Red Nose

The One about the Donniker

Okay! The donniker story!

As I mentioned, circus folks have a language all their own. One of my favorites is donniker, which means toilet. Merriam Webster Online says it probably has its roots in the word dunnekin, from an old English dialect.

Well, be that as it may, of the four circuses I worked for, only one had its own donniker. The others either brought in Porta-Potties (which we still called donnikers) or played venues that actually had restrooms. This wee circus, however, had its very own, an outhouse on wheels.

It was a basically a box. The outside was painted beautifully; the circus logo prominently displayed in red, white, blue, and gold. Inside, it was plain wood. The back held the... container, if you will, with a hole cut in the top. No seat, no paper, no water -- just a hole. This thing had probably been around for 40 years, ever since the little show's heyday in the 30s and 40s.

So. How do I put this delicately? It might have really worked and been a boon to the showfolks if it had been cleaned and emptied even once in awhile.

But alas, it never was. After just a couple of weeks, it was foul. A horrible brew of shit, piss, and whatever that liquid they put in Porta-Potties is festered in the box, filling the inside with a stink rank enough to gag a maggot. After the first couple of times that I used it, I couldn't go back. I preferred finding an actual bathroom. Some of the gazoonies, though, weren't so picky, especially when they'd been partying a little too hard.

Anyway, you'd think that the management would do something about this, but you'd be wrong. Every teardown, they'd hook the donniker up to a truck and pull it to the next lot. The driver would drop it as far from the big top and backyard as he could. So it just sort of followed us along, sloshing and stanky, a brightly painted box full of shit.

Then we got to Poughquag, a tiny little town in upstate New York. The lot was in a lovely, wooded park that had a beautiful lake. This lake had been built up at one end so that it was almost like a swimming pool. Naturally we took full advantage of this wonderful perk. The grass was lush and the air was cool, and we had good audiences. All in all, a great place for a circus.

It was a two- or three-day stand. After the show, I went to sleep in my little blue van. There I was, sound asleep on a starry night, when I woke up to shouting and general brouhaha. I stuck my head out the door and saw an eerie orange glow in the distance.

The donniker was on fire, blazing in fact, the flames leaping up toward the trees and sparks flying everywhere. Who knew poop was so flammable? Gazoonies were grabbing buckets and filling them from the lake, trying to keep the fire from spreading. Remember -- this the 70s, before cell phones, so whoever called the firefighters had to find a phone first! I don't know if there was a pay phone in the park, but I assume there was, for the firefighters arrived soon after I woke up and extinguished the conflagration.

I went back to bed.

The next morning, only charred wood and smelly debris remained. We never did find out who started the fire, but a couple gazoonies were gone by the time the cops showed up to ask questions. The rest of the gazoonies cleaned up the remains and carted them off -- I have no idea where -- and we proceeded to whisper and snicker about the Great Donniker Fire.

I Just Wanted To Get Away

Reading this article on Salon.com brought back a circus memory I had buried. All these years later, it always skeeves the hell out of me.

I was working as advance clown for a tiny little circus based in Saginaw, Michigan. This show did a fall and winter circuit of schools, armories, and town rec centers. I went ahead of the rest of the show and did promotional shows at elementary schools to advertise the circus. I'd leave free kids' tickets and talk up the acts.

As a single young woman on the road alone, I made sure to stay in family campgrounds, or behind the school, or -- if I couldn't find anything else -- a cheap motel. I called my mom frequently (collect!) to let her know that I was safe and sound. I even had a dog, a big friendly collie named Rufus.

I pulled into Ashland, Ohio one evening and found a beautiful campground fairly near the next venue. It had beautiful sites with power hookups, hot showers, and a full-scale excellent restaurant. I couldn't believe my luck. I was going to be there three days, doing school shows and waiting for the circus to catch up to me. I'd meet up with them at the venue, but until then I'd enjoy my pretty campsite in the woods.

There were lots of other campers, including an older couple who were staying in their little RV. We struck up a conversation one morning while I was walking Rufus. They invited me in for a cup of coffee. They were both so nice! They told me about their adventures in the RV world -- the wife had to drive, as the husband was legally blind. I told them about the circus life. They marveled that I was actually travelling alone, living in a Ford van with my dog, clowning around.

I thought I had made some nice new friends.

One evening, the husband waved at me as I was walking back from dinner and invited me over for a cup of coffee. Of course, I accepted. I popped into the RV and settled on the sofa behind the dining table as the husband fixed the instant coffee.

"I'm bach-ing it tonight," he said, all smiles. "My wife went into town to visit with her sister."

"Oh," I replied, not thinking anything of it.

We chatted a little more, and then... things took a turn.

