The Big Top
December 18, 2006
Lakeland, Florida, is The Ringling Brothers and Barnimum Bailey Circus’ winter quarters, and it was where I was working for a week, putting the finishing touches on some videos we’d designed in New York, to be played on gianormous LED screens while clowns and elephants did their thing.
Circus performers really do live on a train, by the way. Even when they haven't hit the road yet and are still in rehearsals. There's a train not far from the rehearsal hall where they stay. You can't visit without being invited, though, which annoyed me at first, until I realized that I don't want anyone in my home uninvited, either.
Spending long hours, spent in a cement room with no windows has a disorienting Las Vegas effect where it's impossible to tell what time it is. And when you check, you can't be sure if it's a.m. or p.m.— It feels like one long day since I left New York.
I found a flea on my arm this morning as I walked through the rehearsal hall. Ever since then, my mind has been playing tricks, and I feel them all the time. On my legs, in my hair, on my arms. At least I hope it's in my mind. The rehearsal hall smells like animals even when there are none to be seen.
"Where do they keep the elephants?" we asked one of the custodians.
"I dunno," he said.
An elephant can't be an easy thing to hide, but they manage.
Last night, after squeezing in a short nap, Ian, one of the guys I'm here with, asked if I wanted to try out a Thai restaurant that he saw listed on a xeroxed map at the front desk of our hotel. We'd been eating shit since we arrived. The night before, he and I ate mountainous plates of barbecue. The day before that, we ate fried food at the Wing House, which is a Hooters knock-off featuring crappy food brought to you by recent high school graduates dressed in short-shorts and shiny, heavyweight tights that make their legs look like they're made of anodized aluminum. "How y'all doin'? Kin I get y'all sumpin' to drink?"
All of that, combined with the cafeteria-style slop we'd been eating for lunch in what the circus-folk call the "Pie Tent," even though there's no pie in it, left Ian feeling the need for something reasonably healthy. When he spotted the Thai restaurant on the map, he hoped it would do the trick.
I sat in the passenger seat of our rental car and navigated the way to a strip mall where the restaurant sat nestled next to a pet store that had a sleeping pile of scrawny ferrets in its window. "I hope we're not eating those things," I said.
If we did, they turned out to be surprisingly good.
As we were working this afternoon, Kevin, my boss on this job, said he was hoping to squeeze in some Christmas shopping before heading back to New York. "Is there a mall or something around here?" he asked.
"Are you kidding? Except for all the Bail Bond shacks, the whole city is a mall."
But, of course, what city in America isn't? I'm just waiting for them to put a roof over all of Manhattan.
Anyway, I know no one cares about any of this, and people just want to see are pictures of the animals, but sorry, it's verboten. "No pictures of the animals," read the signs. Too many PETA spies, I suppose.
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December 20, 2006
The Beverage Castle lies between our hotel and the circus's winter quarters at the Florida State Fairgrounds. Yesterday, after a long day of work, we decided to drive through and pick up a six-pack. There was surprisingly little selection for a place so audaciously named. Ian was driving. He pulled in, and we strained our necks through the car window to look around. He backed up a little, pulled forward a little, and backed up again. A guy was waiting behind us, and a glance in the rearview mirror showed him to be bopping his head with impatience. He looked like he wanted desperately to honk his horn, and probably would have if it wasn't for one thing: he was on a bicycle.
This is Bevearge Castle number 6, which implies that there are at least five others. I wondered aloud if there was a map showing where they all are. Like Tampa's version of a wine tour. "Put that on our list of things to do if we get any time off," I said.
Despite spending so much time at the circus, I haven't met any of the circus people. Not the real circus people, that is—the ones who live on the train and go on tour. We've been too busy holed up in our little makeshift editing facility. But today we were somewhat entertained by a member of the crew who happened to wander into our room by mistake.
He was looking for the conference room, where the point men for each department meet to go over production notes after rehearsals. I haven't had the pleasure of attending any of these meetings, but I hear it's surreal to be seated at a large conference table listening to the producer berate a clown.
"I think I'm in the wrong place," said a 300-pound bald guy wearing an official circus crew polo shirt and sandals. He looked like an out-of-shape circus strong man from 1892, dressed in modern clothes. Relatively modern, that is. "Either of you guys know where the big room is where everybody meets? I'm supposed to stock the room with snacks."
The conference room is located next to our edit room. It has two separate entrances, from two separate stairwells, but one of them has been closed off because of the dog act camped out at the bottom of it. It can be hard to concentrate at times with the dogs yelping and howling all day.
"Right in here," I said to the guy.
He thanked me, and when he was done stocking the refrigerator and filling the bowls on the table with granola bars and chocolates, he returned to our room to chit-chat.
"I seen it says 'Video' on the door. You guys working on them cool videos I seen on the screen?"
"Yeah."
"You guys do the Blue Show too?"
We weren't exactly sure what the Blue Show was, we only knew we hadn't worked on it.
"No."
"This is a good show," he said. "It's really coming together. I like it better than the last one."
"So, you've been with the circus for a while?" I said.
"This is my third circus," he said. And by that, he explained, he meant his third circus company. "Ringling Brothers is the biggest, though. The first two were Mud Shows, and the first one never even made it out of Florida."
As he told us the story of his first circus, I interrupted him — no easy feat, by the way — "So you travel with Ringling Brothers when it goes on tour?"
