Hell hath no Fury…
A true story of a recent
season…BY PROF. LASZLO
So here I
am, just over a
half-century-old and
from one day to the next
I’m homeless…
I mean
shopping cart homeless…
If they
locked me in jail my
standard of living would
improve…
See, it
all started with my Wife
deciding I was a bum…
And that
decided it…
I pretty
well became one…
Just like
that. Period. Not a damn
thing to say about it. I
was a bum…
Worse
still, a Carnie bum…
She
kicked me out of my
house, told me I was a
lousy provider, and said
“ Hit the road, send
money, and don’t let me
see you again”…
What the
hell…
I tuned
up the old Chevy truck,
fixed the tires on the
old Snake Show trailer,
went to the zoo, where I
grabbed some animals who
had nothing to say about
it ( the giant snake
did put up a struggle ),
and headed North...
I wound
up on a nice little
family owned carnival
playing fairly decent
little spots and paying
my bills on time with a
few dollars left over to
send to my beloved for
the care of our little
Circus Performers.
Plus, I
was a safe distance from
the war…
I mean
there are limits to her
evil powers…
All was
well but for one
noteworthy exception…
I was
living like an animal…
I mean in
squalor…
Third
World underdeveloped
poverty stricken
war-torn ghetto no
sanitation rampant
typhoid nameless dread
disease and louse
infested squalor…
If you
ask her, it’s too good
for me…
If you
ask me, it beats
palatial splendor shared
with her…
See, I’m
just one old guy, and
I’ve managed to move
three big State Fair
quality attractions on
one little old pickup,
and I have no reliable
help, so I’m only able
to drive one vehicle,
and it’s crammed slap
full of show gear. I
mean to the doors. Full.
Period. When I empty all
that out, set it up, and
wash the animal crap
out, it’s my home…
I live in
the back of a
rat-infested truck…
I mean
it’s just one rat, but a
good sized one…
And
better company than
some. No flying
crockery. No criticism
of every damn thing I’ve
ever done or have even
been rumored to have
done…
A
non-judgmental rat…
Except
for the animal crap, not
bad company…
So
periodically, I call
home to talk to the
kids…
This
time, instead of the
usual pleasant and
heartbreaking
conversation with my
children, my ancient
nemesis commandeers the
phone and informs me
that I am under orders
to return to base
immediately…
Why?… I
inquire…
“Because
I’ve booked three dates
for the circus and we
leave next week.” She
informs me…
“Wait a
minute,” I protest, “
when and where are these
dates, and what kind of
money is involved, I
mean I’m way up here in
northern Tennessee and
I’m getting into fair
season, plus I’ve made a
deal here and I ought a
stick to it, I mean I
can’t just blow…”
So she
tells me that the dates
are in Vermont,
Connecticut, and
Huntsville Alabama, and
that we have about a
week to get ready…
Then, the
kicker, she tells me the
money part and I have to
ask her to repeat the
amount because I thought
I had misheard and
couldn’t believe it when
she told me again. So I
repeat the amounts she
had told me and asked if
that was correct and she
verifies the figures…
So I’m
screwed…
Evidently, the people
she was dealing with had
never purchased
entertainment before,
and had no idea that you
could probably frame a
circus for this kind of
money or perhaps they
were under the
impression that they
were getting Big Bertha
or something. It was the
kind of money that you
hear about and figure
whoever is telling about
it is lying because you
never ever see it in
this business…
So I ask,
“Is this ink on paper?”
She fires back, “Signed
contracts for each
date.” I’m screwed. No
choice. Heading South…
Back to
the lair of the beast…
Nonetheless…
So I make
my good-byes, beg off
the obligation, alibi,
explain, shuffle and two
step…
My friend
Randy, the G.M. of the
carnival, asks me, “Why
do you have to go?”