He started talking about how he'd like to fuck me. In those words.

I tried to maintain my cool. After all, he was an old man! He was blind! But he was also bigger than I was. He was also sitting across the table from me, blocking the way out the door.

He kept talking about fucking me. His wife was gone; no one would know.

I told him I didn't do that. I told him I had a boyfriend. I told him to stop or I would tell his wife.

He told me she wouldn't believe me.

I got up. I decided that I would simply push my way out.

"I'm leaving!" I cried. "Get out of my way!"

"Not until you give me a kiss!" he said. At this point he was leaning over me as I tried to get up. His arms were stretched across the doorway. He was not going to let me leave!

I thought for a split second -- take my chances on pushing him down? Have him say I assaulted him? Or take my chances that he would let me go?

I pursed my lips and kissed him, as quickly as I could. He did not try to hold me and he did let me go.

In fact, he stepped aside and as I stumbled out the door, he called, "And thank you so very much for visiting!"

I ran back to my van, jumped in, and locked the doors. I laid awake all night.

When I left the next morning, the wife had returned. They both waved to me as I drove away.

I did not wave back.

I wish I had socked him. I wish I had screamed. I wish I had told his wife, whether she would have believed it or not. Why didn't I? I don't know. I do know that all I wanted to do was get away. I was only 25, four years removed from that  terrible trauma.

I never told anyone, at least not for years afterward. And now, I have.

It's Late

Letterman's just begun and I am awake; have been all evening. Nope, not even a sleepy-eyed nod off on the sofa.

I used to stay up way late at night during my circus days, especially the first year when I helped tear down the big top. I'd finish the second show, change my clothes and take off my makeup, and head into the tent to haul quarter poles. After that I'd hang out until time to drive to the next lot, following the arrows through the dark, maybe stopping for coffee and Slim Jims and a bathroom, finally reaching the lot (if you were lucky and didn't break down) and hittin' the sack.

I thought it was grand.

Nowadays I am an old fart and find it hard to stay awake in the evening, especially if I lie down on the sofa - just to get comfortable, you know. So I lie down, blink out for a while, then I wake up and stumble off to bed, then I lie in bed - sleepless - for awhile, and then I fall asleep again until the alarm yanks me awake.

The thought of doing a show, loading quarter poles, and then driving a hundred miles or more is horrifying.

But that's life, life is change, we adapt and morph and evolve. I'm still me, even though I once stayed up late because I wanted to and now stay up late because I had a cup of coffee after dinner.

Ah well. Time for the Top Ten List. Good night.

 

The Aztec God of Flight

Meet Billy Barton, aka Mr. Sensation.

I met Billy in 1976, my first year running around with circuses. He was an amazing person and I adored him.

Billy was in his late forties in 1976 and still doing his signature cloud swing act, as Prince Najvez, the Aztec God of Flight. It was a wonderful, scary, exhilarating act.

A cloud swing is kind of like a trapeze, only it does not have a fixed bar at the bottom. It's just a rope.

Billy was a consummate showman. He'd been in circuses all of his life; he even appeared in the movie Billy Rose's Jumbo in 1962 as a circus performer.

He was friends with Mae West! She nicknamed him "Mr. Sensation". He once told me that Mae West told him that "while everyone else was partying, I was buying the land they were partying on!"

I think he took to me because I was a girl clown. He liked to try to shock me -- once he invited me into his trailer to show a huge, lifelike (right down to the veins) dildo. It stood upright on the dining table. When I didn't run screaming from the trailer, he flipped the "on" switch and it started rotating! I cracked up, along with Billy.

But let's get back to the act for a minute. I wish I had gotten a picture of Billy in one of his ornate Prince Najvez headdresses -- they were the equal of any Mardi Gras Indian or Mummer. When he went all out, his partner Bobby would also dress as a less fancy Aztec. I never got to see that, alas!

But I sure did get to see the act. He did a beautiful aerial routine, including death drops and precarious hanging tricks (like the one shown here).

The grand finale was called "The Flight of the Golden Eagle". After the ringmaster called for silence in the audience, the music would swell and Billy would make a point of donning these velvet cuffs that were hanging from the top of swing. Then he pumped the swing until it was about as high as it could go.

And then he somersaulted OFF THE SWING and HURTLED TOWARD THE GROUND!

Luckily, those velvet cuffs were attached to knotted up ropes that unraveled as Billy fell, catching him just before he hit the ring. In fact, he had to bend his knees to avoid a collison!

Right as he jumped, fireworks erupted on either side of the ring, continuing as he swung back and forth until he slowed enough to plant his feet. As soon as he landed, Bobby ran out with the robe, draped it over Billy's shoulders, and Billy dropped to his knees to accept his applause.

