The Great Circus Parade

“Ha! There it is, the Irish Spring!”, says Kilo, “When they see you coming, they jump out of the way. You’re what they used to call a Big Goon. You’re just so damn big and mean-looking! You look like a Dick Tracy villain. The Irish Goon! Look out, everybody, here comes the Big Irish Goon! Grab your children! Cross the street!”

“Geez, come on, man. You’re scaring them yourself! Just quit talking so much!” I muttered.

Kilo buttoned his lip just long enough to let some pedestrians walk past us without embarrassing me further. It’s no fun being a Big Irish Goon, I tower over everybody and there’s something about my face that makes people think I’m angry all the time.

“RGF. It’s Resting Goon Face. That’s why they’re so afraid.”, he started in again. “They don’t know about you. But one day, somebody will come along and see the real you. It’s just a matter of time. Be patient.”

“Mother used to tell me that.”, I sighed. “But now it’s just you and me.”

We rounded the corner and the crowd came into view. Popcorn carts and hotdog stands and cotton candy kiosks and carnival games were all set up along all the sidewalks, and all the way up Van Buren street, past the high rises condominium towers and the big banks, all the way up the hill, people sat on folding cloth chairs and plastic beer coolers, waiting for the Great Circus Parade.

I carried the backpack loosely in my left hand. It was heavy, and felt so conspicuous. I tried to act nonchalant, but my hands were sweating and I could hear my pulse in my ears. It felt like all eyes were on me.

“Just relax,” said Kilo, “blend in, maybe try to shrink a little bit. HAHAHA”

“Very funny.” I said, walking toward a booth selling sunglasses.

I found a pair of mirrored aviators that fit, and reached into my front pocket and pulled out a stack of hundred dollar bills an inch high, wrapped in a rubber band. This was my inheritance. I carried it in my pocket at all times, because who’s going to rob a Big Irish Goon?

“Yeah, that’s right”, Kilo again, “Who’s gonna rob a Big Irish Goon? Now you’re gonna look like Travis frickin’ Bickle! You can’t hide behind sunglasses! HA! You look like a crazy person!”

I peeled off a crisp $100 bill and handed it to the kid at the register.

“Keep the change.”

He looked up at me, confused.

“Wha,… what?”

“Keep it!” I said, walking away.

The bills looked remarkably real. I sure couldn’t tell.

“He looked scared, like he’d just seen a monster. I bet he changed his opinion once he saw that hundred dollars, though!”

Kilo was right. It’s true, sometimes those ostentatious acts of kindness can really turn people around.

“Yeah, you got a few bucks and now you’re Pablo Escobar! Hey, Lunkhead, you can’t buy everybody! That’s a finite resource!”

“Geez! You’re always taking the wind out of my sails.” I whispered, just loud enough. A couple turned around and looked at me strangely, then turned back around to whisper to each other.

I decided to keep walking up the hill to where I saw a break in the crowd. All the shady spots were taken, but there were a few slots where I could get a good view and get in close enough to be effective.

I could hear the drum corps from over the hill, the sound ricocheted off the buildings like shots through a canyon. My chest was tight, my stomach in knots. They were close.

“Just be cool. You’re just a spectator at the parade”, said Kilo quietly.

Batons thrown skyward by the majorettes twirled up over the hilltop and disappeared, and within a few beats the majorettes crested the hill, first their hats, four in a row, then they appeared, dressed in spangled jumpsuits, behind them a row of drummers, now row after row of drummers, the beat getting louder as they approached, then came the flute section, then the trumpeters and brass, all streaming over the hill in perfect order and formation like an army of ants, from the distance. The lead majorette blew a police whistle and the the whole procession stopped to march in place for a good minute while some tumblers and acrobats cartwheeled to the front and entertained the crowd at the top of the hill, then she blew the whistle twice and the procession marched forward again.

All eyes were on the parade as I gently sat down the backpack.