“Boss’s orders” I tell
him. “You can’t
decline?” So I tell him
the money… “You better
get going!” he says…
I work a
long day on the final
Saturday, operate all
day ( no help, just me )
, tear down, load up,
and as the sun rises I
head for hell. Drive to
Central Florida,
stopping only for fuel
etc. and arrive dead
tired in the heat of
day. Hadn’t slept,
hadn’t showered,
hadn’t…well you know…I
think it may have been
Monday afternoon. I hug
the kids, bow to Her
Imperial Majesty, and go
look over the show…
It was
discouraging…
The grass
had been growing under
the trucks for at least
six months. There were
flat tires to deal with,
trucks that had dead
batteries, equipment in
disarray, and there had
been no preparations
made…
I have a
son, a teenage son,
nineteen at this
juncture, who works at a
shop that builds formula
race cars from the
ground up. These cars
win races. He works
assembling engines in a
sophisticated machine
shop. His boss speaks
well of his abilities.
Yet with all this, he
seems to be unable to
change the oil in a show
truck…
I mean he
hadn’t done so at this
point…
Even
though it obviously
needed doing…
He does
several acts in the
show, all of them quite
well, and likes the good
money from the show…
However,
he fails to see the need
for the show to arrive
on time in order for him
to get paid…
Oh well…
So I
corral the animals,
drive to the zoo, dump
them off, grab some
parts, change the oil on
three trucks, grease the
chassis, replace some
belts, install some
parts, charge the
batteries, air the
tires, hitch them up,
check over the props,
grab my wardrobe, load
what’s needed, and off
we go.
Headed
north again, only this
time with controversy…
Lots of
controversy…
Now if
you check the Atlas, you
can’t help but notice
that Florida is down
near the bottom, and
that Vermont is way up
at the very tippity top.
And Barton, where the
show was to play, was so
close to the top, that
if you blew the exit,
you would find yourself
getting directions from
Canadian customs
officials…
Now this
could be a fun trip if
you had plenty of time
to make it, which I
didn’t, and with
pleasant company, which
she wasn’t…
As it
was, I was making the
trip with people who
didn’t think that
fueling trucks and
checking them over was a
very big deal, so the
typical stop consisted
of me running around
fueling, checking air
pressure, oil, coolant,
and brake fluid levels,
fixing lights, and
dealing with all that,
while the cast of Circus
Fun would enjoy a
leisurely repast at the
Waffle House, after
which they would emerge
picking their teeth…
When I
would ask, “did you get
me a coffee?” the answer
would be something like
“Well you didn’t say” …
Simply
exhausting…
So after
cleverly routing and
timing the trip so as to
hit rush hour at every
major population center
on the Eastern Seaboard,
( she used some damn
online triptik scam and
probably never cracked
an Atlas or gave it a
moments thought) ,we
arrive at the Barton
fairgrounds…
The fair
manager shows me the
site and setup begins
immediately...
And seems
to take an eternity…
There is
bickering, confusion,
controversy, missing
components, anarchy,
revolution, chaos,
rebellion, insurrection,
complaining, but only
marginal progress…
Several
hours later, after
breaking up a fistfight
between the teens,
sending my number one
critic on a pointless
errand, ( to get some
breathing room ), and
working my ass off, the
three youngest and I got
the show in the air…
I am by
now very tired and it
appears to be ShowTime…
“Ladeeez
and gentlemen…boys and
girls…Iiiitttsss… CIRCUS
TIME…
And
that’s all the lines
that I was able to
remember…
So I ad
libbed some lame crap
and away we went…
One
disaster right after
another…
They
hadn’t worked in about a
half a year, and
practice was a foreign
concept to these prima
god-dam-donnas so of
course it was a train
wreck…
The Great
Butterfingers dropped
everything including his
gold medal …
The
rolling globe was
unridable and the fifty
hula hoops made it about
one revolution…
None…not
a single one…none of my
comedy gags worked, the
music was all screwed
up, and while the
disaster is unfolding in
the ring, I’m backstage
where my three year old
little girl is right on
time and ready to go,
but in the wrong
costume…
Not a
disaster, but she thinks
it is, and I’m
explaining… “Listen,
Sweetie, you are The
Feature, the others are
only chorus, of course
you have a different
costume, that’s so the
audience will know that
you are the Star…now go
out there and murder
‘em”…and she did…
She was
the only one in the
whole show who did her
part perfectly…
Then the
trampoline damn near
killed the worst
offenders, and we had
made it to the last act…
The
SideShow portion…
Which is where it all
fell completely apart...
