Water For Elephants (6 page)

There's an enormous crash, and I spin to find that the side of the closest animal den has slammed shut. When I turn back, the woman is looking

at me. Her brow furrows, as though in recognition. After a few seconds I realize I should smile or drop my eyes or do something, but I can't. Eventually the man in the top hat puts his hand on her shoulder and she turns,

but slowly, reluctantly. After a few seconds she steals another glance. Wade is back.

"Come on," he says, slapping me between the shoulder blades. "It's showtime."

S a r a G r u en

"LADIES-S-S-S-S-S-S AND GENTLEMEN-N-N-N-N-N-N-N! Twen-n-n-n-n-ty-five minutes till the big show! Twen-n-n-n-n-ty-five minutes! More than enough time to avail yourselves of the amazing, the unbelievable, the m-a-a-a-a-a-a-rvelous wonders we have gathered from all four corners of the earth, and still find a good seat in the big top! Plenty of time to see the oddities, the freaks of nature, the spectacles! Ours is the most dazzling collection in the world, ladies and gentlemen! In the world, I tell you!"

Cecil stands on a platform beside the sideshow's entrance. He struts back and forth, gesturing grandly. A crowd of about fifty hovers loosely. They are uncommitted, more paused than stopped.

"Step right this way, to see the gorgeous, the enormous, the Lovely Lucinda—the world's most beautiful fat lady! Eight hundred and eighty-five pounds of pudgy perfection, ladies and gentlemen! Come see the human ostrich—he can swallow and return anything you hand him.

Give it a try! Wallets, watches, even lightbulbs! You name it, he'll regurgitate it! And don't miss Frank Otto, the world's most tattooed man! Held

hostage in the darkest jungles of Borneo and tried for a crime he didn't commit, and his punishment? Well, folks, his punishment is written all over his body in permanent ink!"

The crowd is denser, their interest piqued. Jimmy, Wade, and I mingle near the back.

"And now," says Cecil, swinging around. He puts his finger to his lips and winks grotesquely—an exaggerated gesture that pulls the side of his mouth up toward his eye. He raises a hand in the air, asking for quiet. "And now—my apologies, ladies, but this is for the gentlemen only—the gentlemen only! Because we're in mixed company, for delicacy's sake, I can only say this once. Gentlemen, if you're a red-blooded American, if you've got manly blood flowing through your veins, then this is something you don't want to miss. If you'll follow that there fella—right there, just right over there—you'll see something so amazing, so shocking, it's guaranteed to—"

He stops, closes his eyes, and lifts a hand. He shakes his head with W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts

remorse. "But no," he continues. "In the interest of decency and on accourit of being in mixed company, I can't say any more than that. Can't say any more, gentlemen. Except this—you don't want to miss it! Just hand your quarter to this fella here, and he'll take you right on in. You'll never remember the quarter you spent here today, and you'll never forget what

you see. You'll be talking about this for the rest of your lives, fellas. The rest of your lives."

Cecil straightens up and adjusts his checked waistcoat, tugging the hem with both hands. His face assumes a deferential expression and he gestures broadly toward an entrance on the opposite side. "And ladies, if you'll kindly come this way—we have wonders and curiosities suitable for your delicate sensibilities, too. A gentleman would never forget the ladies. Especially such lovely ladies as yourselves." With this he smiles and closes his eyes. The women in the crowd glance nervously at the disappearing men.

A tug-of-war has broken out. A woman holds fast to her husband's sleeve with one hand and bats him with the other. He grimaces and frowns, ducking to avoid her blows. When he finally breaks free, he straightens his lapels and glowers at his now-sulking wife. As he struts off to hand over his quarter, someone clucks like a hen.

Laughter ripples through the crowd.

The rest of the women, perhaps because they don't want to make a spectacle, watch reluctantly as their men drift off and get in line. Cecil sees this and comes down from his platform. He is all concern, all gallant attention, gently drawing them toward more savory matters.

He touches his left earlobe. I push imperceptibly forward. The women move closer to Cecil and I feel like a sheepdog.

