is down to a G-string, a glimmering translucent shawl, and a gloriously overflowing
brassiere. She shakes her shoulders, keeping gelatinous time with the small band of
musicians to her right.
She takes a few strides, sliding across the stage in feathered mules. The snare drum rolls,
and she stops, her mouth open in mock surprise. She throws her head back, exposing her
throat and sliding her hands down around the cups of her brassiere. She leans forward,
squeezing until the flesh swells between her fingers.
Water for E l e p h a n ts
I scan the sidewalls. A pair of shoe tips peeks under the edge of the canvas. I approach,
keeping close to the wall. Just in front of the shoes, I swing the pipe and smack the
canvas. There's a grunt, and the shoes disappear. I pause with my ear to the seam, and
then return to my post.
The redhead sways with the music, caressing her shawl with lacquered nails. It has gold
or silver woven through it and sparkles as she slides it back and forth across her
shoulders. She drops forward suddenly at the waist, throws her head back, and shimmies.
The men holler. Two or three stand, shaking their fists in encouragement. I glance at
Cecil, whose steely gaze tells me to watch them.
The woman stands up, turns her back, and strides to the center of the stage. She passes
the shawl between her legs, slowly grinding against it. Groans rise from the audience.
She spins so she's facing us and continues sliding the shawl back and forth, pulling it so
tight the cleft of her vulva shows.
"Take it off, baby! Take it all off!"
The men are getting rowdier; more than half are on their feet. Cecil beckons me forward
with one hand. I step closer to the rows of folding chairs.
The shawl drops to the floor and the woman turns her back once again. She shakes her
hair so it ripples over her shoulder blades and raises her hands so that they meet at the
clasp of her brassiere. A cheer rises from the crowd. She pauses to look over her shoulder
and winks, running the straps coquettishly down her arms. Then she drops the bra to the
floor and spins around, clutching her breasts in her hands. A howl of protest rises from
the men.
"Aw, come on, sugar, show us what you got!" She shakes her head, pouting coyly.
"Aw, come on! I spent fifty cents!"
She shakes her head, blinking demurely at the floor. Suddenly her eyes and mouth spring
open and she pulls her hands away.
Those majestic globes drop. They come to an abrupt stop before swinging gently, even
though she's standing perfectly still.
S a r a G r u en
There's a collective intake of breath, a moment of awed silence before the men whoop in
delight.
"Attagirl!"
"Lord have mercy!" "Hot damn!"
She caresses herself, lifting and kneading, rolling her nipples between her fingers. She
stares lasciviously down at the men, running her tongue across her upper lip.
A drum roll begins. She grasps each hardened point firmly between thumb and forefinger
and pulls one breast so that its nipple points at the ceiling. Its shape changes utterly as the
weight redistributes. Then she drops it—it falls suddenly, almost violently. She hangs
onto the nipple and lifts the other in the same upward arc. She alternates, picking up
speed. Lifting, dropping, lifting, dropping—by the time the drum cuts out and the
trombone kicks in, her arms move so fast they're a blur, her flesh an undulating, pumping
mass.
The men holler, screaming their approval. "Ohyeab!"
"Gorgeous, baby! Gorgeous!" "Praise the sweet Lord!"
Another drum roll begins. She leans forward at the waist and those glorious tits swing, so
heavy, so low—a foot long, at least, wider and rounded
at the ends, as though each contains a grapefruit.
She rolls her shoulders; first one, and then the other, so her breasts
move in opposite directions. As the speed increases, they swing in everwidening circles,
lengthening as they gain momentum. Before long, they're
meeting in the center with an audible slap.
Jesus. There could be a riot in the tent and I wouldn't know it. There's not a drop of blood
left in my head.
The woman straightens up and then drops into a curtsy. When she stands, she scoops a
breast up to her face and slides her tongue around
its nipple. Then she slurps it into her mouth. She stands there shamelessly sucking her
own tit as the men wave their hats, pump their fists,
W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts
and scream like animals. She drops it, gives the slick nipple a final tweak, and then blows
the men a kiss. She leans down long enough to retrieve her diaphanous shawl and
disappears, her arm raised so that the shawl trails behind her, a shimmering banner.
