Two Freaks at a Festival

She looks superhuman: bathed in the blue stage light, her leotard-clad body bent far beyond the average person’s breaking point. She falls to the floor and for a moment lays flat on her stomach; then, keeping her upper body motionless, she peels her legs away from the floor, curling them above and behind her like a scorpion’s tail. She pauses to acknowledge the smattering of applause and then continues to curl her legs, bringing them down over her head like a crashing wave. Her toes touch the stage in front of her eyes; she shifts her centre of gravity forward, thrusts her torso toward the ceiling, and in one graceful movement inflates her body into a smoothly arching bridge. She holds this pose for a second, and then, with nothing but the sheer strength of her core, pulls herself up into a normal standing position.

More applause, louder this time. She favours the audience with a subdued, sexy smile — and then turns and directs that smile at me, standing side of stage. I’m in the glow of her attention for a full two seconds before she refocuses. The music transitions and the mood shifts accordingly. She sinks into a forward split, and the next routine begins.

I take one last moment to savour the sight of her, then retreat backstage. Two of my fellow performers are loitering in the narrow, gloomy space between the stage’s backdrop and the rear flap of the tent. One is Tommy, our heavily tattooed emcee and producer. The other is Dragon, the next act to perform. He’s twirling a metal rod that resembles a giant matchstick. I don’t speak to either of them as I brush past on my way toward the exit; I’ve got nothing to say, and besides, it’s too loud here for conversation.

Outside the evening air is cool and clear, a welcome change from the stuffiness of the tent. Cynthia, another fellow performer, is sitting in the ‘green room’ — that’s what we jokingly call our pop-up gazebo and the trestle table it shelters. She’s slouched in one of the deck chairs with her knees pulled up to her chest, enjoying a cigarette. I grab a can of beer from our esky and sit down beside her.

“What are you out here for?” Cynthia says, grinning wickedly. “Jasmine isn't done yet. Get back in there and support her.”

She’s teasing me. I crack the can and take a long swig. It’s not my first for the night, nor will it be my last. I wipe my mouth and say, “I think I've shown her enough support over the past year.”

“Gonna say something to her tonight?” she asks.

“About what?”

“About your love for her.”

I laugh derisively. “I don’t love her.”

“If she suggested marriage, you wouldn’t say no.”

“Of course not. A guy like me’s gotta take what he can get.”

Cynthia blows a cloud of smoke, much of which, thanks to a change in the breeze, ends up in my lungs. She apologises, then says, “Jasmine would be lucky to have you, Chris. Don’t undersell yourself.”

“Of course,” I say, with a strong dose of sarcasm. “The beautiful contortionist who’s destined for greatness, and the opening act of a travelling freak show — a match made in heaven.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “Don’t shit on travelling freak shows. I happen to be employed by one as well.”

“But you don’t have to be,” I say, glancing back at the tent to make sure Tommy isn’t within earshot. “You could be doing theatres. We’ve been through this.”

Cynthia shakes her head impatiently, unwilling to revisit a conversation we’ve had many times before. She flicks ash on the grass and, eager to change the topic, says, “Seriously, though — tonight could be the last chance you get. Might as well say something.”

“To Jasmine?”

“Nah. To fuckin’ Mother Theresa.”

I lean back in my chair and stare at the bugs buzzing around the portable lamp near the rear flap of the tent. “What’s the point?” I ask, after another swig of beer.

“I dunno — to not die wondering?” Cynthia suggests. “All I know is, she’s leaving tomorrow, so if you’ve got something to say, say it tonight. Might be a long time before you see her again.”

“It won’t achieve anything, though,” I say, giving voice to thoughts that I’ve been pondering for a long time. “I’m better off saving myself the humiliation. At least that way things end on a good note.”

Cynthia takes another drag, and as she exhales asks, “Why are you so sure she’ll reject you?”

I sigh. “Really, Cynth?”

“Yes, really. You don’t know what she’s into. I know for a fact that she thinks you’re funny.”

“I know a lot of women who think I’m funny. Very few of them want to fuck me.” I wince at the pointlessness of the conversation. “Whatever — at the end of the day, like you said, she’s leaving tomorrow. So even if, hypothetically, the feeling was mutual … she’s fuckin’ leaving. So pouring my heart out’s not gonna achieve anything.”

Cynthia listens, shrugs, and says, “You might get one root out of her, at least.” I can’t help but chuckle at her bluntness as she sucks the last of the nicotine from her cigarette and grinds the butt into the ash tray on the table. “Or a long-distance relationship. I don’t fuckin’ know, Chris. But if I was you, I’d speak my mind.”

Inside the tent, Jasmine’s act is approaching its climax. I can tell from her backing track. She’ll be done in one minute, outside in two. I drain my beer and get up to grab another one.

Cynthia’s on her feet too. “I’m gonna watch Dragon,” she announces.

I look at her incredulously. “When was the last time you went out of your way to watch his act?”

“Two years ago, probably. But it gives you a good chance to chat with Jas.”

