Three

I awake to the prolonged screeching of brakes. I'm wedged a good deal farther between the rolls of canvas than I was when I fell asleep, and I'm disoriented. It takes me a second to figure out where I am.

The train shudders to a stop and exhales. Blackie, Bill, and Grady roll to their feet and drop wordlessly out the door. After they're gone, Camel hobbles over. He leans down and pokes me.

"Come on, kid," he says. "You gotta get out of here before the canvas men arrive. I'm gonna try to set you up with Crazy Joe this morning."

"Crazy Joe?" I say, sitting up. My shins are itchy and my neck hurts like a son of a bitch.

"Head horse honcho," says Camel. "Of baggage stock, that is. August don't let him nowhere near the ring stock. Actually, it's probably Marlena that don't let him near, but it don't make no difference. She won't let you nowhere near, neither. With Crazy Joe at least you got a shot. We had a run of bad weather and muddy lots, and a bunch of his men got tired of working Chinese and moped off. Left him a bit short."

"Why's he called Crazy Joe?"

"Don't rightly know," says Camel. He digs inside his ear and inspects his findings. "Think he was in the Big House for a while but I don't know why. Wouldn't suggest you ask, neither." He wipes his finger on his pants and ambles to the doorway.

"Well, come on then!" he says, looking back at me. "We don't got all day!" He eases himself onto the edge and slides carefully to the gravel .

I give my shins one last desperate scratch, tie my shoes, and follow.

We are adjacent to a huge grassy lot. Beyond it are scattered brick buildings, backlit by the predawn glow. Hundreds of dirty, unshaven men pour from the train and surround it, like ants on candy, cursing and stretching and lighting cigarettes. Ramps and chutes clatter to the ground, and six- and eight-horse hitches materialize from nowhere, spread out on the dirt. Horse after horse appears, heavy bob-tailed Percherons that clomp down the ramps, snorting and blowing and already in harness. Men on either side hold the swinging doors close to the sides of the ramps, keeping the animals from getting too close to the edge.

A group of men marches toward us, heads down.

"Mornin', Camel," says the leader as he passes us and climbs into the car. The others clamber up behind him. They surround a bundle of canvas and heave it toward the entrance, grunting with effort. It moves about a foot and a half and lands in a cloud of dust.

"Morning, Will," says Camel. "Say, got a smoke for an old man?"

"Sure." The man straightens up and pats his shirt pockets. He digs into one and retrieves a bent cigarette. "It's Bull Durham," he says, leaning forward and holding it out. "Sorry."

"Roll-your-own suits me fine," says Camel. "Thanks, Will. Much obliged."

Will jerks his thumb at me. "Who's that?"

"A First of May. Name's Jacob Jankowski."

Will looks at me, and then turns and spits out the door. "How new?" he says, continuing to address Camel.

"Real new."

"You got him on yet?"

"Nope."

"Well, good luck to ya." He tips his hat at me. "Don't sleep too sound, kid, if you know what I mean." He disappears into the interior.

"What does that mean?" I say, but Camel is walking away. I jog a little to catch up.

There are now hundreds of horses among the dirty men. At first glance the scene looks chaotic, but by the time Camel has lit his cigarette, several dozen teams are hitched and moving alongside the flat cars, pulling wagons toward the runs. As soon as a wagon's front wheels hit the sloped wooden tracks, the man guiding its pole leaps out of the way. And it's a good thing, too. The heavily loaded wagons come barreling down the runs and don't stop until they're a dozen feet away.

In the morning light I see what I couldn't last night—the wagons are painted scarlet, with gold trim and sunburst wheels, each emblazoned with the name BENZINI brOS MOST SPECTACULAR SHOW ON EARTH . As soon as the wagons are hitched to teams, the Percherons lean into their harnesses and drag their heavy loads across the field.

