THIS LIFE, THIS MOST AWFUL AND WONDERFUL LIFE
Above all else, know this: the earth is greedy. She is a hungry bitch with an insatiable appetite. She feeds on the dead every day but sometimes that is not enough. Sometimes she craves the living. And when she does, she calls upon the all-too-willing wind to become her co-conspirator in crime. The wind gives her a body by which to become whole, gives her legs on which to travel. She becomes a dark and swirling shadow on the horizon; a silent tempest roaming the night like a vampire made of dirt and sand. She can cross entire wheat fields in seconds, can canvass miles of desolate plains in an hour. Always hunting, always prowling. Searching for the exposed and unprotected. An open window, an un-zippered tent flap. She will show no mercy and death will be slow and agonizing for those she finds. Men, women, children. She is indiscriminate -anyone with an open mouth and an unguarded respiratory system. She has fed heavily these past couple of years. She has grown fat off the land. She has killed thousands and still her stomach growls from hunger.
Dust.
Every morning. In his mouth, his nose, his eyes. In his goddamned lungs, even. So much of it. Everywhere. Every cough brings it up into the palm of his tiny hand -a thick, dark mixture of phlegm and dirt and sometimes even blood. It's trying to suffocate me, he thinks. To bury me while I sleep. But I won't let it. I can't. I have too many responsibilities. I have a schedule to keep, people to take care of. I got a show to run here and nothing short of God Himself is going to stop me from doing what I have to do.
Samson stirred, waking just as the dawn began painting the sky a light shade of blue outside the truck in which he slept. He opened his eyes, yawned. He could see the Ferris wheel ahead -The Colossus, it was called- a massive metal structure that rose three stories above the dusty earth. It was the carnival's biggest draw and the sight of it brought Samson a deep feeling of pride. No other traveling outfit could beat it and he enjoyed having that boast. Its top girders were tinged in golden sunlight, making it look as though it was a giant steel cookie that had been dipped in fire. And come midday, with that sun blazing down hard and no cloud cover for relief, it just might get as hot as one. A cool breeze -weak and dying; a fugitive from the advancing heat - bumped clumsily against the truck outside and took refuge among the tents set up nearby. The flags strung across the midway jumped on their ropes at its arrival -colorful, triangles flapping and clapping, breaking the stillness of the early morn.
Time to wake up, Samson ole boy. Time to start the day and get that ball a-rollin'. He stretched and licked his lips. Grainy. He grimaced and leaned over to spit. Had he forgotten to roll up the windows before turning in? Nope, they were all closed. Dust must have come in through the air vents. He'd have to remember to cover them tonight before he hit the sack. The sack. What a joke. He frowned at his current sleeping quarters. The truck's cab was large enough to support his diminutive, three-foot frame but it was nowhere near as comfortable as the bed he used to sleep in. He shot a sour glance at the wooden pull-wagon parked outside, at the one he used to call 'home'.
That is, until Management kicked him out.
Quit your whining, he told himself. You didn't do nothing wrong. Management's just got a plan right now that doesn't involve you, that's all. It's just the way he does things sometimes. You should be used to this by now.
But Samson wasn't used to it. It upset him being left out of the loop. It was a credibility issue. The others looked to him for guidance and leadership. If Management can't trust him enough to even let him sleep in the same damn trailer, what kind of message does that send out? It was no good, all this secrecy. No good at all. Nothing but trouble.
A knock at the window startled him and he looked up to see Jonesy offering him a steaming cup of joe. He smiled, rolled the window down, and eagerly accepted the man's gift.
"Mornin', boss," Jonesy said as Samson took his first sip of wake up juice. "Whatcha doing sleepin' out here? You and Management have a lover's quarrel?"
Sarcasm felt comfortable in Samson's voice. He used it often. "Very funny. You're a regular Charlie Chaplin, you know that?"
"Wouldn't be the first time I've been called a 'tramp'. So what's the plan, boss? We stayin' another night or pullin' up stakes?"
"Can't say I rightly know. I haven't spoken with Management yet."
"We've been here a week already. These hayseeds don't have anymore bread in their pockets. I say we strike this place and move on."
"The crowds are getting pretty thin but like I said, the decision ain't mine to make."