The. Crowd. Went. Nuts. Every single time, the crowd went nuts.

One time, Bobby enlisted my help in a prank. Just before Billy was to go on, Bobby pulled me aside and had me don one of the fancy headdresses. I lurked, just out of Billy's sight, as the Prince Najvez was announced. To the stirring strains of the processional music, I marched into the ring, right behind Billy. He turned to hand me his robe and gasped! Then he said, through gritted teeth, "Now get the hell out!"

The act went on as normal, but Billy was not happy. And an unhappy Billy Barton was not fun to be around. He came up to me after the show, sat me down, and said, "I don't blame you; you didn't know any better. BUT! I am FURIOUS at that son of a bitch who got you to do this. NEVER AGAIN, HEAR?"

You bet, Billy. Never again.

When the show played Baltimore, Billy (who was from a small town on the Maryland/Pennsylvania border) said to me "You know, all my friends are coming to the show tonight."

I replied, "So are mine, Billy!"

And he replied, "Yes, but all my friends are gay!"

And I replied, "Well, a lot of my friends are gay too!"

Billy didn't even hesitate. "I always knew you were a fag hag, Mary!" he laughed.

Billy died in 2005 while working for the Jordan World Circus, a showman to the end.

 

In A Blizzard, Uphill, Both Ways!

It's damn cold outside. RIght now it's in the mid-twenties with mind-numbing wind chill.

Reminds me of the winter I spent with Voorheis Brothers Circus in Michigan, living in my van.

(Cue twinkly flashback music...)

Yes, it was the dead of winter in Michigan. I was doing advance work for the show, then meeting up with them to clown. I knew it was going to be ass cold while I up there, so I prepared well.

We played high school gyms that winter. Daytime wasn't so bad because I was either travelling, clowning in local schools to promote the show, or hanging with my pals on the show in their lovely heated trailers.

After the show in the evening though, I had to deal with sleeping in my decidedly unheated van.

I had two sleeping bags. Once was a lightweight summer bag; the other was a heavy-duty winter bag rated to -15 degrees Fahrenheit. I slipped the light one inside the heavy one, zippers on opposite sides. I got pretty good at dressing and undressing inside the bags, if I do say so myself.

I had a Coleman heater, which I ran before I went to bed. When it was warm enough in the van, I'd stuff my next-day's clothes in the bottom of the sleeping bags, jump out of my clothes and into the bags, put my hat on, and turn off the heater. Then I'd snuggle way down into the bags and sleep the sleep of the just.

In the morning, I'd reach out of the bags just long enough to light up the heater. While the van heated up I'd wrangle myself into my clothes, then leap out of the bags and into my parka and boots.

The next step was to jump into the driver's seat, fire up the van, and find the nearest diner for hot coffee, eggs, and bacon. Then it off to next town for the next show, all over Michigan, from Mio to Brown City, Cheboygan to Petosky, Newberry to Owosso.

Finally the cold snap broke and temperatures rose up into the low 50s. All of us sat around outside, in the sun, wearing t-shirts and shorts. It felt like summer.

Shower Power

It's hot. It's humid. It's summer in Washington.

It reminds me of my circus days, when I traveled around the country in the heat and humidity and the only air conditioning I had was... none. Circus tents get beastly hot in the summer, even when the sidewall is pulled up to let in whatever scanty breeze might be floating around.

I think I was sticky the whole summer for three years running.

On the first circus I ran away with, someone had mounted a little engine -- like a lawn mower engine -- on top of the water wagon and rigged it up to pump the water through a showerhead. That was the shower for those of us who took advantage of the show's version of "room and board." To take a shower, you had to flip the toggle switch to send the water to the showerhead, start the motor, and voila!

There were rules, though. You couldn't take a shower until the animals had been watered (yes, our animals got their water before the people did), you couldn't take a shower before the performers' trailers were filled, you couldn't take a shower until the work was done, and you'd best not take too damn long and use up the water.

Oh, and there weren't any temperature controls on the shower; you showered in the water that came out of the wagon. That might sound pretty awful, but it really wasn't. The water wagon was parked in the hot sun all day. By the time evening rolled around and I got to bathe, the water was delightful. It wasn't hot by any stretch, but it was just warm enough to get you clean and just cold enough to cool you down.

Alas, the one problem -- at least for me -- was the complete lack of privacy. Our little spa had no shower stall or shower curtain, so I wore a bikini top and slightly large cut-offs as my bathing outfit. Then I had to look around and make sure no one was watching while I quickly swabbed my girly parts. Oh well -- it was that or bathe out of the sink in a gas station rest room.