"Watch out," says Camel, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward him. He braces his hat with his other hand, the lumpy cigarette clenched in his teeth.

men on horseback gallop past. They swerve and cross the length of the field, tour its perimeter, and then swing back around. The one in the lead turns his head from side to side, shrewdly assessing the ground. He holds both reins in one hand and with the other retrieves flagged darts from a leather pouch, flinging them into the earth.

"What's he doing?" I ask.

"Laying out the lot," says Camel. He comes to a stop in front of a stock car. "Joe! Hey, Joe!"

A head appears in the doorway.

"I got a First of May here. Fresh from the crate. Think you can use him?"

The figure steps forward onto the ramp. He pushes up the brim of a battered hat with a hand missing three of its fingers. He scrutinizes me, shoots an oyster of dark brown tobacco juice out the side of his mouth, and goes back inside.

Camel pats my arm in a congratulatory fashion. "You're in, kid."

"I am?"

"Yep. Now go shovel some shit. I'll catch up with you later."

The stock car is an ungodly mess. I work with a kid named Charlie whose face is smooth as a girl's. His voice hasn't even broken yet. After we shovel what seems like a cubic ton of manure out the door, I pause, surveying the remaining mess. "How many horses do they load in here, anyway?"

"Twenty-seven."

"Jesus. They must be packed in so tight they can't move."

"That's the idea," Charlie says. "Once the wedge horse loads, none of 'em can go down."

The exposed tails from last night suddenly make sense.

Joe appears in the doorway. "Flag's up," he growls.

Charlie drops his shovel and heads for the door.

"What's going on? Where are you going?" I say.

"The cookhouse flag's up."

I shake my head. "I'm sorry, I still don't understand."

"Chow," he says.

Now that I understand. I, too, drop my shovel.

Canvas tents have popped up like mushrooms, although the largest one—obviously the big top—still lies flat on the ground. Men stand over its seams, bending at the waist and lacing its pieces together. Towering wooden poles stick up through its center line, already flying Old Glory. With the rigging on the poles, it looks like the deck and mast of a sailboat.

All around its perimeter, eight-man sledge teams pound in stakes at breakneck speed. By the time one sledge hits the stake, five others are in motion. The resulting noise is as regular as machine-gun fire, cutting through the rest of the din.

Teams of men are also raising enormous poles. Charlie and I pass a group of ten throwing their combined weight against a single rope as a man off to the side chants, "Pull it, shake it, break it! Again—pull it, shake it, break it! Now downstake it!"

The cookhouse couldn't be more obvious—never mind the orange and blue flag, the boiler belching in the background, or the stream of people heading for it. The smell of food hits me like a cannonball in the gut. I haven't eaten since the day before yesterday, and my stomach twists with hunger .

The sidewalls of the cookhouse have been raised to allow for a draft, but it is divided down the center by a curtain. The tables on this side are graced with red and white checked tablecloths, silverware, and vases of flowers. This seems wildly out of sync with the line of filthy men snaking behind the steam tables.

"My God," I say to Charlie as we take our place in line. "Look at this spread."

There are hash browns, sausages, and heaping baskets of thickly sliced bread. Spiral cut ham, eggs cooked every which way, jam in pots, bowls of oranges.

"This ain't nothin'," he says. "Big Bertha's got all this, and waiters, too. You just sit at your table and they bring it right to you."

"Big Bertha?"

"Ringling," he says.

"You worked for them?"

"Uh . . . no," he says sheepishly. "But I know people who have!"

I grab a plate and scoop up a mountain of potatoes, eggs, and sausages, trying to keep from looking desperate. The scent is overwhelming. I open my mouth, inhaling deeply—it's like manna from heaven. It is manna from heaven.

Camel appears from nowhere. "Here. Give this here to that fella there, at the end of the line," he says, pressing a ticket into my free hand.

The man at the end of the line sits in a folding chair, looking out from under the brim of a bent fedora. I hold out the ticket. He looks up at me, arms crossed firmly in front of him.

"Department?" he says.

"I beg your pardon?" I say.

"What's your department?"

