benches in the plaza and the tiled fountain with the two sleeping, olive-green alligators. I ran across the train tracks and by the St. Regis Saloon, where the old cowboys drank.
I was going at full steam when I flew off the curb at Stanton and Mills. I saw a huge mass of white out of the corner of my eye. Instantly I glanced up from the pavement and froze. The old white horse that pulled Kapilowitz’s dairy wagon was rearing backward to avoid trampling me. I only hesitated for an instant. I didn’t stop as I normally would to apologize for much more minor offenses than that one. I just looked back over my shoulder and heard my father’s friend yell “paskunyak” and some other Polish cuss words that my parents used when they were furious.
After another few minutes I finally did stop. I was dog-tired. My shirt was soaked with sweat. When I began walking up the incline on Mesa Street towards Sunset Heights and our home, I plotted how I would pack a bag, some food, and run away. I could sleep in the plaza at night and go to school on my own. There was no way I would leave my brothers and Doogan to see some strange doctor in Chicago or Los Angeles or wherever.
Looking back on my life, that was the first time I tried to run away from the inevitable. Running away would become a constant theme in my life. I often wonder how a seven year old could possibly comprehend the cyclone of feelings that came with the abrupt doctor’s terrible decree; feelings that were punctuated by words like “giant,” “abnormal,” and “monster”—words I would hear all too often in my life. Kids have trouble with emotions. Hell, so do adults.
It was dark by the time my parents got home. When I heard them approach, I looked up from my place on the wrought-iron bench on the front porch. I was sobbing, bewildered. Doogan was curled at my feet. I wanted my mother and father to make it all better. They sat down on either side of me, as they had in Dr. Epstein’s examination room. My mother hugged me and drew me close. “Sha, sha mein kind.”
“Jakey, I swear to you we’ll do whatever it takes to get to the bottom of this,” my father said.
If only Mama’s hug and Papa’s promise could have stopped the nightmare. My parents took me to many specialists in Los Angeles, Chicago, New York, any and everywhere they heard there was someone who might help me. But all of those doctors were unable to fulfill that most ancient of healing rituals. No physician could even name my condition, let alone explain or stop it.
CHAPTER 3
The River with Two Names
It was the kind of scene I might have easily missed looking out from the open vestibule on Car 96 of Ringling Bros fast-moving train. But as I’ve come to understand, in dreamtime everything is slowed down, so I could see the weathered wooden horse in detail. The faded shades of red, black, and orange made it look like a circus relic, abandoned long ago. This strange sight made me sad at its neglect, and curious as to how and why he was left there. It appeared awkward, discarded in dry, yellow grass on a high cliff overlooking the ocean.
That refugee from a midway merry-go-round was lifeless. I was surprised when the inert object stirred. First I saw the vitality in the deep-blue eyes that flashed, then in the thick, black mane, which wafted in the morning breeze.
I was awestruck at his resurrection from dead wood to breathing steed. The cedar stallion took two steps toward the cliff. Not hesitating, he stepped into the abyss. I was frightened for him.
I wanted to scream, “Stop!” but the word was frozen in my throat. Before gravity grabbed and hurled him downward to the pounding surf and jagged boulders, he unfolded powerful, feathery wings. Transformed into Pegasus, he flew across the cobalt sea and white caps far below. Overwhelmed, tears welled up in my eyes. I strained to see where he went. Almost as much as I needed to breath, I knew I must find out what happened to him next . . . but—a loud jangle from the telephone jarred me back to my bed.
I was half-awake, disoriented from my dream and hungover after too little sleep. I realized that awful noise was the wake-up call I’d requested when I finally made it back to The Algonquin from my late-night walk.
XXXX
By the time I got out of the cab at Madison Square Garden it was already mid-morning. I was worried and scared. There would be hell to pay for leveling that rube the night before. I really hurt him, I thought. Maybe I killed him.
As I made my way into the performers’ entrance at the rear of the building, there was, as always, a great deal of hubbub. Vendors’ trucks were competing for places to unload their wares: stocks of food for the troopers, animals, and fans; boxes full of balloons, candy, pendants; and lizards to re-supply the butchers. Everywhere there were people: troopers, some in costume, some in civilian dress; hard-working roustabouts carrying crates of this and that to repair and replace whatever that well-oiled machine had broken the night before. There was even an Indian elephant sunning himself, tied to the loading dock.
Surrounded by all of that commotion, I fearfully scanned the crowd and visualized a swarm of G-men waiting to haul me away in handcuffs. And if the cops didn’t get involved, I was sure the circus would can me. I wonder why I hadn’t run away and avoided that mess or just holed-up in my hotel room. But at some deep level I knew I didn’t have any choice but to come back. Though I felt somehow imprisoned by my job in the circus, the ritual and responsibility of predictable, daily work had always soothed me. There was no place else I could or would go. The only way I will ever leave Ringling Bros is boots-first. Over my years in the sideshow that was a frequent thought.
“Good morning, Jake.” A roustabout with a worn, gray knit hat pulled down around his ears, a cigarette clinched tightly between his yellow teeth, and a coil of frayed rope around his shoulder, stopped to chat with me. His easy demeanor let me know he knew nothing about what had happened the night before; I hoped no one else knew.
“Good morning, Hank,” I said, hurrying past.
He looked surprised. Typically I would have stopped, but not that day. Because of my recent outburst and the crappy way I felt, I was in no mood to talk to anyone. I quickly made my way to the dressing room that the freaks shared in the Garden. At two hours before the matinee I hoped I was early enough to avoid seeing any of the other sideshow performers who typically didn’t arrive that early. Even though we were a tight-knit group, a family so to speak, lately being around them made me anxious. At that point, I wasn’t really sure why.
I was relieved that the dressing area was empty. So as quickly as I could, I got in the cowboy costume I would wear for the matinee’s opening spec. While using the mirror to tie my blue calico bandana, I heard someone behind me. I scanned the mirror to see who it was but there was no one. I gazed into the mirror once again.
“Congratulations! I hear you’re a cross between Max Schmeling and Joe Stydahar. Score one for the freaks.”
Immediately recognizing the telltale German accent, I turned around and looked down. There he stood, all twenty-four inches of him. Harry Doll, the famous circus personality and pater familias of the Dancing Dolls family of little people, was my closest friend in Ringling Bros. He approached me and put his tiny right hand on my knee.
“You’re a regular monster of the midway; a protector of damsels in distress, midgets, and now, menagerie monkeys.”
I looked away. His attempt at humor embarrassed and irritated me. Normally Harry would make me laugh, but that day I didn’t even want to see him.
“What’s wrong,
