I would not want anybody I think is somebody to see it. Not in my business, which is somersaults. As soon as it’s over I’m thinking, I want to do more, I want to give more. I want to shout out to the audience, ‘Just wait until the flying act. That’s when I know we’ll show you something. That’s when we’ll really show you how to fly.’”

5

This Is When They Become Real

“I woke up at seven this morning, just as I do every day. I looked around the room for a moment. I hadn’t moved any of my clothes. I hadn’t even changed the sheets. It seemed strange to be in her bed. We hadn’t slept together for several months. And now, well, she’s gone.”