"Uh . . . I'm not sure," I say. "I've been mucking out stock cars all morning."

"That don't tell me nothin'," he says, continuing to ignore my ticket. "That could be ring stock, baggage stock, or menagerie. So which is it?"

I don't answer. I'm pretty sure Camel mentioned at least a couple of those, but I don't remember the specifics .

"If you don't know your department, you ain't on the show," the man says. "So, who the hell are you?"

"Everything okay, Ezra?" says Camel, coming up behind me.

"No it ain't. I got me some smart-ass rube trying to filch breakfast from the show," says Ezra, spitting on the ground.

"He ain't no rube," says Camel. "He's a First of May and he's with me."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

The man flicks the brim of his hat up and checks me out, head to toe. He pauses a few beats longer and then says, "All right, Camel. If you're vouching for him, I reckon that's good enough for me." The hand comes out, snatches my ticket. "Somethin' else. Teach him how to talk before he gets the shit kicked out of him, will ya?"

"So, what's my department?" I ask, heading for a table.

"Oh no you don't," says Camel, grabbing my elbow. "Them tables ain't for the likes of us. You stick close to me till you learn your way around."

I follow him around the curtain. The tables in the other half are set end to end, their bare wood graced only with salt and pepper shakers. No flowers here.

"Who sits on the other side? Performers?"

Camel shoots me a look. "Good God, kid. Just keep your trap shut till you learn the vernacular, would ya?"

He sits down and immediately shoves half a piece of bread into his mouth. He chews on it for a minute and then looks across at me. "Oh go on, don't be sore. I'm just looking out for ya. You saw how Ezra was, and Ezra's a pussycat. Sit yourself down."

I look at him for a moment longer and then step over the bench. I set my plate down, glance at my manure-stained hands, wipe them on my pants, and, finding them no cleaner, dig into my food anyway.

"So, what's the vernacular then?" I say finally.

"They're called kinkers," says Camel, talking around a mouthful of chewed food. "And your department is baggage stock. For now."

"So where are these kinkers? "

"They'll be pulling in any time. There's two more sections of train still to come. They stay up late, sleep late, and arrive just in time for breakfast. And while we're on the subject, don't you go calling them ‘kinkers' to their faces, neither."

"What do I call them?"

"Performers."

"So why can't I just call them performers all the time?" I say with a note of irritation creeping into my voice.

"There's them and there's us, and you're us," says Camel. "Never mind. You'll learn." A train whistles in the distance. "Speak of the devil."

"Is Uncle Al with them?"

"Yep, but don't you go getting any ideas. We ain't going near him till later. He's cranky as a bear with toothache when we're still setting up. Say, how you making out with Joe? Had enough of horse shit yet?"

"I don't mind."

"Yeah, well I figure you for better'n that. I been talking to a friend of mine," Camel says, crushing another piece of bread between his fingers and using it to wipe grease from his plate. "You stick with him the rest of the day, and he'll put in a word for you."

"What'll I be doing?"

"Whatever he says. And I mean that, too." He cocks an eyebrow for emphasis.

C AMEL'S FRIEND IS a small man with a large paunch and booming voice. He's the sideshow talker, and his name is Cecil. He examines me and declares me suitable for the job at hand. I—along with Jimmy and Wade, two other men deemed presentable enough to mix with the townsfolk—are supposed to position ourselves around the edges of the crowd and then, when we get the signal, step forward and jostle them toward the entrance.

The sideshow is on the midway, which teems with activity. On one side, a group of black men struggles to put up the sideshow banners. On the other, there's clinking and shouting as white-jacketed white men set up glass after glass of lemonade, forming pyramids of full glasses on the counters of their red and white striped concession stands. The air is filled with the scents of corn popping, peanuts roasting, and the tangy undertone of animal.

At the end of the midway, beyond the ticket gate, is a huge tent into which all manner of creatures is being carted—llamas, camels, zebras, monkeys, at least one polar bear, and cage after cage of cats.