"If you'll step this way," Cecil continues, "I'll show you ladies something you've never seen before. Something so unusual, so extraordinary,

you never dreamed it existed, and yet it's something you can talk about at church this Sunday, or with Grandma and Grandpa at the dinner table. Go ahead and bring the little fellas, this here is strictly family fun. See a horse with his head where his tail should be!

Not a word of a lie, ladies. A living creature with his tail where his head should be. See it with your S a r a G r u en

own eyes. And when you tell your menfolk about it, maybe they'll wish they'd stayed with their lovely ladies instead. Oh yes, my dears. They will indeed."

By now I'm surrounded. The men have all but disappeared, and I let myself drift along in the current of churchgoers and ladies, of young fellas and the rest of the non-red-blooded Americans.

The horse with his tail where his head should be is exactly that—a horse backed into a standing stall so that his tail hangs into his feed bucket. "Oh, for crying out loud," says one woman.

"Well, I never!" says another, but mostly there is relieved laughter, because if this is the horse with the tail where his head should be, then how bad can the men's show be?

There's a scuffling outside the tent.

"You goddamned sons of bitches! You're damned right I want my money back—you think I'm gonna pay a quarter to see a goddamned

pair of suspenders? You talk about red-blooded Americans, well, this one's red-blooded all right! I want my goddamned money back!"

"Excuse me, ma'am," I say, wedging my shoulder between the two women ahead of me.

"Hey, mister! What's your hurry?"

"Excuse me. Beg your pardon," I say, pushing my way out.

Cecil and a red-faced man are squaring off. The man advances, places both hands on Cecil's chest, and shoves him backward. The crowd parts, and Cecil crashes against the striped skirt of his platform. The patrons close in behind, standing on tiptoe, gawking.

I launch myself through them, reaching Cecil just as the other man hauls ofFand swings—his fist is but an inch or two from Cecil's chin when I snatch it from the air and twist it behind his back. I lock an arm around his neck and drag him backward. He sputters, reaching up and clawing my forearm. I tighten my grip until my tendons dig into his windpipe

and half-drag, half-march him to beyond the end of the midway. Then I chuck him into the dirt. He lies in a cloud of dust, wheezing and grasping his throat.

W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts

Within seconds, two suited men breeze past me, lift him by the arms and haul him, still coughing, toward town. They lean into him, pat his back, and mutter encouragement.

They straighten his hat, which has miraculously stayed in place.

"Nice work," says Wade, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "You done good. Come on back. They'll take care of it from here."

"Who are they?" I say, examining the row of long scratches, beaded with blood, on my forearm.

"Patches. They'll calm him down and make him happy. That way we won't catch any heat." He turns to address the crowd, clapping onceloudly—and then rubbing his hands in front of him. "Okay, folks. Everything's fine. Nothing more to see here."

The crowd is reluctant to leave. When the man and his escorts finally disappear behind a redbrick building they start to dribble away, but continue to glance hopefully over their shoulders, afraid they'll miss something.

Jimmy pushes his way through the stragglers. "Hey," he says. "Cecil wants to see you."

He leads me through to the back end. Cecil sits on the very edge of a folding chair. His legs and spat-clad feet stick straight out. His face is red and moist, and he fans himself with a program. His free hand pats various pockets and then reaches into his vest. He pulls out a flat, square bottle, curls his lips back, and pulls the cork out with his teeth. He spits it off to the side and tips the bottle up. Then he catches sight of me.

He stares for a moment, the bottle poised at his lips. He lowers it again, resting it on his rounded belly. He drums his fingers against it, surveying me. "You handled yourself pretty well out there," he says finally.

"Thank you, sir." "Where'd you learn that?"

"Dunno. Football. School. Wrangling the odd bull who objected to losing his testicles."

He watches me a moment longer, fingers still drumming, lips pursed. "Camel got you on the show yet?"

S a r a G r u en

"Not officially. No sir."

There's another long silence. His eyes narrow to slits. "Know how to keep your mouth shut?"

"Yes sir."

He takes a long slug from his bottle and relaxes his eyes. "Well, okay then," he says, nodding slowly.

IT'S EVENING, AND WHILE the kinkers are delighting the crowd in the big top I'm standing near the back of a much smaller tent on the far edge of the lot, behind a row of baggage wagons and accessible only through word of mouth and a fifty-cent admission fee. The interior is dim, illuminated by a string of red bulbs that casts a warm glow on the woman methodically removing her clothes.

