H.T. Runs Away to the Circus
I don't know the dates or how old he was, but one day my granddaddy, Harvey T. Bowden, ran away to join the circus. Apparently this was something that young men did back in the old days, before movie stardom, super sports leagues, financial emperorships, gangsta rappers, or video game aficionados became viable creative outlets. Now part of me wants to say that he hopped a train, which he probably did. But I can't swear to that.
I know he had hopped trains, probably before and during the Depression, to travel to far-off places... maybe a World's Fair, or the Tennessee State Fair or some stockyard somewhere, because he told me he ended up sleeping in a crib car that had hauled potatoes, and the workers had left some spuds in the corners (which had rotted), and by the time he and his traveling companion arrived at their destination, they stank to high heaven. And I remember this particular tale because he told me that the other man was carrying most of the money, along with a very large knife (or possibly a razor), in his boot. He told H.T. that if anything happened, if the train wrecked, or if they got shot, or if he slipped while hopping on board and the train cut off his foot, to retrieve his boot because it had all his money.
I know he had a suitcase. And I know he was looking for an exciting life. And I know he thought he could fit right into the circus because he was a very physical person. He was a farmboy, tanned and muscular. He had been a wrestler in high school. He knew all the holds and their names, Half-Nelson, Full-Nelson, The Sleeper Hold. He would show you too, if you let him.
He had wrestled a bear. Wrestled a bear and WON. At a fair, when he was young (which I had always imagined as a time when the dinosaurs were freshly extinct, and the stars were new, and all the trees so young that Granddaddy was taller than all of the forests), he wrestled a bear, whose owner was charging all comers a dollar for a chance to make ten bucks.
So he found the circus, and he found the straw boss, and he asked for a job, any job. The boss man said, "Drop your bag in that tent over there, and then go take a look at your roommate's act". His roommate was in one of the sideshows, as a geek.
Now, these days, a geek is a nerd. A geek is a guy with thick glasses, weak social skills, and a pocket protector. But back in those glorious days of traveling sideshows, carnivals, and snake oil dealers, a geek was an entertainer, a specialized performer who shocked and thrilled his audiences with astounding feats, such as hammering a nine-inch nail up his nose, or chewing shards of glass, or as in the case of Harvey's new roommate, biting the heads off live chickens and drinking their blood.
One look at this man, speckled and grinning, with blood trickling off his chin, and H.T. ran back to the tent, grabbed his suitcase, and quit the circus.
Now I'm almost sure that we'll never know about the other things that happened on that trip, the bad food, the coal dust, the chiggers. We can only imagine the sawdust and the flies and the steam of the calliope as it rises to mix with the scent of roasted nuts and fried pies. Who will remember the cry of the barkers, the creak of the axles as the merry-go-round ponies rise and fall? I'm almost sure we'll never know. I'm also pretty sure we may find clues someday. Rummaging in an old cigar box from the attic, or in a sack hanging behind a shed door. Or maybe in a dream, one morning between naps, if we meet a fortune-teller, or a tattooed contortionist, or traveling peddler.
Just as long as we don't meet the geek.
