it, Kinko's books catch my eye. They're sitting on the crate beside the kerosene lamp. I tuck in my shirt, sit on the cot, and reach for the top one.
It's the complete works of Shakespeare. Underneath is a collection of Wordsworth poems, a Bible, and a book of plays by Oscar Wilde. A few small comic books are hidden inside the front cover of the Shakespeare. I recognize them immediately. They're eightpagers.
I flip one open. A crudely drawn Olive Oyl lies on a bed with her legs open, naked but for her shoes. She spreads herself with her fingers. Popeye
appears in a thought bubble above her head, with a bulging erection that reaches to his chin. Wimpy, with an equally enormous erection, peers through the window.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
I drop the comic, then bend quickly to retrieve it.
"Just leave it the hell alone!" says Kinko, storming over and snatching it from my hands.
"And get the hell off my bed!"
I leap up.
"Look here, pal," he says, reaching up to jab his finger into my chest. "I'm not exactly thrilled about having to bunk with you, but apparently S a r a G r u en I don't have a choice in the matter. But you better believe I have a choice about whether you mess with my stuff."
He is unshaven, his blue eyes burning in a face that is the color of beets. "You're right," I stammer. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have touched your things."
"Listen, pisshead. I had a nice gig going here until you came along. Plus I'm in a bad mood anyway. Some asshole used my water today, so you'd best stay out of my way. I may be short, but don't think I can't take you." My eyes widen. I recover but not soon enough.
His eyes narrow to slits. He scans the shirt, my clean-shaven face. He chucks the eightpager onto his cot. "Aw hell. Haven't you done enough already?"
"I'm sorry. Honest to God, I didn't know it was yours. August said I could use it."
"Did he also say you could go through my stuff?" I pause, embarrassed. "No."
He gathers his books and stuffs them into the crate. "Kinko—Walter—I'm sorry."
"That's Kinko to you, pal. Only my friends call me Walter."
I walk to the corner and sink down on my horse blanket. Kinko helps Queenie onto the bed and lies down beside her, staring so pointedly at the ceiling I half-expect it to start smoldering.
BEFORE LONG, THE TRAIN pulls out. A few dozen angry men
chase us for a while, swinging pitchforks and baseball bats, although it's mostly for the benefit of the tale they'll get to tell at dinner tonight. If they had really wanted a fight there was plenty of time before we pulled out. It's not that I can't see their point—their wives and children had been looking forward to the circus for days, and they themselves had probably been looking forward to some of the other entertainments rumored to be available in the back of our lot. And now, instead of sampling the charms of the magnificent Barbara, they'll have to content themselves with their eight-pagers. I can see why a guy might get steamed.
Kinko and I clatter along in hostile silence as the train gets up to speed. Water for E l e p h a n ts
He lies on his cot, reading. Queenie rests her head on his socks. Mostly she sleeps^ but whenever she's awake, she watches me. I sit on the horse blanket, bone-weary but not yet tired enough to lie down and suffer the indignities of vermin and mildew.
At what should be dinnertime, I get up and stretch. Kinko's eyes dart over from behind his book, and then back to the text.
I walk out to the horses and stand looking over their alternating black and white backs. When we reloaded them, we moved everyone up to give Silver Star all four empty stalls' worth of space. Even though the rest of the horses are now in unfamiliar slots, they seem largely unperturbed, probably because we loaded them in the same order. The names scratched into
the posts no longer match the occupants, but I can extrapolate who's who. The fourth horse in is Blackie. I wonder if his personality is
It's the complete works of Shakespeare. Underneath is a collection of Wordsworth poems, a Bible, and a book of plays by Oscar Wilde. A few small comic books are hidden inside the front cover of the Shakespeare. I recognize them immediately. They're eightpagers.
I flip one open. A crudely drawn Olive Oyl lies on a bed with her legs open, naked but for her shoes. She spreads herself with her fingers. Popeye
appears in a thought bubble above her head, with a bulging erection that reaches to his chin. Wimpy, with an equally enormous erection, peers through the window.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
I drop the comic, then bend quickly to retrieve it.
"Just leave it the hell alone!" says Kinko, storming over and snatching it from my hands.
"And get the hell off my bed!"
I leap up.
"Look here, pal," he says, reaching up to jab his finger into my chest. "I'm not exactly thrilled about having to bunk with you, but apparently S a r a G r u en I don't have a choice in the matter. But you better believe I have a choice about whether you mess with my stuff."
He is unshaven, his blue eyes burning in a face that is the color of beets. "You're right," I stammer. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have touched your things."
"Listen, pisshead. I had a nice gig going here until you came along. Plus I'm in a bad mood anyway. Some asshole used my water today, so you'd best stay out of my way. I may be short, but don't think I can't take you." My eyes widen. I recover but not soon enough.
His eyes narrow to slits. He scans the shirt, my clean-shaven face. He chucks the eightpager onto his cot. "Aw hell. Haven't you done enough already?"
"I'm sorry. Honest to God, I didn't know it was yours. August said I could use it."
"Did he also say you could go through my stuff?" I pause, embarrassed. "No."
He gathers his books and stuffs them into the crate. "Kinko—Walter—I'm sorry."
"That's Kinko to you, pal. Only my friends call me Walter."
I walk to the corner and sink down on my horse blanket. Kinko helps Queenie onto the bed and lies down beside her, staring so pointedly at the ceiling I half-expect it to start smoldering.
BEFORE LONG, THE TRAIN pulls out. A few dozen angry men
chase us for a while, swinging pitchforks and baseball bats, although it's mostly for the benefit of the tale they'll get to tell at dinner tonight. If they had really wanted a fight there was plenty of time before we pulled out. It's not that I can't see their point—their wives and children had been looking forward to the circus for days, and they themselves had probably been looking forward to some of the other entertainments rumored to be available in the back of our lot. And now, instead of sampling the charms of the magnificent Barbara, they'll have to content themselves with their eight-pagers. I can see why a guy might get steamed.
Kinko and I clatter along in hostile silence as the train gets up to speed. Water for E l e p h a n ts
He lies on his cot, reading. Queenie rests her head on his socks. Mostly she sleeps^ but whenever she's awake, she watches me. I sit on the horse blanket, bone-weary but not yet tired enough to lie down and suffer the indignities of vermin and mildew.
At what should be dinnertime, I get up and stretch. Kinko's eyes dart over from behind his book, and then back to the text.
I walk out to the horses and stand looking over their alternating black and white backs. When we reloaded them, we moved everyone up to give Silver Star all four empty stalls' worth of space. Even though the rest of the horses are now in unfamiliar slots, they seem largely unperturbed, probably because we loaded them in the same order. The names scratched into
the posts no longer match the occupants, but I can extrapolate who's who. The fourth horse in is Blackie. I wonder if his personality is
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