"All right then, boys," says Cecil, clapping his hands and climbing the stairs to the stage.
"Let's have a big hand for our Barbara!"
The men cheer and whistle, clapping with hands held high.
"Yup, ain't she something? What a lady. And it's your lucky day, boys, because for
tonight only, she'll be accepting a limited number of gentleman callers after the show.
This is a real honor, fellas. She's a gem, our Barbara. A real gem."
The men crowd toward the exit, slapping each other on the back, already exchanging
memories.
"Did you see those titties?"
"Man, what a rack. What I wouldn't give to play with those for a while."
I'm glad nothing requires my intervention, because I'm trying hard
to maintain my composure. This is the first time I've ever seen a woman naked and I don't
think I'll ever be the same.
Four
Ispend the next forty-five minutes standing guard outside Barbara's dressing tent as she
entertains gentleman callers. Only five are prepared to part with the requisite two dollars,
and they form a surly line. The first goes in and after seven minutes of huffing and
grunting emerges again, struggling with his fly. He staggers off and the next enters.
After the last of them leaves, Barbara appears in the doorway. She is nude except for an
Oriental silk dressing gown she hasn't bothered to tie. Her hair is mussed, her mouth
smudged with lipstick. She holds a burning cigarette in one hand.
"That's it, honey," she says, waving me away. There's whiskey on her
breath and in her eyes. "No freebies tonight."
I return to the cooch tent to stack chairs and help dismantle the stage while Cecil counts
the money. At the end of it, I'm a dollar richer and stiff all over.
THE BIG TOP STILL STANDS, glowing like a ghostly coliseum and pulsing with the
sound of the band. I stare at it, entranced by the sound of the audience's reactions. They
laugh, clap, and whistle. Sometimes there's a collective intake of breath or patter of
nervous shrieks. I check my pocket watch; it's quarter to ten.
I consider trying to catch part of the show, but am afraid that if I cross the lot I'll get
shanghaied into some other task. The roustabouts, having S a r a G r u en
spent much of the day sleeping in whatever corner they could find, are dismantling the
great canvas city as efficiently as they put it up. Tents drop
to the ground, and poles topple. Horses, wagons, and men trek across the lot, hauling
everything back to the side rail.
I sink to the ground and rest my head on raised knees. "Jacob? Is that you?"
I look up. Camel limps over, squinting. "By gum, I thought it was," he says. "The old
peepers ain't workin' so good no more."
He eases himself down next to me and pulls out a small green bottle. He picks the cork
out and takes a drink.
"I'm gettin' too old for this, Jacob. I ache all over at the end of every
day. Hell, I ache all over now, and we ain't even at the end of the day yet. The Flying
Squadron won't pull out for probably two more hours, and we start the whole danged
thing over again five hours after that. It's no life for an old man."
He passes me the bottle.
"What the hell is this?" I say, staring at the brackish liquid. "It's jake," he says, snatching
it back.
"You're drinking extract?" "Yeah, so?"
We sit in silence for a minute.
"Damn Prohibition," Camel finally says. "This stuff used to taste just fine till the
government decided it shouldn't. Still gets the job done, but tastes like hell. And it's a
damn shame because it's all that keeps these old bones going anymore. I'm about used up.
Ain't good for nothin' but ticket seller, and I reckon I'm too ugly for that."
I glance over and decide he's right. "Is there something else you can do instead? Maybe
behind the scenes?"
"Ticket seller's the last stop."
"What'll you do when you can't manage anymore?"
"I reckon I'll have an appointment with Blackie. Hey," he says, turning to me hopefully.
"Got any cigarettes?"
"No. Sorry."
Water for E l e p h a n ts
"I didn't suppose," he sighs.
