THE ELEPHANT'S EYE

          Dawn broke bright and wet. We went to work. I remember the sweet smell of mud, manure, hay and leather. It was it's own world. It had it's own sound and it's own magic. There is nothing like it in the world, nothing like the circus. The backdrop of every sound was the deep rumble and roar of the lions and tigers, giving the whole atmosphere gravitas and power, like the low brass of Mahler's First, "The Titan". The big cats grumbled and bitched all day. But the roustabouts worked in silence, purposeful and well choreographed. The sledge hammers drove in the big tent stakes in perfectly synchronized strokes, four hammers in a blur, striking in succession. The stakes sank as if in quicksand. Things were taking shape and the big top was rolled out. This was the early 60's, before mechanization, the muscle was all human and elephant.

          I worked with Clyde Beatty Jr., the son of the great lion tamer and movie star, the owner of the show. We were both teens about the same age, and I thought he was pretty cool. He had serious responsibilities, skills, and a big famous job in a big famous circus. We were just alike. Only different. I had alot of respect for that funny bonehead boss. The circus was Clyde Jr.'s whole life and birthright. He was circus royalty, but he was what he was, nothing more, nothing less, and I doubt he could even ride a bike. Since Ringling Brothers recently began playing stadiums and arenas exclusively, The Clyde Beatty Circus was the largest circus under canvas, and my new friend's legacy.

          One of my jobs was to mow the grass inside the huge cage where Clyde Sr. would work his magic that night. It was a strange thing he did, making lions and tigers roll over and jump through fire hoops. Who thought of that? And who thought it was a good idea? As I mowed, the big cats watched closely, and one particular tiger stared at me intently, crouched at the little entrance gate waiting for it to open. Hoping it would open. We both knew what would happen if he got into my cage. It would be a quick and brutal death. Those weren't tame cats, they even smelled wild. If Clyde was a lion tamer, he had alot of work yet to do. But tonight Clyde would work in the caged ring on sawdust over closely mown grass. You're welcome.

          Everybody pitched in. For awhile I was putting up bleachers with the highest paid clown in the show. But I was fascinated by the aerialists. The glamorous flyers. They worked skillfully on their rigging, climbing the poles, and wrangling the ropes and wires like sailors rigging a mast. Now they weren't daredevils, they were serious workers who happened to be hanging from wires and walking on cables at the very top. They were relaxed and right at home. But tonight they would be breathtaking daredevils, flying on the trapeze and walking the high wire in a human pyramid with bicycles at the bottom. Who thought of that? And who thought it was a good idea?

          The flyers tended to be short, very muscular and swarthy. Both men and women. They argued wildly with their arms and hands. The men were hotheaded and the women were hot blooded. The women and girls were beautiful with jet black hair and olive skin, black eyes and bright red lipstick. They didn't wear theatrical makeup only in the show, they wore it all the time. Maybe they were happy people but they didn't show it. They spoke a gibberish from their Eastern European countries of dark haunted forests. Those close knit Balkans, Russians, Poles and Latins were the circus gunslingers with a long, proud lineage, and generations of fearless ancestral blood in their veins.

         To my bewilderment, the circus workers were joyless and passionless. I expected laughter and happiness. Nope. I mean, they worked for a circus, how cool is that? But they acted like they didn't want to be there. Like it wasn't their first choice of jobs. Like they were sentenced to the circus by a judge. The roustabouts were mostly joyless, shiftless alcoholic brawlers and fugitives from the law. It was the only part of the circus that disappointed me.

          The lions hated it there. So did the tigers. The llamas, dogs and seals were oblivious idiots. And the majestic elephants were like slaves resigned to their fate. When they were not working they were staked out in the menagerie with one back foot chained to a stake, swaying rhythmically with their trunks hanging loosely under their great brilliant heads. Rocking against the chains with one hind leg stretched pathetically. They were so smart, smart enough to know they were fucked, but they didn't have the low boiling rage of the cats. They were well aware of their condition and resigned to their fate. Unlike the stupid cats, they knew, for good and bad, this was the safest place. The only place. They knew there was nowhere else to go.

          But the imposing elephants were disciplined and tireless workers. They knew their jobs well. I think they liked being valued and useful, doing honest work, unlike the humiliated fools they would become in the show. They were the muscle of the circus, the essence of the circus. I loved those mighty beasts. Magnificent, draped in leather and chains, sensitive, thoughtful circus icons keepng their objections to themselves. Leaning into every powerful pull, their round feet wrinkling the mud, squish, grunt, exhale, as the big top rose up, becoming their own creation. But I still felt sorry for those beastly mountains, pitiful and awesome captives, working in quiet dignity.

          As I was watching the elephants heave the great weight of the big top, straining against the cowhide harnesses and silver chains, when an old massive matriarch pulled up next to me and looked at me with that eye. That eye. That wrinkled, sad Einstein eye so full of wisdom. The entrance to the mighty soul. I was mesmerized and strangely sad. Then she blinked at me and said, "Don't worry about me, you miserable son of a bitch."

The end.