Cecil and one of the black men fuss with a banner featuring an enormously fat woman. After a couple of seconds Cecil slaps the other man's head. "Get with it, boy! We're going to be crawling with suckers in a minute. How are we gonna bring them in if they can't see Lucinda's splendors?"

A whistle blows and everyone freezes.

"Doors!" booms a male voice.

All hell breaks loose. The men at the concession stands scurry behind their counters, making final adjustments to their wares and straightening their jackets and caps. With the exception of the poor soul still working on Lucinda's banner, all the black men slip through the canvas and out of sight.

"Get that goddamned banner up and get out of here!" Cecil screams. The man makes one final adjustment and disappears.

I turn. A wall of humans swells toward us with squealing children leading the way, yanking their parents forward by the hand.

Wade jabs an elbow in my side. " Psssst . . . You wanna see the menagerie?"

"The what?"

He cocks his head at the tent between us and the big top. "You been craning your neck since you got here. Wanna take a peek?"

"What about him?" I say, jerking my eyes toward Cecil.

"We'll be back before he misses us. Besides, we can't do nothin' till he gets a crowd going."

Wade leads me to the ticket gate. Old men guard it, sitting behind four red podiums. ignore us. The fourth glances at Wade and nods .

"Go on. Have a peek," says Wade. "I'll keep an eye on Cecil."

I peer inside. The tent is enormous, as tall as the sky and supported by long, straight poles jutting at various angles. The canvas is taut and nearly translucent—sunlight filters through the material and seams, illuminating the largest candy stand of all. It's smack in the center of the menagerie, under rays of glorious light, surrounded by banners advertising sarsaparilla, Cracker Jack, and frozen custard.

Brilliantly painted red and gold animal dens line two of the four walls, their sides propped open to reveal lions, tigers, panthers, jaguars, bears, chimps, and spider monkeys—even an orangutan. Camels, llamas, zebras, and horses stand behind low ropes slung between iron stakes, their heads buried in mounds of hay. Two giraffes stand within an area enclosed by chain-link fence.

I'm searching in vain for an elephant when my eyes come to an abrupt stop on a woman. She looks so much like Catherine I catch my breath—the plane of her face, the cut of her hair, the slim thighs I've always imagined were under Catherine's staid skirts. She's standing in front of a row of black and white horses, wearing pink sequins, tights, and satin slippers, talking to a man in top hat and tails. She cups the muzzle of one of the white horses, a striking Arabian with a silver mane and tail. She lifts a hand to push back a piece of her light brown hair and adjust her headdress. Then she reaches up and smoothes the horse's forelock against his face. She grasps his ear in her fist, letting it slide through her fingers.

There's an enormous crash, and I spin to find that the side of the closest animal den has slammed shut. When I turn back, the woman is looking at me. Her brow furrows, as though in recognition. After a few seconds I realize I should smile or drop my eyes or do something, but I can't. Eventually the man in the top hat puts his hand on her shoulder and she turns, but slowly, reluctantly. After a few seconds she steals another glance.

Wade is back. "Come on," he says, slapping me between the shoulder blades. "It's showtime."

·· ·

"L ADIES-S-S-S-S-S-S AND GENTLEMEN-N-N-N-N-N-N-N! Twen-n-n-n-n-ty-five minutes till the big show! Twen-n-n-n-n-ty-five minutes! More than enough time to avail yourselves of the amazing, the unbelievable, the m-a-a-a-a-a-a-rvelous wonders we have gathered from all four corners of the earth, and still find a good seat in the big top! Plenty of time to see the oddities, the freaks of nature, the spectacles! Ours is the most dazzling collection in the world, ladies and gentlemen! In the world, I tell you!"

Cecil stands on a platform beside the sideshow's entrance. He struts back and forth, gesturing grandly. A crowd of about fifty hovers loosely. They are uncommitted, more paused than stopped.

