It distresses me to see myself falling so easily into the lingo—circus talk. Climbing ropes are "tapes," the lot entrance is the "Front Door," or "8th Avenue Side"; performers are "kinkers" or "spangle pratts." Perhaps that last refers to the location of costume sequins—perhaps not.
Much of the language appears designed to bunk the customers, while at the same time maintaining a peculiar brand of integrity among the circus people. To the patrons (rubes, gillies, guys, towners) Zelda's establishment is "Madam Zelda, Fortune Teller extraordinary, palm reader and medium, will probe the past and the future using the vast array of Dark Powers at her command." To the show people, it's called a "mitt joint." The "Emporium of Pink Lemonade" is the "juice joint," and after witnessing the beverage's manufacture, I have sworn to shrivel up and blow away in the heat before letting a drop pass my lips. Nonetheless, the gillies imbibe it by the vat. Weasel, the fellow who has the juice joint privilege, explained that the slices of lemon on top of the evil brew are called "floaters," and he boasted that his property lemon would last through the entire season.
Thus far we have been keeping up with our paper (we're on schedule), we've had one blow down (wind storm), and two clems (fights with towners). The horse piano (calliope, pronounced CA-LY-O-PEE by all English-speaking peoples, but CAL-EE-OPE by show people) has been repaired, and our ears are once again assaulted by the horrible strains of Doctor Weem's steam music. The Governor wants everything in perfect order when we put in to Vistunya after our Wallabee tour. Thus spake John J. O'Hara:
"You have to understand, Warts [my new name], the circus has to appeal to all sexes, all ages, all races, all brands of religion, morality, and politics. Those foks on Vistunya are upset about dirt—they think it's perverse, dirty, depraved. We could run the entire company around the hippodrome stark naked, and as long as they were clean, no one would be offended. But dirt? Never. We have to keep those things in mind when we're picking our route."
"Do you pick the route?"
"No. Rat Man Jack Savage is our route man. He's about a year ahead of us. He keeps in touch through the general agent and he tells us what to watch out for as far as local taboos. So, remember: if the gillies consider it politics, smut, racism, or religion, we don't do it. It's the principle of the thing. That's how we're keeping the traditions of the old circus alive, Warts: principles."
"Governor, it seems to me that my people back on Pendiia would consider Patch's fix in Westhoven to be politics. What about that?"
O'Hara raised one white eyebrow at me, pursed his lips, shrugged, and held out his hands. "Well, Warts... you gotta be flexible."
Circus names, although terribly uncomplimentary, never are occasions for offense. The names derive from a physical peculiarity, former association, or incident. My own name of Warts is due to the usual bumps found on a Pendiian. Duckfoot Tarzak has a distinctive walk, while Quack Quack, the mediagent, has a distinctive voice. Goofy Joe's name was attached for obscure reasons, since I found the canvasman to be at least as intelligent as the show's usual run of roughnecks. In any event, it was Goofy Joe who related the tale of how Stretch got his name.
Goofy Joe Tells His Tale
I couldn't say this if we was back with the main top. This is one story that Duckfoot doesn't go out of his way to hear. First, there's something you have to know about the Boss Canvasman. Duckfoot Tarzak's people come from Poland. That's why the center poles on the big top have those funny names: Paddyowski, Wassakooski, and such. When we have the bulls hooked to the block and tackles pulling the baling rings up those sixty-foot sticks, Duckfoot calls out "Go ahead on Paddyowski... hold Paddy... go ahead on Wassakooski... hold Kooski..." until all six rings are peaked, raising the old rag. But, see, you have to be on the lot awhile to learn those names, and Stretch didn't know them.
I guess it was our third or fourth stand on Occham. and there was cherry pie all around. The reason we were shorthanded was a blowdown that splintered two of the center poles on the main top and busted up a few of the sports on the guying out gang. Duckfoot was taking on some new roughnecks, and Stretch was one of the ones he hired. If you look at Stretch, you know why the Boss Canvasman took him on. Big, strapping, good-looking fellow, and as green a First of May as you ever saw.
Stretch—or Ansel as he was called then—he was put in Fatty Bugg's crew, and even though Fatty was a bit in his cups, everything was going fine. The poles were up, the canvas spread and laced, and side poles were up. Fatty took Ansel, a bull, and an elephant man under and hooked onto Cho-pan, that's the number-three pole. With a crew on each stick, Duckfoot hollers out "Go ahead on Paddyowski," and the bull on the number-one stick pulls up the baling ring fifteen feet. "Hold Paddy... go ahead on Wassakooski... hold Kooski." About then, Fatty Bugg slapped Ansel on the shoulder and told him to take over. Then Fatty stumbles away from the stick a few feet and goes to sleep.
"Go ahead on Cho-pan!" calls Duckfoot, but nothing happens. "Cho-pan, go ahead," he calls again, but nothing happens. Duckfoot sticks his head under the edge and in the dark sees the bull hooked to the number-three stick. He points at it and yells "Wake up, and go ahead!" Ansel gives the elephant man the high sign, and the bull moves out. Up goes the baling ring about fifteen feet, and Duckfoot calls out "Hold Cho-pan!" But, the ring keeps going up, and he calls out again "Hold Cho-pan!"
Well, the ring is about thirty feet up Cho-pan, and Duckfoot runs under the rag and tells Ansel's elephant man to hold up, then he turns to Ansel. "You deaf? I called hold on this stick! Where's Fatty?"
"There." Ansel pointed.
Duckfoot stomps over, kicks Fatty in the leg. "Hit the treasury wagon, Fatty, and collect your pay." Then he goes to the sidepoles and calls for Blue Pete to take over Ansel's bull. "What about me?" asks Ansel, and Duckfoot turns and rubs his chin as he studies the boy.
"The quarter poles go up next and we have the wrong size. You go find the Boss Hostler and get the pole stretcher." Ansel runs off, Duckfoot shakes his head, then goes back to calling up the rings.
Well, the Boss Hostler sent Ansel to the Boss Porter, who sent him to the loading runs, where one of the razorbacks sent him off to the property man. Just about then, I guess, Ansel realized that the only thing that was getting stretched was his leg.
Well, we had about half the quarter poles up when Ansel drives up in a cat pulling a flatbed wagon. On the wagon is this huge crate, and lettered on its side it says "Little Eureka Pole Stretcher." Duckfoot comes up as Ansel's getting down from the cat and points at the crate.
"Here's the pole stretcher, Duckfoot. Had a devil of a time finding it."
Duckfoot frowns, then walks up to the crate. Just then howls and screams come from inside and the whole thing starts to rock and shake. Out of the top of the crate comes this huge black hairy hand, each finger tipped with a knife-sized claw. It grabs around a bit, then goes back inside. Duckfoot turns to Ansel and says "What's that?"
"That's your pole stretcher, Duckfoot. Go ahead and open it up and you'll see a pole get stretched good and proper."
Well, Duckfoot taps his foot on the lot, folds his arms and glowers at the kid for a while, then he nods. "Good job, but... seems like all the poles around here are just the size I want them. Take it back."
Ansel hops back on the cat, and off he goes. Ever since then, he's been called Stretch. Go over to the Boss Animal Man sometime and ask him to show you a picture of that four-ton clawbeast the show picked up on Hessif's Planet. The thing was too vicious and had to be destroyed, but while it was in the menagerie, its name was "Little Eureka." No one ever did figure out how Stretch got it in that crate.