You see…
this is where my Wife
and I have to engage in
teamwork… And this is
where she almost
finished me…
Sad…
I’ve
successfully blocked
these memories from my
head…
I
recovered, I hit my
stride, I bounced back…
My
youngest son did his
escape gag with flawless
precision. I was so
relieved to be in the
home stretch that I let
my guard down...
The
sideshow pitch is
something that is
embedded in my DNA. I
was almost home. I felt
sure that I could bring
this baby in for a
landing. A good finish
is all you need. All
that fumbling would be
forgotten with a bang-up
finish…
You see,
the blade box pitch
never misses, when I lay
it down correctly that
is...
I laid it
on thick as axle grease…
She
looked like a Pagan
Goddess…
The G
worked flawlessly…
That was
the big finish and the
crowd had liked the
show, they were
applauding and cheering…
They had
no idea that anything
had gone wrong…
They had
seen costumes, action,
stunts, comedy, and
heard music and
impressive
announcements. They
were prepared to accept
that they had seen a
circus. And they were
lining up with dollars
in hand to see how
“She
twists, turns, and
contorts her body into
more shapes than I can
even begin to describe,
dodging in and out, over
and under, around and
through, wrapped in a
forest of razor sharp
swords, sabers, and
bayonets, impaled
through the box within
fractions of an inch of
the most delicate parts
of her body…”
That was
it… We had brought this
thing in for a landing…
Furthermore, without any
casualties, and after a
few days and a number of
performances it was back
on track and running
like clockwork…
I was
recovering from
exhaustion. It was at
this point that I
casually mentioned that
it was going to be an
easy run from here and
that the trip to
Connecticut should be a
breeze…
She let
me have it with both
barrels…
Execution
style, like Ruby gunning
down Oswald…
Cold
blooded murder in broad
daylight…
She says,
“No, that’s incorrect,
from here we go to
Huntsville Alabama, then
we come back up to
Hebron, Connecticut…”
I was
stunned…
I had
been played, this wasn’t
humanly possible, she
was trying to kill me,
she was gonna succeed at
it. I didn’t stand a
chance…
Down the
entire continent we
went, to Huntsville
Alabama, where I was
expected to entertain
rocket scientists after
a trip that was going
like the flight of
Apollo thirteen…
Then
right back up to
Connecticut as if miles
didn’t exist…
By the
time the show was set up
in Hebron, I had come to
resemble one of those
guys in the old black
and white documentary
films who were wearing
striped pajamas as they
were staggering out of
Auschwitz or Buchenwald…
I
couldn’t wait for this
ordeal to come to an
end…
It was
here that I realized
that the checks from
these fairs, which they
had been paying us with,
were made out to her…
I had
been bankrolling this
whole operation from my
earnings with the
Menagerie Shows and I
was damn near broke…
About
this time she informs
me… “You will be pleased
to know that I’ve booked
something for next week
that’s not too far from
here.” I regard her
with an understandable
amount of suspicion for
a moment or two, and ask
her, “Where is this
place?” “We’re booked to
a fair just this side of
Harrisburg, it’s the
Bloomsburg fair...”
I do some
mental gymnastics and
come to the conclusion
that it can’t possibly
be over three hundred
miles of mountain
driving, still, it’s not
a cross continent
ordeal. Somewhat
relieved, I inquire,
“How much are they
paying us?” “No,” she
calmly informs me. “We
have no further bookings
for the circus, this is
a booking for three
grind shows and the
ladder game,
We have to
drop the circus
equipment off at winter
quarters, load up the
midway operation and be
at the fairgrounds in
Bloom by next
Wednesday.”
It worked
like clockwork…
Another
cross country marathon…
She said,
“You’ve been working
pretty hard. Take the
kids and show them the
Midway and the exhibits,
I’ll run the bullshit
factory, you need to
take a couple of weeks
and relax, you can tear
down, I don’t mind”…
What a
considerate gesture…
Next I
was standing on a
deserted fairgrounds…
With
three big shows to tear
down and load…
By
myself…
In the
drizzling rain…
With no
money…
She and
the kids were gone…
With all
the money…
Back to The Good Old
Days
Back to Main
