Another Day

Another Day
By:
Evan Boyd

12/26/2004

Well, nothing was moving. My TV was as still as can be on its shelf. The Venetian blinds on my window weren't rattling. "Good. We must be breaking for ramps “I thought. “Ramps” was the first duty for us “working men” on arriving in a new town. By some odd stream of coincidence, it usually came to pass at the precise hour that a pleasant buzz morphed itself into it’s evil twin “the Hangover”. Suddenly, the world jumped about 2 feet north. The engineer was stretching the train in preparation of breaking the cars. I dove to catch my 15 year old TV before it had the chance to crash to the floor. Chance, it seems, was on the TV’s side and not mine.

I made my way to the bathroom. “Bathroom” is really a misnomer because you weren’t allowed to bathe there. Only the train crew were allowed to use the train showers. We working men had the privilege of showering en masse at whatever building the show was at.

Working on “the Greatest Show on Earth” had it’s high points. One of which was passing sleepy-eyed showgirls who would smile as they pass you in the narrow passage way. I had developed a reputation as a decent hot-plate chef on the train, so I was pleased to extend an invitation to one such young lady. I was politely turned down with the explanation that her boyfriend lived in the current town, which, incidentally was her reason for being up at such an absurd hour.

After barking my shin expertly on the base of the overturned TV, I fell into my camper-trailer style dining nook . I considered the TV for a moment. My problem was a lack of disposal options. Trains, circus trains, have a lack of provisions for large trash. I would just have to co-habitat with the hulk on my floor until a dumpster could be located.

Breakfast sounded like a plan. I was hoping that something other than tequila and orange juice might prepare my stomach for the day ahead. Trying to cook while avoiding the TV’s corpse on my floor was a bit more challenge than I wanted to deal with that morning, so I was quietly thankful for the earlier breakfast turn down. Off to the pie-car, that long standing circus tradition. A place where you could always get a Coke or a grease laden meal while the train was on the move.

The passage of time is measured with road-maps rather than calendars in circus life. Thus I had to look at the “route card” posted in the pie-car to get my temporal bearings. Washington, DC! Cool. I had been looking forward to this stop for a while now. I grabbed a bagel and some cream cheese, and a cup of coffee and sat down across from “Bill”, a veteran of 20 some years of circus life.

“Hey Bill” I said as I sat. “Uh huh” he responded. Bill was apparently dealing with a more severe buzz to hang-over transition than I was. “What’s good in Washington, other than the museums?” I inquired. “Staying on the train or traveling in groups of 5 or more” he answered. Assuming I was just being politely brushed off, I left Bill to nurse his ailing head in silence.
As I headed back to my tiny room. Tom, the train master passed me in the hall while knocking on every door yelling “Ramps!”. All working men on the show had an assigned job during ramps call. The train would be split in two sections at a road crossing. The two sections straddling the roadway would consist of the flat cars that held all of the show’s wagons and vehicles. We would assemble steel ramps to allow these to be towed or driven off the train to the building where the show would reside for the coming engagement.

Ramps went without incident. Since the building, The Washington, DC National Guard armory, was just a short walk from where ramps was held, I opted to walk there. I would have to be there soon enough for set-up anyway.

“Watch out! Elephant crap coming through!” yelled Curt, a “ring-curb” department working man. Sure enough, he was driving one of our small tractors towing a wagon filled with what appeared to be manure. Puzzled because we usually wanted to remove such waste from the building rather than taking it there, I asked “What’s the deal?” “A radio station is giving away five thousand dollars later today. 5 people get to dig around in the elephant shit to find an envelope with the money in it” Curt yelled back as he passed. I watched in amusement as he pulled toward the front of the building as the rest of the vehicles in our little convoy headed for the rear doors.

Set-up for the show has evolved into a bit of a competition. Takes forever when the show is new. Just out of winter break from Florida, management would allow about 12 hours too get the show ready for the first performance. In the best situation, we would arrive the day prior to the first matinee. This was not a perfect day.

Late November in D.C. tends to be on the ugly side. I would have sworn the temperature dropped twenty degrees since I began my walk to the armory. By the time I arrived, there was a freezing drizzle . Large buildings are expensive to heat, and working types like myself aren’t usually considered in the decision of when to turn the heat on. As a result of this situation, the place was freezing. Working indoors was preferable since you didn’t gather a thin layer of ice from head to toe.

Maybe it was poor communication. Perhaps it was the dark and cold. The possibility that no one really cared either was discussed, but regardless of why it was not reported, turned out to be a rather big deal. I t seems that a half of a ton of elephant manure sitting unguarded at the front of the armory was too rich of a prize for some thief. As was later admitted to by circus employees that saw it happen, two men backed a pick-up to the pile. Using gloves and a folding camp shovel, they began to load the truck bed. One helpful employee offered them two shovels, which they accepted happily. The thieves were polite enough to return the shovels.

Our generally soft-spoken general manager, Mike, was looking a bit red, well actually deep scarlet as he stepped to the center ring with a bull horn. “ Can anyone tell me what has become of the one-thousand pounds of elephant shit that was previously located at the front of this building?” he asked in a subdued tone. “The same half ton that was placed there so a local radio station could hide a check for three lucky winners to try to locate. The winners are on their way. The station reps, including the D.J., are here now. What is missing is the elephant shit!!!.” This rant began slow and soft and built to a roiling boil. Softening again he concluded “Should anyone have any information on this matter, please see me in the office trailer. Thank you.” His head shaking as if in disbelief, appearing to talk to the floor, Mike retreated from ring two towards his office. After about a minute of stunned silence, the laughter began. Apparently others thought it funny too. The “Great Elephant Dung Caper” was even fodder for Johnny Carson’s monologue that evening.

The manure was replaced quickly. Fifty elephants don’t take long to generate a copious amount of fertilizer, fortunately. The show (only two performances that day) went off with no hitches. No arrests were made, of thieves or working men.

Late in the evening, after a long shower in the buildings locker rooms, I caught the show’s bus back to where our train was parked. It was a scenic ride. The glow from the upside down, burning car softly illuminating the mattresses in the potholes. The locals gazing at us with a mixture of wander and larceny in their eyes.

I was forced to laugh as I remembered my response to a friend who had asked why I stayed with the show. “What, and give up show business?”