It was an enduring story of a group of people who came from various lands in pursuit of a common dream—a dream to do what they wanted in a place that was free, a desire to carve out a little corner of the world where they could be themselves. And as I imagined that story in my mind, I began to see a flood of images from recent days. I thought of Little Pablo and his wife, who had just purchased a new home to pull behind their truck but didn’t have enough money to buy any furniture for it. I thought of Sean Thomas, who had given up liquor, forsworn women, and even sold his gold Florida Gators necklace for the promise of a better future. I thought of Khris Allen, now silent beside me, whose experience in the previous twenty-four hours had forced him to confront the sad underside of animal care.
As each story flickered through my mind, I thought of a parallel in American myth. Khris Allen—a modern-day Huck—and his friend Bushwhacker, former soldier and convict, who together somehow transcended the class and racial structure of the circus and formed a curious friendship that catapulted them to freedom up and down the modern Mississippi, 1-95. Douglas Holwadel—a wandering Willy Loman—who walked, talked, dressed, and drank like a salesman and who bought into the circus because it was the ultimate home for a traveler and who, by year’s end, was slowing down with what he called “old man’s disease.” And eventually myself—a watered-down whaler?—lost at sea in a personal quest to comprehend and ultimately confront some grand, elusive dream of the circus as an allegory for American life.
And in the exaggerated rush of that moment my search finally seemed to reach its natural end. This is America, I thought again, this time much more at peace with the thought. It is the circus. There is sin as much as splendor. There is grit as much as glitter. But at that moment, on top of it all, there was no place on earth I would rather have been.
Two days later one more ring was closed.
Kris Kristo, Marcos, and I were at the Ruby Tuesday’s at the Oaks Mall in Gainesville, just around the corner from the hospital at the University of Florida where Sue the elephant had been operated on at the beginning of the year. The bar was having a Monday Night Football special, whereby each person won a free seven-ounce beer every time their chosen team scored. I was single-handedly serving the entire table courtesy of the Buffalo Bills. Kris, meanwhile, ordered Buffalo wings and tried to pick up the waitress, the bartender, and even the woman vacuuming the floor. Marcos wasn’t eating because of a religious fast, but he was drinking Tequila Sunrises, smoking Marlboros, and complaining about how boring the circus had become now that half the people had turned to God. End-of-the-season malaise had sunk in, not to be confused with the middle-of-the season slump, or the beginning-of-the-season blues. The performers needed a break. The circus needed a lift.
“¡Dios mío!” Marcos cried, pointing at the door. “Look who’s coming.”
“That’s Pablo,” said Kris.
“No, you fool,” Marcos said. “Behind him.”
“Is that really him?” Kris struggled to see.
“Yes, it is,” Marcos said, setting down his drink.
“Oh, my God,” I said, when I finally saw. “Danny’s come home.”
The three of us rose to our feet as Danny Rodríguez came sauntering into the bar just behind Big Pablo. He was wearing a Chicago Bulls light winter jacket. His long hair had been cut short in the back, bringing even more attention to his narrow face and bucktoothed grin. He reached toward Marcos and gave him a hug. Kris moved forward and slapped his back. Big Pablo looked at me.
“Before you say anything,” he said, “I want you to know: he’s blood. What else could I do?”
Finally Danny stepped toward me and we embraced.
“Welcome back,” I said. “We missed you.”
“It’s good to be back,” he said with a sincerity well beyond his eighteen years. “It’s nice to be home.”
We ordered another round of drinks and, when they were gone, headed back to the lot.
“So, you didn’t know he was coming?” I said to Pablo during the walk home. It was the coldest day of the year so far. The central Florida newscasts had called for a freeze and ran stories urging people to read the instructions on their space heaters before using them that night.
“No, I didn’t know until I saw him. He came close to me, then stopped. He was about four feet away. I saw he was crying. That’s all I needed. I knew something had gone wrong out there. I knew he wanted to be let back in. I didn’t wait for him to come to me. I went to him. I hugged him. Then I said, ‘I don’t care why you left. I don’t care why you came back. You’re here, that’s all that matters. When you’re ready, you can come tell me yourself. That’s what brothers are for…’”
Arriving back at the trailer line, Danny hugged Little Pablo, who was out walking his dog. Kris offered Marcos a piggyback ride. Big Pablo faked shooting a basketball. For a moment the circus was made whole again. The dream had been revived.
An American Dream
The dream, in the end, begins with flight.
“Ladies and gentlemen, our featured attraction, the World’s Largest Cannon…!”
Inside the big top the anticipation soars as the back door opens for the final time and the world’s largest cannon slowly rolls into view—its siren wailing, its flashers beaming, and its barrel growing foot by foot with every gasp from the audience and every camera flash. Standing atop the silver barrel is the newest American daredevil himself. At first he looks like Elvis, only blond. Then Superman, only shorter. But when he finally arrives in the ring, with his blue eyes and blond hair aglow in the light and his white rhinestone suit shimmering like a torch with red and blue star-studded racing stripes, Sean Thomas looks taller than God.
“Introducing…the Human Cannonball…Seaaaaan Thomas…”
As Sean salutes and waves to the crowd, the seventy-five or so members of the cast line up just behind the back door and prepare to stream into the tent like apostles at the second coming. The atmosphere backstage is ripe with excitement, though slightly tinged with rue—another season passes safely, another year is borne by the body. As the performers inch into position most are busily saying goodbye; as soon as the show closes tonight in Palm Beach the cast will scatter in a dozen directions. A few are thinking of retiring—Venko Lilov, Dawnita Bale, even Jimmy James himself. Many more are thinking merely about going home—Michelle and Angel are heading to Spain; Sean and Jenny are going on a honeymoon; and Danny Rodríguez, who in the end said he didn’t like the pressure of earning money and missed being a performer, is returning home to Sarasota with his mother and father.
I am truly going home: this show will be my last. Earlier, feeling celebratory, I asked Fred Logan if I could ride an elephant during spec of the last performance. With a silent nod and a gruff thumbs-up, he led me to the end of the elephant line and called for the last bull in the herd to kneel down. I placed my left foot on her right front leg, and without so much as a hint of strain she hoisted me almost ten feet in the air and all but flung me onto her back. Upon landing face-first on her shoulders, I was so surprised by the scratchiness of her skin and the intense heat from her neck that it was not until I tucked my legs behind her ears and dangled my shoes beside her face that I looked down to pat my three-ton chauffeur and realized that I was sitting on Sue, whose fortitude during surgery a year earlier had drawn me into this circus and whose strength this final night would carry me out.