“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?”
“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.
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.
There’s a collective intake of breath, a moment of awed silence before the men whoop in delight.
“Atta girl!”