He eases himself down next to me and pulls out a small green bottle. He picks the cork out and takes a drink.
“I’m gettin’ too old for this, Jacob. I ache all over at the end of every day. Hell, I ache all over now, and we ain’t even at the end of the day yet. The Flying Squadron won’t pull out for probably two more hours, and we start the whole danged thing over again five hours after that. It’s no life for an old man.”
He passes me the bottle.
“What the hell is this?” I say, staring at the brackish liquid.
“It’s jake,” he says, snatching it back.
“You’re drinking extract?”
“Yeah, so?”
We sit in silence for a minute.
“Damn Prohibition,” Camel finally says. “This stuff used to taste just fine till the government decided it shouldn’t. Still gets the job done, but tastes like hell. And it’s a damn shame because it’s all that keeps these old bones going anymore. I’m about used up. Ain’t good for nothin’ but ticket seller, and I reckon I’m too ugly for that.”
I glance over and decide he’s right. “Is there something else you can do instead? Maybe behind the scenes?”
“Ticket seller’s the last stop.”
“What’ll you do when you can’t manage anymore?”
“I reckon I’ll have an appointment with Blackie. Hey,” he says, turning to me hopefully. “Got any cigarettes?”
“No. Sorry.”
“I didn’t suppose,” he sighs.
We sit in silence, watching team after team haul equipment, animals, and canvas back to the train. Performers leaving the back end of the big top disappear into dressing tents and emerge in street clothes. They stand in groups, laughing and talking, some still wiping their faces. Even out of costume they are glamorous. The drab workmen scuttle all around, occupying the same universe but seemingly on a different dimension. There is no interaction.
Camel interrupts my reverie. “You a college boy?”
“Yes sir.”
“I figured you for one.”
He offers the bottle again, but I shake my head.
“Did you finish?”
“No,” I say.
“Why not?”
I don’t answer.
“How old are you, Jacob?”
“Twenty-three.”
“I got a boy your age.”
The music has ended, and townspeople start to trickle from the big top. They stop, perplexed, wondering what happened to the menagerie through which they entered. As they leave by the front, an army of men enter by the back and return carting bleachers, seats, and ring curbs, which they fling noisily into lumber wagons. The big top is being gutted before the audience has even left it.
Camel coughs wetly, the effort wracking his body. I look to see if he needs a thump on the back, but he’s holding up a hand to stop me. He snorts, hawks, and then spits. Then he drains the bottle. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks over at me, eyeing me from head to toe.
“Listen,” he says. “I ain’t trying to know your business, but I do know you ain’t been on the road long. You’re too clean, your clothes are too good, and you don’t got a possession in the world. You collect things on the road—maybe not nice things, but you collect them all the same. I know I ain’t got no talking room, but a boy like you shouldn’t be on the bum. I been on the bum and it ain’t no life.” His forearms rest on his raised knees, his face turned to mine. “If you got a life to go back to, I reckon that’s what you should do.”
It’s a moment before I can answer. When I do, my voice cracks. “I don’t.”
He watches me for a while longer and then nods. “I’m right sorry to hear that.”
The crowd disperses, moving from the big top to the parking lot and beyond, to the edges of the town. From behind the big top, the silhouette of a balloon rises into the sky, followed by a child’s prolonged wail. There is laughter, the sound of car engines, voices raised in excitement.
“Can you believe she bent like that?”
“I thought I was going to die when that clown dropped his drawers.”
“Where’s Jimmy—Hank, have you got Jimmy?”
Camel scrambles suddenly to his feet. “Ho! There he is. There’s that old S-O-B now.”
“Who?”
“Uncle Al! Come on! We gotta get you on the show.”
He limps off faster than I would have thought possible. I get up and follow.
There is no mistaking Uncle Al. He has ringmaster written all over him, from the scarlet coat and white jodhpurs to the top hat and waxed curled moustache. He strides across the lot like the leader of a marching band, ample belly thrust forward and issuing orders in a booming voice. He pauses to let a lion’s den cross in front of him and then continues past a group of men struggling with a rolled canvas. Without breaking stride, he smacks one of them on the side of the head. The man yelps and turns, rubbing his ear, but Uncle Al is gone, trailed by followers.
“That reminds me,” Camel says over his shoulder, “whatever you do, don’t mention Ringling in front of Uncle Al.”
“Why not?”