My job is to maintain order and periodically smack the sides of the tent with a metal pipe, the better to discourage peeping toms; or rather, to encourage peeping toms to come around front and pay their fifty cents. I am also supposed to keep a lid on the kind of behavior I witnessed at the sideshow earlier, although I can't help thinking that the fellow who was so upset this afternoon would find little to complain about here.

There are twelve rows of folding chairs, every one of them occupied. Moonshine is passed from man to man, each blindly groping for the bottle because no one wants to take his eyes off the stage.

The woman is a statuesque redhead with eyelashes too long to be real and a beauty spot painted next to her full lips. Her legs are long, her hips full, her chest a stupefaction. She is down to a G-string, a glimmering translucent shawl, and a gloriously overflowing brassiere. She shakes her shoulders, keeping gelatinous time with the small band of musicians to her right.

She takes a few strides, sliding across the stage in feathered mules. The snare drum rolls, and she stops, her mouth open in mock surprise. She throws her head back, exposing her throat and sliding her hands down around the cups of her brassiere. She leans forward, squeezing until the flesh swells between her fingers.

Water for E l e p h a n ts

I scan the sidewalls. A pair of shoe tips peeks under the edge of the canvas. I approach, keeping close to the wall. Just in front of the shoes, I swing the pipe and smack the canvas. There's a grunt, and the shoes disappear. I pause with my ear to the seam, and then return to my post.

The redhead sways with the music, caressing her shawl with lacquered nails. It has gold or silver woven through it and sparkles as she slides it back and forth across her shoulders. She drops forward suddenly at the waist, throws her head back, and shimmies.

The men holler. Two or three stand, shaking their fists in encouragement. I glance at Cecil, whose steely gaze tells me to watch them.

The woman stands up, turns her back, and strides to the center of the stage. She passes the shawl between her legs, slowly grinding against it. Groans rise from the audience.

She spins so she's facing us and continues sliding the shawl back and forth, pulling it so tight the cleft of her vulva shows.

"Take it off, baby! Take it all off!"

The men are getting rowdier; more than half are on their feet. Cecil beckons me forward with one hand. I step closer to the rows of folding chairs.

The shawl drops to the floor and the woman turns her back once again. She shakes her hair so it ripples over her shoulder blades and raises her hands so that they meet at the clasp of her brassiere. A cheer rises from the crowd. She pauses to look over her shoulder and winks, running the straps coquettishly down her arms. Then she drops the bra to the floor and spins around, clutching her breasts in her hands. A howl of protest rises from the men.

"Aw, come on, sugar, show us what you got!" She shakes her head, pouting coyly.

"Aw, come on! I spent fifty cents!"

She shakes her head, blinking demurely at the floor. Suddenly her eyes and mouth spring open and she pulls her hands away.

Those majestic globes drop. They come to an abrupt stop before swinging gently, even though she's standing perfectly still.

S a r a G r u en

There's a collective intake of breath, a moment of awed silence before the men whoop in delight.

"Attagirl!"

"Lord have mercy!" "Hot damn!"

She caresses herself, lifting and kneading, rolling her nipples between her fingers. She stares lasciviously down at the men, running her tongue across her upper lip.

A drum roll begins. She grasps each hardened point firmly between thumb and forefinger and pulls one breast so that its nipple points at the ceiling. Its shape changes utterly as the weight redistributes. Then she drops it—it falls suddenly, almost violently. She hangs onto the nipple and lifts the other in the same upward arc. She alternates, picking up speed. Lifting, dropping, lifting, dropping—by the time the drum cuts out and the trombone kicks in, her arms move so fast they're a blur, her flesh an undulating, pumping mass.

The men holler, screaming their approval. "Ohyeab!"

"Gorgeous, baby! Gorgeous!" "Praise the sweet Lord!"

Another drum roll begins. She leans forward at the waist and those glorious tits swing, so heavy, so low—a foot long, at least, wider and rounded

at the ends, as though each contains a grapefruit.

She rolls her shoulders; first one, and then the other, so her breasts move in opposite directions. As the speed increases, they swing in everwidening circles, lengthening as they gain momentum. Before long, they're