"Yeah," he said.
"Do you live on the train?"
"Yeah," he said. "That's a trip, I tell you what."
The train is a mile and a half long, he told us, and travels third class, which means it has to pull over to let all other trains pass. "A hundred and twenty miles will take you how long, in a car?" he said. "A couple of hours, maybe? Three, if you stop for gas and have something to eat, right?"
"That sounds about right,” I said.
"How long do you think it takes to go that far on the train?"
"I have no idea."
"Twelve hours. Kin you believe that? Twelve hours! The train is a trip, I tell you what."
He continued non-stop for about an hour, growing short of breath, and breaking a sweat, but never stopping for anything but a quick question. I learned more about the circus from him in an hour than I learned in all the ten-hour days I've been working, combined. As I said, I've been holed up in a tiny corner and haven't met any circus people. Especially those who are willing to talk. When Ian and I decided to take a break and wander around, despite the All-Access I.D. cards swinging from our necks, we were stopped when we tried to peek in on the animals.
"Can I help you guys?"
"We're just looking around," we said.
"Yeah, well, stay away from the tent, okay?"
It's amazing how quickly you can become jaded walking through the circus arena each day, past clowns in various states of costume and make-up as they spray-paint props with gold glitter, young girls in sparkly dresses rehearsing dance routines, pyrotechnic tests exploding in the corners, seamstresses sewing sequins and spandex, a cobbler repairing shoes of cartoonish proportions, carpenters and welders making who knows what, unicycles and clown cars. Honestly, it was all getting a bit ho-hum. Until today, that is, when my blasé attitude was suddenly crushed by a 10,000-pound elephant.
All circus-animal controversy aside, standing next to the elephant, looking into its eyes while its moist, agile trunk investigated my ears, and then my shoes, it was impossible to feel anything other than awe.
Ian had to work especially late last night and was told he could come in late this morning. He was thankful for the few extra hours of sleep, but was disappointed he missed the elephant. "I'm bummed," he said, as we drove to the hotel after a fourteen-hour day.
"Yeah," I said, trying not to rub it in. "It was definitely the high point of the day. As for the rest of the day, well, it sucks when the high point of the day happens first thing in the morning.
Brian called and I took a short break to chat.
"Duuuude—"
"Hey man, how are you? Where are you? Are you in New York?"
"I'm in Connecticut. In my office."
That line is only funny if you know that his office is his room at his mother's house. For the past few months, Brian has been in India. Doing what? Searching for peace of mind, of course. This was his second extended visit to India, and, since he had such an exciting adventure the first time, I expected he'd have as much fun the second time. He expected that, too, of course. It's a mistake people often make. The first email he sent me was from Kathmandu, which he said felt like Park Avenue after a couple of weeks at his friend's house in a rustic Indian village.
"Caught dysentery, then had to fight off the entire town trying to convince me that I could eat the food that had been lovingly prepared by filthy hands, mere feet from their cesspool."
The friend he was staying with had a big party while he was there.
"The 'caterers' — aka the grim reapers — prepared the food beneath Rupak's stilted house with the goats and chickens and flies.. It then sat in the blinding sun for several hours. The next day I had the opportunity to eat it again! Yummy! Fuck me. So aside from all that, the constant noise, not being alone for more than five minutes at a time, the 105-degree heat, the outhouse with the squat toilet, and people blowing cigarette smoke in my face 24 hours a day, I had a blast. Not. It was a big mistake."
He was able to cure his dysentery with four dollars’ worth of medicine bought over the counter (the same four-hundred-dollar treatment he received in the States after his last trip), and things improved once he hit the road:
"We had a bit of a sing around at the ashram last week. The Nepalis were very moved by my rendition of 'Helpless.' I must say, Neil would have approved. Then, a couple of French Canadians (one of whom I fell madly in love with) sang a lovely 'Yesterday'."
"So how are you doing?" I asked.
"Dude, I feel excellent. My stomach is finally getting back to normal, and I've even managed to put on a few pounds."
"Oh man, speaking of putting on pounds, I think I've put on ten pounds over the past week. I'm in Tampa right now, and I've been eating like shit the entire time. I don't think I've ever craved vegetables before in my life. After eating nothing but fatty meat, I'd give anything for a decent salad."
"What are you doing in Tampa?"
"I'm doing a gig for the circus."
"Workin' with a buncha clowns, eh?" he said.
"Yeah, dude. The clown jokes stopped being funny the second day. Anyway, it's been interesting, but I'm ready to get the hell out of here. Are you gonna be in New York anytime soon?"
"Yeah, I'm planning to be there for New Year's. Are you gonna be around?"
"Yeah, if I don't have to come back to Tampa after Christmas, which, at this point, I really hope I don't. I'm flying back for Christmas, but they have me on hold until the third of January. Either way, we'll see each other soon. I'm eager to hear about your trip. How long have you been back, anyway?"
"Shit, I don't even know. A week, maybe? What day is it?"
"I have no fucking idea."
December 26, 2003
A quick parting shot of Asia, the elephant, and I'm home for the holidays. The job with the circus turned out to be like so many other experiences in my life: something I'm glad I did, but never want to do again. I don't know. We'll see. Ask me again next year, and my answer might change. But for now, I'm happy to be home for a quiet Christmas with Deborah and the three-pound bag of truffles she bought home from work.
Merry Christmas.