Jonesy scratched the stubble on his tanned face. It itched whenever he got irritated. "Stumpy told me nobody came callin for Rita Sue after her cootch show last night. You know what that means? It means if not a single man shows up to wet his whistle, it's time to throw in the towel and call it a day."
"I agree with you but until we hear otherwise, we carry on like we got a show tonight."
Jonesy's metal leg brace squeaked as he shifted the weight off his bum knee. He frowned. Goddamned knee. "I don't see why we just can't---"
"Because we don't have permission! How many times I gotta tell ya?"
Jonesy couldn't hide it any more. The mounting frustration turned his face a deep red. "The hole's dry, Samson! We done tapped it out! Only a damn fool would--"
Samson grabbed his well-worn, brown Fedora from the seat, forced it onto his small, misshapen head, then glared at Jonesy with a harsh, stone-cold expression. The hat was a symbol of his authority; the firm divide between friend and employer. The hat meant business. "We move when Management tells us we move. End of discussion!"
Jonesy conceded. Leaning back against the side of the truck, he dug a tobacco pouch out of his pants pocket, pinched off a clump, and put it into his mouth. He needed to cool down before he said something he'd regret later. I've thrown in my two Lincoln's worth and that's all that matters, he thought as the tobacco's flavorful juices began turning his saliva brown. If they don't want to listen to reason, that's nobody's fault but their own.
Samson frowned. He didn't like yelling at his best friend. They'd been through too much together and the last thing he wanted to do was sour their relationship over something neither of them had any control over. "Sorry about that."
Jonesy nodded, spit onto the ground by his feet. "Yeah, me too. I didn't mean to bark at ya. Hell, you know me, I got a big yapper. Can't keep it shut sometimes."
"My father used to have a saying," Samson began, his voice softening considerably. "I can't remember how it goes in German, but in English it means: 'a man who knows how to speak his mind sleeps better at night'. And let me tell you, I've walked by your trailer before. You have no idea how loud you snore. "
Jonesy laughed. "I just want what's best for these people. And I know you do too. To my way of thinking, staying here any longer's a helluva waste of time. Do me a favor. When you talk to Management today, can you pass on my opinion?"
Samson threw a quick glance over his shoulder, at the pull-wagon behind the truck, at the door marked with the sign that read: Management. "He knows, Jonesy. He knows."
Jonesy understood. There was something spooky about that trailer, about the man living inside of it -the man whom nobody ever saw. Nobody but Samson, that is. This carnival was Samson's outfit but the man living inside that trailer was the one really in charge of things, the one who called each and every shot. If he said 'go west', they went west. If he said 'skip this town and go to that one', then that's exactly what they did. Samson was merely an embodiment of Management's will; a mouthpiece in which to speak his words; a face to put before them when the people needed to see their leader. Jonesy wasn't sure what Samson got in return for this strange, symbiotic relationship he shared with Management, but he hoped -whatever it was- that it was somehow mutually beneficial. Samson was a damn good man and didn't deserve to be taken advantage of.
A man's voice -shrill and panicked- suddenly rang out from behind one of the nearby tents. The acoustics made it hard to tell though from which direction. "Samson! Samson!"
A figure emerged and Samson and Jonesy turned to see Gecko -the Alligator Man- running full-speed towards them, his scaled, reptilian face a mask of worry and alarm. He was still dressed in his cotton nightshirt and slippers which made him appear even more fay than what he was normally. "Samson! Jonesy! Come quick!"
"What's goin' on?" Jonesy asked as Gecko ran up and grabbed him by the shoulders.
He was panting and out of breath, his thin frame quaking as he fought for air. "It's Lionel!" He choked on some dust and coughed. "It's Lionel!" he repeated.
Lionel was Gecko's boyfriend, another poor soul afflicted with the awful "Alligator Man" disease. He'd joined the outfit last year after sneaking into Gecko's tent, all bruised and beat up, crying and pleading for the carny to take him on; to save him from his alcoholic father's painful beatings. Samson ran it by Management and was given the okay to bring the young man aboard. He and Gecko had hit it off immediately and became close. Very close. Moved in together. Ate together. Slept together. Even performed together as the "Awful Alligator Brothers from Louisiana". Their audience draw doubled and they quickly became one of the carnival's biggest acts. "Something wrong with him?" Samson asked.
Gecko nodded, still huffing and puffing. "He ain't breathin! I think he's dead!"
to be continued!>