“Just act nonchalant. Don’t look at the bag!”, said Kilo.

As the front of the parade approached, way up the hill I could see the horse drawn wagons, pulled by massive Belgian draft horses.

A line of police officers working crowd control discreetly flanked the route, watching the crowd, occasionally permitting stragglers to dash across the street to join their party on the other side.

The baton twirlers were now just half a block away, and the police line began to tighten up the crowd. “Up on the side walk. Nobody in the street! Everyone, please, up on the sidewalk. Back it up!”

Kilo and I stepped back onto the curb, but we were hemmed in by the crowd, pressed up on the very edge of the curb with a wall of people to our backs. An officer stood just feet from me as I struggled to back into the crowd and get away.

“Sir! SIR! Pick up your backpack! Is this your backpack?” The drums were pounding in my ears and I could feel myself sweating and my mouth went dry. My mind went blank.

“SIR!”

“Cut!”, shouted the director, springing from his chair. “Extras, onto the grass!”

He turned to me and Kilo and the officer.

“Okay, huddle. Look, he said. Hang on.” He reached up and plucked the sunglasses from the bridge of my nose. “Look. Look up the hill. Look all around you. This is another Fitzcarraldo. We have rented an ENTIRE CIRCUS. A thousand extras. Lions and tigers and bears! Oh my!”

He motioned me closer, and I leaned in. “I’m very sorry about your mother. I mean that. Very sorry. However, the show must go on. You cannot forget your lines. You and mister Kilo here,” he motioned to Jamie Spears, who was playing Kilo, to lean in closer, “You and Jamie have to bend reality. You’re two people, but you’re THE SAME. Think Fight Club. We’re bending reality here, but we have to save the AHA! moment until the end, so the audience can piece it together and say, “Oh, NOW I see it! So, walk the tightrope. You’re in his ear, you’re him, but you’re NOT. If this doesn’t make sense, then you got it. Got it?”

He turned to a production assistant and said something quietly, and the assistant turned around and shouted to everyone “Twenty minutes! Smoking area is on the South side of the street! I don’t want to see any smoking on this side! And pick your butts!”, he joked, eliciting a smattering of laughter from the extras.

Strong men and bearded ladies and clowns and jugglers and acrobats and trumpet players and carnies and circus folk of every stripe dispersed into their separate groups and started making their way to their chosen side of the street, smoking and nonsmoking. I picked up my backpack and crossed the street, through the crowd, almost bumping right into the majorette, who smiled at me sympathetically.

“Sorry for your loss, Mr. Heller.”

“Thank you.”, I said, walking toward my trailer.

As I approached the trailer, I could see Jamie Spears hanging around outside. He was a nice guy, but he really was perfect for the role of Kilo, in that he had a way of heckling people with a bit of a sneer. No “joke” was out of bounds.

“Hey, you really are a Big Irish Goon, Heller. But how’d you end up with a Jew name?”

“Not today, Jamie!”

He moved to follow me, but I quickened my pace to lose him.

I kept walking past my own trailer, downhill past the apartment towers, into the park at the bottom of the hill. Finally finding some shade under the trees, I kept going until well into the woods, and finally found my way to a quiet stream. The air was still and cool, and the water ran crystal clear over the rocks. I sat down on a log by the water, took off my shoes and let my feet hit the water, took a deep, cleansing breath and let out a billowing cloud of stress, a dense, grey, smoky cloud. A large frog sat motionless, feet away. I pulled the stack of money out of my pocket and inspected it. There was no way that this was prop money, I thought. I removed a hundred dollar bill and folded it into a paper boat and dropped it into the stream, watched it bob and drift into the current and float away. Then another, then another.

I reached into the backpack and pulled out a black journaling notebook that I had received from my mother many years ago as a birthday present, but never used. I opened it to the first page and saw for the first time what she had written to me on my 13th birthday.

Five words.

“Above all, know thyself.”- Socrates