that I wasn’t sure about signing up for another season.
“You’re edgy cause of that idiot last night, right?”
I peeked around the enclosure to spy on Ingalls. He was halfway across the menagerie and headed right for us. I quickly moved a few steps to get behind Gargantua’s cage. It offered more cover from my pursuer. The gorilla turned his head and looked out at me from behind the bars with a curious expression and went back to chewing on a piece of straw. Buck followed behind me.
“Please don’t tell the old man you saw me,” I said, looking down at him over my right shoulder.
Then I dashed away toward the nearest exit, a door in the wall of the basement that prop men and janitors used. That exit led to a narrow, shadowy passageway that ended who knows where. Sometimes when you’re running from something, you don’t stop to worry about where you’re headed or if you will fit. The ceiling was only about seven feet high, so I had to walk bent over. It didn’t matter, since I was relieved to be getting away from Ingalls.
That feeling of using a back way, a behind-the-scenes space to hide out reminded me of all those alleys in El Paso I had taken when I was a kid.
In those days I was more and more withdrawn; in full retreat. Back alleys were my best friends, helping me avoid people. Taking alleys became a habit, a reflex for survival, providing the illusion that I could escape other people and my sadness.
One of my favorite alleys was located behind our family’s Fewel Street home. That sanctuary ran for almost half a mile down the steep hill that stretched from Sunset Heights to Mesa Street.
About a quarter mile down from our house, just before the alley intersected North Oregon Street, a huge old willow tree that looked like it hadn’t been trimmed in ages rested up against the fence at the rear of the Krohn place. I imagined that in 1598, when Juan de Oñate and his party of explorers first gave El Paso del Norte its name, they rested under that tree.
When I wanted to avoid people I would retreat to that willow and lay down under it. Sometimes when I rested there I would close my eyes, squeezing them so tightly that I’d see golden and scarlet flecks of light. Then I’d breathe in the cool shadiness, remembering, if just for a while, that I was part of the same life force that animated the tree. I liked how it towered over me. Often I’d focus on the detail of its bark, trunk, leaves, and branches. I imagined its growing roots descending deep. They led me to secret underground caverns with civilizations where I would be considered small and my worries would dissolve. As far as I knew, trees were never judged. They never felt alone or that they didn’t fit in. Trees became my good friends. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but sometimes I even spoke to them.
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The narrow alleyway I’d been using to escape from Clyde Ingalls came to an end at a small door that looked plum-color in the limited light. I pushed hard and it flew open into blinding, mid-morning Manhattan sunshine. As I bent even lower at the waist and stepped out onto the sidewalk, I began to feel the stares.
After a stint in silent pictures and ten years with the circus, I had come to expect the attention. When I was on stage I’d even grown a bit numb to it. But up close and personal like that, I always found the gawkers jarring. Given the fact that I was wearing my Western costume, I drew the scrutiny of more New Yorkers staring up at me than normal.
To escape, I jumped into the first available cab I saw. “Fulton Fish Market, please,” I said. There were still two hours before I would be required to line up in the backyard for the matinee’s opening spec. I wanted to spend that time as far away from Ingalls as possible.
As we drove along, I was relieved by the sight of the Brooklyn Bridge, the cool breeze, and the telltale smell of fish. When I exited the taxi at the waterfront, I walked on the ancient pier. Everywhere I looked there were wooden cartons full of fish on mounds of crushed white ice—all kinds of fish: haddock, halibut, cod, snapper, blue-fin tuna, shrimp, scallops, lobster, and crab. I couldn’t get enough of places like the Fulton Fish Market. The unique sights, sounds, and smells it exuded that morning got me to ignore the unwanted attention of strangers and took my mind off myself.
I loved the scene of the fishmongers marketing their wares. Just like the menagerie, there was a unique freshness, life, and mystery about that place. That day, the East River reflected the brilliant sunshine back in my direction in a million tiny diamonds of light. I ambled up to the railing, enjoying the dancing colors displayed by those shimmering, liquid prisms. A tugboat pushing a huge garbage barge north cruised upriver against the tide.
That tiny tugboat, pushing a weight that seemed larger than it could bear, reminded me of the struggle I was having about whether to stay or leave the circus. The sight of that tug and the smell of fish also made me think of another transition in my life, heralded by another boat. It took place during a life-altering trip that was supposed to be a vacation in California four years before I joined Ringling Bros.
CHAPTER 5
The Neptune
After that awful experience with the other kids down by the river, the sadness hit me really hard and escaping it became a daily struggle. It didn’t make any difference that Ben beat the hell out of Eisenbeis behind the reservoir. That melancholy was like a storm that lingered; a cold front that covered the sun for days.
I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I felt so tired. Moving was a chore. Everything took too much effort. I didn’t even want to brush my teeth. If it weren’t for Mama and Papa and not wanting to worry them I would have never left my room. I began to think that it would have been better if the Mexican who stole my shoes had just let me drown.
How would my father react if he knew the awful things I was thinking? I wondered. You’re worthless. All you do is cause your parents pain. You’ll never amount to anything. I wish you had never been born.
I snarled at myself. I imagined punching the ugly head with its protruding jaw, bulbous nose, and pimpled adolescent skin that glared back at me from the mirror above my dresser. Thinking better of it, I smashed my fist into my thigh instead. I wanted to cry but I couldn’t.
Every night I woke up sweating and unable to breathe. As alone as I felt with all of that pain, I don’t think I did a very good job of hiding it from my family. My older brother told my folks that I’d been taking back alleys to avoid people. That must have been the last straw. A few days later they came up with the idea for the trip to California.
“A change of scenery; maybe some fishing. That will be good for you,” Papa explained.
Little did Papa or I know how eventful that trip would be.
XXXX
Two weeks later, when Papa and I finally packed up the family’s Model T Ford for our trip, I just went through the motions. For all I cared, we could have been going to Fabens to pick up a crate of cantaloupe.
We departed after sundown on Saturday, driving through the night to avoid the treacherous desert heat. For two hours, quiet had filled our car like run-off from a summer rain had deluged the arroyo we passed alongside the road back in Canutillo. Somewhere just west of Las Cruces, Papa tried to break the awkward silence, but I wasn’t interested in talking. I was so cramped. Cars weren’t built for seven-and-a-half footers like me, so I had to press my knees tightly into my chest or drape my feet across
