Saturday, October 23, 2004
chapter two
MAN CONTINUES TO WALK ALONG THE EDGE OF THE PARK, ALONG SIDEWALK AND A CLOSED BARBERSHOP WITH A STOPPED BARBERSHOP POLE, FROZEN IN MOTION ON THE CORNER, A HARDWARE STORE, ITS WINDOWS DARKENED. A FEW LIGHTS WINK ON FROM THE APARTMENT WINDOWS ABOVE, FRAMED IN RED BRICK. MAN LOOKS UP AND DOWN THE STREET AND STOPS WALKING AGAIN.
MAN: One hand belonged to Joseph P. McGee. I walk a tightrope for a living and no, it’s not as glamorous as you may think. No bevy of blonde, blue eyed and buxom snake charmers here. My father was a tightrope walker and so was my mom. My dad’s father before him was a rope walker too and his father before was and had shook hands with P.T. Barnum back when he was the big thing. Those must have been the days for the big crowds. I can imagine what it was like, the smell of much of what is illicit nowadays, but the scent was still basically the same- the crowds, the sounds, the oohs and the ahhs, and the thrill of watching man do what he is not allowed to do. Man flying on a trapeze act or tightrope is not something that most mortals experience. We are let on this earth to walk upon it and no more.
MAN CONTINUES TO WALK ALONG THE NARROW STREET, DUSK TREES HANGING OVER THE BLINKING TRAFFIC SIGNAL FLASHING YELLOW AND TOWARDS A LONG, LOW SQUAT BUILDING ON THE END OF THE STREET. FLUORESCENTS STUTTER ON AND OFF IN ITS WINDOWS. FROM WHERE HE IS STANDING, WE CAN JUST SEE THE OUTLINE OF LIGHTS AROUND A BOWLING BALL AND PIN ON THE SIGN ON THE CORNER OF THE PARKING LOT. THERE ARE SCATTERED CARS AND PICKUP TRUCKS PARKED IN THE LOT. SOME PEOPLE TALK EXCITEDLY FROM CAR WINDOWS.
MAN: I rose into town that morning thinking of Marie and how much she used to enjoy this feeling of a new town and new faces and the stares that we got. Marie would have understood this, but today I rode the Midwest dream with Ernest, “chicken liver” Ernest as we all knew him. Strongman, general equipment manager and tent erector extroidinaire, Ernest was all three, but had earned the chicken liver title through losing a wood sawing competition in Klamath Falls, Oregon to a 77 year old woodsman because Ernest lost his guts when his mouth got him carried away and the anvil was plunged into the fire. A bigger man, you almost never saw, but Ernest was a chicken at heart.
“Ahhh... another shitty little town and another shitty day, another bunch shitheeled locals.” ¶ 5:11 PM
MAN: One hand belonged to Joseph P. McGee. I walk a tightrope for a living and no, it’s not as glamorous as you may think. No bevy of blonde, blue eyed and buxom snake charmers here. My father was a tightrope walker and so was my mom. My dad’s father before him was a rope walker too and his father before was and had shook hands with P.T. Barnum back when he was the big thing. Those must have been the days for the big crowds. I can imagine what it was like, the smell of much of what is illicit nowadays, but the scent was still basically the same- the crowds, the sounds, the oohs and the ahhs, and the thrill of watching man do what he is not allowed to do. Man flying on a trapeze act or tightrope is not something that most mortals experience. We are let on this earth to walk upon it and no more.
MAN CONTINUES TO WALK ALONG THE NARROW STREET, DUSK TREES HANGING OVER THE BLINKING TRAFFIC SIGNAL FLASHING YELLOW AND TOWARDS A LONG, LOW SQUAT BUILDING ON THE END OF THE STREET. FLUORESCENTS STUTTER ON AND OFF IN ITS WINDOWS. FROM WHERE HE IS STANDING, WE CAN JUST SEE THE OUTLINE OF LIGHTS AROUND A BOWLING BALL AND PIN ON THE SIGN ON THE CORNER OF THE PARKING LOT. THERE ARE SCATTERED CARS AND PICKUP TRUCKS PARKED IN THE LOT. SOME PEOPLE TALK EXCITEDLY FROM CAR WINDOWS.
MAN: I rose into town that morning thinking of Marie and how much she used to enjoy this feeling of a new town and new faces and the stares that we got. Marie would have understood this, but today I rode the Midwest dream with Ernest, “chicken liver” Ernest as we all knew him. Strongman, general equipment manager and tent erector extroidinaire, Ernest was all three, but had earned the chicken liver title through losing a wood sawing competition in Klamath Falls, Oregon to a 77 year old woodsman because Ernest lost his guts when his mouth got him carried away and the anvil was plunged into the fire. A bigger man, you almost never saw, but Ernest was a chicken at heart.
“Ahhh... another shitty little town and another shitty day, another bunch shitheeled locals.” ¶ 5:11 PM