"Step right this way, to see the gorgeous, the enormous , the Lovely Lucinda—the world's most beautiful fat lady! Eight hundred and eighty-five pounds of pudgy perfection, ladies and gentlemen! Come see the human ostrich—he can swallow and return anything you hand him. Give it a try! Wallets, watches, even lightbulbs! You name it, he'll regurgitate it! And don't miss Frank Otto, the world's most tattooed man! Held hostage in the darkest jungles of Borneo and tried for a crime he didn't commit, and his punishment? Well, folks, his punishment is written all over his body in permanent ink!"

The crowd is denser, their interest piqued. Jimmy, Wade, and I mingle near the back.

"And now," says Cecil, swinging around. He puts his finger to his lips and winks grotesquely—an exaggerated gesture that pulls the side of his mouth up toward his eye. He raises a hand in the air, asking for quiet. "And now—my apologies, ladies, but this is for the gentlemen only—the gentlemen only! Because we're in mixed company, for delicacy's sake, I can only say this once. Gentlemen, if you're a red-blooded American, if you've got manly blood flowing through your veins, then this is something you don't want to miss. If you'll follow that there fella—right there, just right over there—you'll see something so amazing, so shocking, it's guaranteed to—"

He stops, closes his eyes, and lifts a hand. He shakes his head with remorse. "But no," he continues. "In the interest of decency and on account of being in mixed company, I can't say any more than that. Can't say any more, gentlemen. Except this— you don't want to miss it! Just hand your quarter to this fella here, and he'll take you right on in. You'll never remember the quarter you spent here today, and you'll never forget what you see. You'll be talking about this for the rest of your lives, fellas. The rest of your lives."

Cecil straightens up and adjusts his checked waistcoat, tugging the hem with both hands. His face assumes a deferential expression and he gestures broadly toward an entrance on the opposite side. "And ladies, if you'll kindly come this way—we have wonders and curiosities suitable for your delicate sensibilities, too. A gentleman would never forget the ladies. Especially such lovely ladies as yourselves." With this he smiles and closes his eyes. The women in the crowd glance nervously at the disappearing men.

A tug-of-war has broken out. A woman holds fast to her husband's sleeve with one hand and bats him with the other. He grimaces and frowns, ducking to avoid her blows. When he finally breaks free, he straightens his lapels and glowers at his now-sulking wife. As he struts off to hand over his quarter, someone clucks like a hen. Laughter ripples through the crowd.

The rest of the women, perhaps because they don't want to make a spectacle, watch reluctantly as their men drift off and get in line. Cecil sees this and comes down from his platform. He is all concern, all gallant attention, gently drawing them toward more savory matters.

He touches his left earlobe. I push imperceptibly forward. The women move closer to Cecil and I feel like a sheepdog.

"If you'll step this way," Cecil continues, "I'll show you ladies something you've never seen before. Something so unusual, so extraordinary, you never dreamed it existed, and yet it's something you can talk about at church this Sunday, or with Grandma and Grandpa at the dinner table. Go ahead and bring the little fellas, this here is strictly family fun. See a horse with his head where his tail should be! Not a word of a lie, ladies. A living creature with his tail where his head should be. See it with your own eyes. And when you tell your menfolk about it, maybe they'll wish they'd stayed with their lovely ladies instead. Oh yes, my dears. They will indeed."

By now I'm surrounded. The men have all but disappeared, and I let myself drift along in the current of churchgoers and ladies, of young fellas and the rest of the non-red-blooded Americans.

The horse with his tail where his head should be is exactly that—a horse backed into a standing stall so that his tail hangs into his feed bucket.

"Oh, for crying out loud," says one woman.

"Well, I never!" says another, but mostly there is relieved laughter, because if this is the horse with the tail where his head should be, then how bad can the men's show be?

There's a scuffling outside the tent.

"You goddamned sons of bitches! You're damned right I want my money back—you think I'm gonna pay a quarter to see a goddamned pair of suspenders? You talk about red-blooded Americans, well, this one's red-blooded all right! I want my goddamned money back!"

