with the line of filthy men snaking behind the steam tables.
"My God," I say to Charlie as we take our place in line. "Look at this spread."
There are hash browns, sausages, and heaping baskets of thickly sliced bread. Spiral cut ham, eggs cooked every which way, jam in pots, bowls of oranges.
"This ain't nothin'," he says. "Big Bertha's got all this, and waiters, too. You just sit at your table and they bring it right to you."
"Big Bertha?" "Ringling," he says. "You worked for them?"
" U h ... no," he says sheepishly. "But I know people who have!"
I grab a plate and scoop up a mountain of potatoes, eggs, and sausages, trying to keep from looking desperate. The scent is overwhelming. I open my mouth, inhaling deeply—it's like manna from heaven. It is manna from heaven.
Camel appears from nowhere. "Here. Give this here to that fella there, at the end of the line," he says, pressing a ticket into my free hand.
The man at the end of the line sits in a folding chair, looking out from under the brim of a bent fedora. I hold out the ticket. He looks up at me, arms crossed firmly in front of him.
"Department?" he says.
"I beg your pardon?" I say. "What's your department?"
"Uh ... I'm not sure," I say. "I've been mucking out stock cars all morning."
"That don't tell me nothin'," he says, continuing to ignore my ticket. "That could be ring stock, baggage stock, or menagerie. So which is it?" I don't answer. I'm pretty sure Camel mentioned at least a couple of those, but I don't remember the specifics.
S a r a G r u en
"If you don't know your department, you ain't on the show," the man says. "So, who the hell are you?"
"Everything okay, Ezra?" says Camel, coming up behind me.
"No it ain't. I got me some smart-ass rube trying to filch breakfast from the show," says Ezra, spitting on the ground.
"He ain't no rube," says Camel. "He's a First of May and he's with me." "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
The man flicks the brim of his hat up and checks me out, head to toe.
He pauses a few beats longer and then says, "All right, Camel. If you're vouching for him, I reckon that's good enough for me." The hand comes out, snatches my ticket.
"Somethin' else. Teach him how to talk before he gets the shit kicked out of him, will ya?"
"So, what's my department?" I ask, heading for a table.
"Oh no you don't," says Camel, grabbing my elbow. "Them tables ain't for the likes of us.
You stick close to me till you learn your way around." I follow him around the curtain.
The tables in the other half are set
end to end, their bare wood graced only with salt and pepper shakers. No flowers here.
"Who sits on the other side? Performers?"
Camel shoots me a look. "Good God, kid. Just keep your trap shut till you learn the vernacular, would ya?"
He sits down and immediately shoves half a piece of bread into his mouth. He chews on it for a minute and then looks across at me. "Oh go on, don't be sore. I'm just looking out for ya. You saw how Ezra was, and Ezra's a pussycat. Sit yourself down."
I look at him for a moment longer and then step over the bench. I set my plate down, glance at my manure-stained hands, wipe them on my pants, and, finding them no cleaner, dig into my food anyway.
"So, what's the vernacular then?" I say finally.
"They're called kinkers," says Camel, talking around a mouthful of chewed food. "And your department is baggage stock. For now." "So where are these kinkers?"
Water for E l e p h a n ts
"They'll be pulling in any time. There's two more sections of train still to come. They stay up late, sleep late, and arrive just in time for breakfast. And while we're on the subject, don't you go calling them 'kinkers' to their faces, neither."
"What do I call them?" "Performers."
"So why can't I just call them performers all the time?" I say with a note of irritation creeping into my voice.
"There's them and there's us, and you're us," says Camel. "Never mind. You'll learn." A train whistles in the distance. "Speak of the
"My God," I say to Charlie as we take our place in line. "Look at this spread."
There are hash browns, sausages, and heaping baskets of thickly sliced bread. Spiral cut ham, eggs cooked every which way, jam in pots, bowls of oranges.
"This ain't nothin'," he says. "Big Bertha's got all this, and waiters, too. You just sit at your table and they bring it right to you."
"Big Bertha?" "Ringling," he says. "You worked for them?"
" U h ... no," he says sheepishly. "But I know people who have!"
I grab a plate and scoop up a mountain of potatoes, eggs, and sausages, trying to keep from looking desperate. The scent is overwhelming. I open my mouth, inhaling deeply—it's like manna from heaven. It is manna from heaven.
Camel appears from nowhere. "Here. Give this here to that fella there, at the end of the line," he says, pressing a ticket into my free hand.
The man at the end of the line sits in a folding chair, looking out from under the brim of a bent fedora. I hold out the ticket. He looks up at me, arms crossed firmly in front of him.
"Department?" he says.
"I beg your pardon?" I say. "What's your department?"
"Uh ... I'm not sure," I say. "I've been mucking out stock cars all morning."
"That don't tell me nothin'," he says, continuing to ignore my ticket. "That could be ring stock, baggage stock, or menagerie. So which is it?" I don't answer. I'm pretty sure Camel mentioned at least a couple of those, but I don't remember the specifics.
S a r a G r u en
"If you don't know your department, you ain't on the show," the man says. "So, who the hell are you?"
"Everything okay, Ezra?" says Camel, coming up behind me.
"No it ain't. I got me some smart-ass rube trying to filch breakfast from the show," says Ezra, spitting on the ground.
"He ain't no rube," says Camel. "He's a First of May and he's with me." "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
The man flicks the brim of his hat up and checks me out, head to toe.
He pauses a few beats longer and then says, "All right, Camel. If you're vouching for him, I reckon that's good enough for me." The hand comes out, snatches my ticket.
"Somethin' else. Teach him how to talk before he gets the shit kicked out of him, will ya?"
"So, what's my department?" I ask, heading for a table.
"Oh no you don't," says Camel, grabbing my elbow. "Them tables ain't for the likes of us.
You stick close to me till you learn your way around." I follow him around the curtain.
The tables in the other half are set
end to end, their bare wood graced only with salt and pepper shakers. No flowers here.
"Who sits on the other side? Performers?"
Camel shoots me a look. "Good God, kid. Just keep your trap shut till you learn the vernacular, would ya?"
He sits down and immediately shoves half a piece of bread into his mouth. He chews on it for a minute and then looks across at me. "Oh go on, don't be sore. I'm just looking out for ya. You saw how Ezra was, and Ezra's a pussycat. Sit yourself down."
I look at him for a moment longer and then step over the bench. I set my plate down, glance at my manure-stained hands, wipe them on my pants, and, finding them no cleaner, dig into my food anyway.
"So, what's the vernacular then?" I say finally.
"They're called kinkers," says Camel, talking around a mouthful of chewed food. "And your department is baggage stock. For now." "So where are these kinkers?"
Water for E l e p h a n ts
"They'll be pulling in any time. There's two more sections of train still to come. They stay up late, sleep late, and arrive just in time for breakfast. And while we're on the subject, don't you go calling them 'kinkers' to their faces, neither."
"What do I call them?" "Performers."
"So why can't I just call them performers all the time?" I say with a note of irritation creeping into my voice.
"There's them and there's us, and you're us," says Camel. "Never mind. You'll learn." A train whistles in the distance. "Speak of the
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