We sit in silence, watching team after team haul equipment, animals,
and canvas back to the train. Performers leaving the back end of the big
top disappear into dressing tents and emerge in street clothes. They stand
in groups, laughing and talking, some still wiping their faces. Even out of costume they
are glamorous. The drab workmen scuttle all around, occupying the same universe but
seemingly on a different dimension. There is
no interaction.
Camel interrupts my reverie. "You a college boy?" "Yes sir."
"I figured you for one."
He offers the bottle again, but I shake my head. "Did you finish?"
"No," I say. "Why not?"
I don't answer.
"How old are you, Jacob?" "Twenty-three."
"I got a boy your age."
The music has ended, and townspeople start to trickle from the big top. They stop,
perplexed, wondering what happened to the menagerie through which they entered. As
they leave by the front, an army of men enter by the back and return carting bleachers,
seats, and ring curbs, which they fling noisily into lumber wagons. The big top is being
gutted before the audience has even left it.
Camel coughs wetly, the effort wracking his body. I look to see if he needs a thump on
the back, but he's holding up a hand to stop me. He snorts, hawks, and then spits. Then he
drains the bottle. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks over at me,
eyeing me from head to toe.
"Listen," he says. "I ain't trying to know your business, but I do know
you ain't been on the road long. You're too clean, your clothes are too good, and you don't
got a possession in the world. You collect things on the
S a r a G r u cn
road—maybe not nice things, but you collect them all the same. I know
I ain't got no talking room, but a boy like you shouldn't be on the bum. I been on the bum
and it ain't no life." His forearms rest on his raised knees, his face turned to mine. "If you
got a life to go back to, I reckon that's what you should do."
It's a moment before I can answer. When I do, my voice cracks. "I don't."
He watches me for a while longer and then nods. "I'm right sorry to hear that."
The crowd disperses, moving from the big top to the parking lot and beyond, to the edges
of the town. From behind the big top, the silhouette of a balloon rises into the sky,
followed by a child's prolonged wail. There
is laughter, the sound of car engines, voices raised in excitement. "Can you believe she
bent like that?"
"I thought I was going to die when that clown dropped his drawers." "Where's Jimmy—
Hank, have you got Jimmy?"
Camel scrambles suddenly to his feet. "Ho! There he is. There's that old S-O-B now."
"Who?"
"Uncle Al! Come on! We gotta get you on the show."
He limps off faster than I would have thought possible. I get up and follow.
There is no mistaking Uncle Al. He has ringmaster written all over
him, from the scarlet coat and white jodhpurs to the top hat and waxed curled moustache.
He strides across the lot like the leader of a marching band, ample belly thrust forward
and issuing orders in a booming voice. He pauses to let a lion's den cross in front of him
and then continues past a group of men struggling with a rolled canvas. Without breaking
stride, he smacks one of them on the side of the head. The man yelps and turns, rubbing
his ear, but Uncle Al is gone, trailed by followers.
"That reminds me," Camel says over his shoulder, "whatever you do, don't mention
Ringling in front of Uncle Al."
"Why not?"
Water for E l e p h a n ts "T 1 J .
Just don t.
Camel scurries up to Uncle Al and steps into his path. "Er, there you
are," he says, his voice artificial and mewling. "I was wondering if I could have a word,
sir?"
"Not now, boy. Not now," booms Al, goose-stepping past like the Brownshirts you see in
the grainy news trailers at the movies. Camel limps weakly behind, popping his head
around one side, and then falling back and running along the other like a disgraced
puppy.
"It won't take but a moment, sir. It's just I was wondering if any of the departments was
short of men."
"Thinking of changing careers, are we?"
Camel's voice rises like a siren. "Oh no, sir. Not me. I'm happy right
where I am. Yes sir. Happy as a clam, that's me." He giggles maniacally. The distance
between them widens. Camel stumbles and then comes to a stop. "Sir?" he calls across
the growing distance. He comes to a stop. "Sir?" Uncle Al is gone, swallowed whole by
