- Love, youthful innocence, eight hours hitchhiking and
stalwart determination to leave an abusive alcoholic stepfather carried
me north of Toronto into Newmarket on a buttery May afternoon in 1972.
-
- I had run away from home to see Shelva, a spirited 17
year old who wore tie-dye T-shirts tight as a second skin. Her wavy, blonde
hair was brushed by the wind and hung to frame a sun-kissed theater of
expression from which enticing azure eyes had beckoned me to an indelible
summer romance eleven months earlier.
-
- My arrival was met by Shelva's sensitive mother who delicately
informed me Shelva had cultivated a new boyfriend four months before my
unexpected appearance, and had just retreated to her room crying, unable
to face me. With a breaking heart, I solemnly bowed my head to silently
retrieve and return her daughter's love letters which I'd lovingly bundled
and carried in my bag. Feeling lonelier than a child outside divorce court,
I turned to leave behind all thoughts of love, hope and happiness which
had ferried me to that place.
-
- A broken spirit, fear of returning to an abusive father
and a tear-soaked thumb returned me 25 miles south to Aurora. The saffron
sunset had given way to the pre-crimson hue now casting its magical orange
aura over a bizarre collection of circus vehicles rimming a nearby hockey
arena. Sudden curiosity, needing a job, and a conscious decision not to
be defeated spirited me toward the colorful scene.
-
- I approached the back of a slender man standing by several
cages harboring panting felines in repose. A red and white towel-sized
polka dot handkerchief dangled from the rear pocket of his rumpled denim
overalls - its inordinate size and color suggested it was 'circus issue'
handed him by the clown quartermaster. His once-blonde hair had liberal
streaks of gray. Combed straight back, it concluded at a turned-up collar.
-
- "Hello," I said shyly, "do you have any
jobs?"
-
- Beanie was his name - and co-cat owner, as I later found
out. He turned to me, revealing a countenance featuring large black glasses
securely perched atop a pockmarked, bulbous proboscis of cartoon proportion.
Three or four days of gray stubble circled thin-slit lips which slurred
Ss, as they moved - he looked to be sixty or so.
-
- "Oh, hi. A job? I'm not sure. You'd need to speak
to Tommy. He owns the circus."
-
- "Tommy?"
-
- "Yes, Tommy Hanniford. He owns the Royal Hanniford
Circus. Here, follow me. I"ll take you there."
-
- "Thank you, sir."
-
- Trotting behind Beanie into the tired armada of vehicles
they called homes, I dodged, sidestepped and parried the maze of prop-boys,
performers and curious onlookers to arrive at a new Air Stream trailer
hitched to an immaculate black Cadillac Eldorado.
-
- Announcing our presence through the screen, Beanie yelled:
"Tommy . . . Tommy? There's a polite young man here looking for a
job!"
-
- "Ah, Beanie! You know we've got a show to do! I
don't have time for this!"
-
- Tommy's voice climbed an octave while whining with the
frustration of the moment. Beanie extended his hand wishing me luck. I
watched his wagging handkerchief disappear into the throng.
-
- "What can you do?"
-
- Startled, I spun, nearly losing my balance. Tommy's voice
carried a tone demanding an immediate answer. His type-A personality was
strung tighter than my heartstrings of an hour before.
-
- "I can move stuff. I can lift and paint." I
said.
-
- "Everyone can do that! Can you do anything else,
like a trick, perform. . .an_y_thing?"
-
- "Yes sir, I can tumble."
-
- "Can ya do a round-off flick-flack, back?"
-
- "Yes, I can do that."
-
- "Strupie, get this kid an outfit! Come in, she'll
be with you in a second."
-
- As Tommy and Strupie exchanged locations in the trailer,
he told her I was a tumbler.
-
- "Boy, what size are you?"
-
- Strupie,s thick German accent was as dense as her heavily
muscled body. Despite looking like she,d ingested a truckload of steroids
she was remarkably pretty and of medium height.
-
- "I don't know ma-am."
-
- "I'm not 'ma-am'...I'm Strupie. Your momma buys
your cloths?"
-
- "Yes, Strupie."
-
- She turned to look at me, my garments in hand. She puzzled
a moment as she searched my eyes.
-
- "She really does buy your cloths, doesn't she, boy?"
-
- I realized Strupie had attempted a joke and then concluded
I'd been serious. While I stumbled for something to say, Tommy yelled a
manic plea for assistance.
-
- "Okay, boy. Go find tumbler Bobby. Tell him you
do walk-around and first-pass with him and others to open show. Go!"
-
- That evening, I stepped from a trailer into a lovingly
eccentric family and a 3-month adventure which would cover more than one-hundred
towns and cities across Canada and the US. Tommy Hanniford became a friend,
teaching me every slapstick gag vaudeville ever conceived. I rubbed elbows
with Mac Davis, The Fifth Dimension, Johnny Cash, Del Shannon, Paul Anka,
Manhattan Transfer and, when he was still black, Michael Jackson of the
Jackson Five.
-
- Then one warm Pennsylvania evening, life - as it so often
does - threw me a curve. I stood mortified after helping Karen Carpenter
to her feet following a collision in which I had accidentally knocked her
down as she exited her change room moments before an Allentown show. Paralyzed
by the surreal horror of what I'd just done, I froze unable to speak or
even breath. Obscene, guttural sounds poured from my throat utterly constricted
by fear. She smiled as she took my hand. Then while patting it she said,
"It's okay, honey. Really. I'm okay. I'm not hurt at all." She
paused for a moment, then took a step closer..."I have a show to do
now. Bye, honey."
-
- Sometime during that enchanted evening Karen dedicated
her song "Goodbye To Love" to a young circus performer she'd
just met. And someplace between the chorus and Frampton's melancholy guitar
solo, I drifted back to a nondescript street in Newmarket where my heart
first lived that song months earlier.
-
- It was time to go home.
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