"Excuse me, ma'am," I say, wedging my shoulder between the two women ahead of me.

"Hey, mister! What's your hurry?"

"Excuse me. Beg your pardon," I say, pushing my way out.

Cecil and a red-faced man are squaring off. The man advances, places both hands on Cecil's chest, and shoves him backward. The crowd parts, and Cecil crashes against the striped skirt of his platform. The patrons close in behind, standing on tiptoe, gawking.

I launch myself through them, reaching Cecil just as the other man hauls off and swings—his fist is but an inch or two from Cecil's chin when I snatch it from the air and twist it behind his back. I lock an arm around his neck and drag him backward. He sputters, reaching up and clawing my forearm. I tighten my grip until my tendons dig into his windpipe and half-drag, half-march him to beyond the end of the midway. Then I chuck him into the dirt. He lies in a cloud of dust, wheezing and grasping his throat .

Within seconds, two suited men breeze past me, lift him by the arms and haul him, still coughing, toward town. They lean into him, pat his back, and mutter encouragement. They straighten his hat, which has miraculously stayed in place.

"Nice work," says Wade, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "You done good. Come on back. They'll take care of it from here."

"Who are they?" I say, examining the row of long scratches, beaded with blood, on my forearm.

"Patches. They'll calm him down and make him happy. That way we won't catch any heat." He turns to address the crowd, clapping once—loudly—and then rubbing his hands in front of him. "Okay, folks. Everything's fine. Nothing more to see here."

The crowd is reluctant to leave. When the man and his escorts finally disappear behind a redbrick building they start to dribble away, but continue to glance hopefully over their shoulders, afraid they'll miss something.

Jimmy pushes his way through the stragglers.

"Hey," he says. "Cecil wants to see you."

He leads me through to the back end. Cecil sits on the very edge of a folding chair. His legs and spat-clad feet stick straight out. His face is red and moist, and he fans himself with a program. His free hand pats various pockets and then reaches into his vest. He pulls out a flat, square bottle, curls his lips back, and pulls the cork out with his teeth. He spits it off to the side and tips the bottle up. Then he catches sight of me.

He stares for a moment, the bottle poised at his lips. He lowers it again, resting it on his rounded belly. He drums his fingers against it, surveying me.

"You handled yourself pretty well out there," he says finally.

"Thank you, sir."

"Where'd you learn that?"

"Dunno. Football. School. Wrangling the odd bull who objected to losing his testicles."

He watches me a moment longer, fingers still drumming, lips pursed. "Camel got you on the show yet? "

"Not officially. No sir."

There's another long silence. His eyes narrow to slits. "Know how to keep your mouth shut?"

"Yes sir."

He takes a long slug from his bottle and relaxes his eyes. "Well, okay then," he says, nodding slowly.

I T'S EVENING, AND WHILE the kinkers are delighting the crowd in the big top I'm standing near the back of a much smaller tent on the far edge of the lot, behind a row of baggage wagons and accessible only through word of mouth and a fifty-cent admission fee. The interior is dim, illuminated by a string of red bulbs that casts a warm glow on the woman methodically removing her clothes.

My job is to maintain order and periodically smack the sides of the tent with a metal pipe, the better to discourage peeping toms; or rather, to encourage peeping toms to come around front and pay their fifty cents. I am also supposed to keep a lid on the kind of behavior I witnessed at the sideshow earlier, although I can't help thinking that the fellow who was so upset this afternoon would find little to complain about here.

There are twelve rows of folding chairs, every one of them occupied. Moonshine is passed from man to man, each blindly groping for the bottle because no one wants to take his eyes off the stage.

The woman is a statuesque redhead with eyelashes too long to be real and a beauty spot painted next to her full lips. Her legs are long, her hips full, her chest a stupefaction. She 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 .

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 .

There's a collective intake of breath, a moment of awed silence before the men whoop in delight.

"Atta girl!"

"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.

"Oh yeah! "

"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 ever-widening 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, 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.