alongside the flat cars, pulling wagons toward the runs. As soon as a wagon's front wheels hit the sloped wooden tracks, the man guiding its pole leaps out of the way. And it's a good thing, too. The heavily loaded wagons come barreling down the runs and don't stop until they're a dozen feet away.
In the morning light I see what I couldn't last night—the wagons are painted scarlet, with gold trim and sunburst wheels, each emblazoned with the name BENZINI BROS MOST SPECTACULAR SHOW ON EARTH. AS soon as the wagons are hitched to teams, the Percherons lean into their harnesses and drag their heavy loads across the field.
"Watch out," says Camel, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward him. He braces his hat with his other hand, the lumpy cigarette clenched in his teeth.
Three men on horseback gallop past. They swerve and cross the length of the field, tour its perimeter, and then swing back around. The one in the lead turns his head from side to side, shrewdly assessing the ground. He holds both reins in one hand and with the other retrieves flagged darts from a leather pouch, flinging them into the earth.
"What's he doing?" I ask.
"Laying out the lot," says Camel. He comes to a stop in front of a stock car. "Joe! Hey, Joe!"
A head appears in the doorway.
"I got a First of May here. Fresh from the crate. Think you can use him?" The figure steps forward onto the ramp. He pushes up the brim of a battered hat with a hand missing three of its fingers. He scrutinizes me, shoots an oyster of dark brown tobacco juice out the side of his mouth, and goes back inside.
Camel pats my arm in a congratulatory fashion. "You're in, kid." lam?
"Yep. Now go shovel some shit. I'll catch up with you later."
The stock car is an ungodly mess. I work with a kid named Charlie whose face is smooth as a girl's. His voice hasn't even broken yet. After S a r a G r u en we shovel what seems like a cubic ton of manure out the door, I pause, surveying the remaining mess. "How many horses do they load in here, anyway?"
"Twenty-seven."
"Jesus. They must be packed in so tight they can't move."
"That's the idea," Charlie says. "Once the wedge horse loads, none of em can go down."
The exposed tails from last night suddenly make sense. Joe appears in the doorway.
"Flag's up," he growls. Charlie drops his shovel and heads for the door. "What's going on? Where are you going?" I say.
"The cookhouse flag's up."
I shake my head. "I'm sorry, I still don't understand." "Chow," he says.
Now that I understand. I, too, drop my shovel.
Canvas tents have popped up like mushrooms, although the largest one—obviously the big top—still lies flat on the ground. Men stand
over its seams, bending at the waist and lacing its pieces together. Towering wooden poles stick up through its center line, already flying Old
Glory. With the rigging on the poles, it looks like the deck and mast of a sailboat.
All around its perimeter, eight-man sledge teams pound in stakes at breakneck speed. By the time one sledge hits the stake, five others are in motion. The resulting noise is as regular as machine-gun fire, cutting through the rest of the din.
Teams of men are also raising enormous poles. Charlie and I pass a group often throwing their combined weight against a single rope as a man off to the side chants, "Pull it, shake it, break it! Again—pull it, shake it, break it! Now downstake it!"
The cookhouse couldn't be more obvious—never mind the orange and blue flag, the boiler belching in the background, or the stream of people heading for it. The smell of food hits me like a cannonball in the gut. I haven't eaten since the day before yesterday, and my stomach twists-with hunger.
W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts
The sidewalls of the cookhouse have been raised to allow for a draft, but it is divided down the center by a curtain. The tables on this side are graced with red and white checked tablecloths, silverware, and vases of flowers. This seems wildly out of sync
In the morning light I see what I couldn't last night—the wagons are painted scarlet, with gold trim and sunburst wheels, each emblazoned with the name BENZINI BROS MOST SPECTACULAR SHOW ON EARTH. AS soon as the wagons are hitched to teams, the Percherons lean into their harnesses and drag their heavy loads across the field.
"Watch out," says Camel, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward him. He braces his hat with his other hand, the lumpy cigarette clenched in his teeth.
Three men on horseback gallop past. They swerve and cross the length of the field, tour its perimeter, and then swing back around. The one in the lead turns his head from side to side, shrewdly assessing the ground. He holds both reins in one hand and with the other retrieves flagged darts from a leather pouch, flinging them into the earth.
"What's he doing?" I ask.
"Laying out the lot," says Camel. He comes to a stop in front of a stock car. "Joe! Hey, Joe!"
A head appears in the doorway.
"I got a First of May here. Fresh from the crate. Think you can use him?" The figure steps forward onto the ramp. He pushes up the brim of a battered hat with a hand missing three of its fingers. He scrutinizes me, shoots an oyster of dark brown tobacco juice out the side of his mouth, and goes back inside.
Camel pats my arm in a congratulatory fashion. "You're in, kid." lam?
"Yep. Now go shovel some shit. I'll catch up with you later."
The stock car is an ungodly mess. I work with a kid named Charlie whose face is smooth as a girl's. His voice hasn't even broken yet. After S a r a G r u en we shovel what seems like a cubic ton of manure out the door, I pause, surveying the remaining mess. "How many horses do they load in here, anyway?"
"Twenty-seven."
"Jesus. They must be packed in so tight they can't move."
"That's the idea," Charlie says. "Once the wedge horse loads, none of em can go down."
The exposed tails from last night suddenly make sense. Joe appears in the doorway.
"Flag's up," he growls. Charlie drops his shovel and heads for the door. "What's going on? Where are you going?" I say.
"The cookhouse flag's up."
I shake my head. "I'm sorry, I still don't understand." "Chow," he says.
Now that I understand. I, too, drop my shovel.
Canvas tents have popped up like mushrooms, although the largest one—obviously the big top—still lies flat on the ground. Men stand
over its seams, bending at the waist and lacing its pieces together. Towering wooden poles stick up through its center line, already flying Old
Glory. With the rigging on the poles, it looks like the deck and mast of a sailboat.
All around its perimeter, eight-man sledge teams pound in stakes at breakneck speed. By the time one sledge hits the stake, five others are in motion. The resulting noise is as regular as machine-gun fire, cutting through the rest of the din.
Teams of men are also raising enormous poles. Charlie and I pass a group often throwing their combined weight against a single rope as a man off to the side chants, "Pull it, shake it, break it! Again—pull it, shake it, break it! Now downstake it!"
The cookhouse couldn't be more obvious—never mind the orange and blue flag, the boiler belching in the background, or the stream of people heading for it. The smell of food hits me like a cannonball in the gut. I haven't eaten since the day before yesterday, and my stomach twists-with hunger.
W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts
The sidewalls of the cookhouse have been raised to allow for a draft, but it is divided down the center by a curtain. The tables on this side are graced with red and white checked tablecloths, silverware, and vases of flowers. This seems wildly out of sync
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