With a wink, she turns and strides into the tent, leaving me alone under the gazebo with an unopened can of beer in my hand. At the same time, a raucous surge of clapping and cheering marks the end of Jasmine’s act. Tommy’s energetic voice is punching through the speakers before the noise has even died down.

“Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Jasmine! Amazing, isn’t she?”

The audience agrees that she is, and I agree with the audience — and now I've got the chance to say it. But do I want to? And if so, is it a good idea? And if so, how the hell do I do it without humiliating myself?

These seemingly unanswerable questions are still swirling around in my head when Jasmine emerges from tent about a minute later. She walks straight to me, smiling wearily, the sequins of her leotard sparkling from ankle to shoulder beneath the glare of the bug-besieged outdoor lamp. She hasn’t the slightest clue how beautiful she is.

I decide, then and there, what I’m going to do.

“That’s a wrap,” she says as she approaches, her voice tired but triumphant. She makes to sit down, but I grab her forearm.

“There’s no time,” I say.

She frowns with confusion, giggling nervously. “No time for what?”

“No time to spend sitting in cheap chairs, next to a cheap table, beneath a cheap fuckin’ gazebo,” I answer. “Come on. I’m taking you to the wine bar.”

I’m still holding her forearm. She resists my pull for a moment — then, sensing my sincerity, she relents. “If you insist,” she says. Her expression changes from confused to curious as she falls into step behind me. “Why the wine bar, though? What’s this all about?”

“It’s the last night we’ll spend together,” I say. “We need to do something special.”

She looks back over her shoulder. “The others aren’t invited?”

“Not just yet,” I reply. “They can catch up later.”

“I’m still in my leotard.”

“Don’t worry — you look less strange than I do.”

We stroll out from behind the tent, into view of the revellers meandering up and down the busy laneway that gives our venue its foot traffic. When we reach the laneway, I turn around and take a moment to appreciate the tent from the public’s perspective. It’s a relatively small, squat thing; by no means the festival’s prettiest venue. Its only eye-catching feature is the hand-painted billboard propped up beside the entrance. At the centre of it, in big bold letters, is the name of our show:

THE ROAMING FREAKSHOW!

We turn away from the tent and merge with the festival-goers streaming down the laneway. The two of us stand out like zebras in a pig pen: Jasmine because she’s wearing a sparkly leotard, and me because — well, because I stand out by default. People are staring, some of them quite overtly; right now, though, it doesn’t bother me. I ignore all of it — the double takes, the nudges, the drunken remarks — as we follow the laneway through the festival site, past food stalls, huge solitary trees, and venues far bigger and better-looking than ours.

Eventually we arrive at the outdoor wine bar that I had in mind, which is really nothing more than an arrangement of picnic tables hemmed in by a fake picket fence. We approach the bar, buy a drink each — a pinot noir for Jasmine, a merlot for myself — and then pick out a table. Once we’re settled down opposite each other, Jasmine raises her glass.

“Cheers,” she says, “to The Roaming Freakshow.”

“To The Roaming Freakshow,” I echo, and clink my glass against hers. We drink, then take a moment to appreciate the atmosphere. From somewhere nearby emanates the strong, steady rhythm of house music; from further away, the whir of a carnival ride and the squeals of its passengers.

“Will you miss festivals?” I ask.

Jasmine scowls at me. “I’m not moving to Mars, Chris. I’ll still be able to go to festivals. Just won’t be working at them.”

“You think you’ll prefer theatres?”

She hesitates, thinking. “Well … guess I’ll find out. It’ll be different, that’s for sure. More seats. Less drunk dickheads.” She gazes thoughtfully into the contents of her glass. “On the other hand — more pressure. Less downtime.”

“More money,” I suggest, “and less parental judgement.”

She smirks, raises her eyebrows knowingly. “Yeah, that too.”

I raise the wine to my lips — then lower it without drinking. “Can I ask you a hypothetical question, Jas?”

“Sure. I love hypotheticals.”

“I’m not sure you’ll love this one.”

“Try me.”

I take a deep breath. Let it out slowly. Meet Jasmine’s eye, and say, “Do you think you’d consider dating me if I wasn’t a dwarf?”

The question has a predictable effect. Her discomfort is obvious: she squirms in her chair, runs a hand through her hair, opens and closes her mouth without saying anything. I immediately feel bad for asking.

“You don’t have to answer,” I hastily add.

“No,” she replies. “It’s OK. It’s just … a hard one. You’re right — it is hypothetical.” She pauses. “Because you are who you are, Chris. If it wasn’t for your condition, would I ever have met you?”

The answer is no, and we both know it. We have nothing in common besides being qualified to work in a freak show. Her qualification is acquired, mine innate; she has a particular skill, and I happen to have a particular trait. But the bottom line is that we’re weird, and that weirdness is what brought us together.

“I like your personality,” she says, her body language opening up slightly. “And your personality was forged by your disadvantages. So … maybe the answer’s no. I wouldn’t want to date you if you weren’t a dwarf — because you wouldn’t interest me half as much as you do now.”