And I did that too, especially when the water ran out before I could take advantage of it. Clean gas stations generally had the best bathrooms, because they were one-holers with locking doors, so I could shuck off my clothes and take my time.

I hit the jackpot in Huntsville, Alabama. (Those of you who have read The Book already know about this.) We were playing next to a high school and had access to the locker rooms. As soon as I heard about that I gathered my towel and toiletries and practically ran into the building. Sure enough, there it was -- a shower room with a row of shower heads. I angled each of them on me, turned them all on at once, and stayed there until my skin turned pruney.

Bliss!

Welcome To Summer

The sky is dark with clouds and rain is pelting down, soaking the unwary who thought that bright sunlight would be here all day. A streak of lightning zigzags down in an instant followed by the thunder, Hello! There's electricity in the air; power all around.

Welcome to summer.

I know; technically it's still spring. The turn of the season doesn't happen until our anniversary, two weeks and a couple days away.

The wind's picking up. It reminds of late summer afternoons on the circus when the canvas boss would peer at approaching stormclouds and mutter that very phrase: The wind's picking up. Far more dangerous than mere rain, the wind could blow down a big top and send a show to muddy ruin. So the workin' men would tighten down the lines, four pulling on the ropes while the fifth took up the slack, making the canvas tent as tight and aerodynamic as they possibly could, hoping that the wind would blow over and around instead of in and up.

If the storm looked especially bad or the wind was really strong, they might take drastic action and peak the top, or lower the highest points of the tent -- the peaks -- until they were even with the sidewall to try to prevent the wind from getting up high in the tent and picking it up like a crumpled piece of paper.

I was never in a blowdown, thank God. I came close one night, when the wind was so bad during teardown that the quarter poles were jumping up and down, a foot off the ground, and the big top was hanging on to the stakes for dear life. I was petrified, certain that a pole was going to tear loose from its mooring and take me with it.

All part of mud show life. As we liked to say, "Circus? Yeah, it's a hell of a life!"

Ten Things About Memorial Day Weekend

We had a very full, very fun weekend! Here are ten things about it:

1. It was hot -- high 80s all three days; today may have nudged 90.

2. We saw two movies: The Man Who Would Be King and Date Night. Both were good. TMWBK is a classic, of course, and Tina Fey and Steve Carell were wonderful in Date Night.

3. I had lunch at a fancy joint with my older sister, my two first cousins, and their husbands and various progeny. It was lovely. This yearly "Cousins Lunch" started as a way to get together to remember my Aunt Ruth; now Mom has been added to the remembrance.

4. Stanley Cup Finals! I wish I could be rooting for my boys, but the Blackhawks will do for me this year.

5. We went to the circus yesterday! Kelly Miller Circus is a wonderful one-ring show with all of the old-fashioned elements of circus. The acts were great, the clowns were funny, and we had a terrific time. I must also mention that sno-cones are a gift from God.

6. After the circus we went over to my younger sister's house to celebrate my brother-in-law's birthday. My sister puts on a terrific party, let me tell you. Great food, great company.

7. The Obituary Plaque was a big hit with everyone. And by "big hit," I mean we all laughed at its tackiness. Oddly enough, no one was interested in ordering their own (only $875 for a 36x48 version). I also conveniently forgot to bring it home. (Heh!)

8. We ate a lot of popcorn this weekend, what with movies and the circus and the parties. And peanuts and sno-cones. And pizza. And cupcakes from Hello Cupcake. Also roast beef.

9. We got ripped off by an old guy, but you knew that already.

10. We heard quite a few motorcycles coming down highway by our house for the yearly Rolling Thunder ride. Hearing those engines reminds me to thank, from my heart, all the men and women who gave their lives so that I could see two movies, eat good food, and go to the circus.

Home On The Road

When I was on the road with the circus, I lived in a van.

No, not under a bridge out by the airport.

My van was a 1973 Ford Super Van, which I named The Fool Bus. I really wanted to paint it school-bus yellow, but Earl Scheib charged more than I had for that little indulgence.

Instead, I spelled out "Fool Bus" on the side in shiny stick-on letters from the hardware store.

It was already customized, sort of, when I got it. It had only a driver and passenger seat. There was a partition built in toward the back. Behind that was a platform, which created a bed that was almost full-size wide. I got a two-inch thick foam pad for a mattress and made it up with regular sheets and blankets. Lots of pillows and an Indian print curtain added a touch of hippie ambiance.

Unfortunately, it wasn't quite as long as I was tall, but if I slept diagonally or in the fetal position I was fine. I hung a mirror on the wall and that was my dressing room.

The van also came with a big... dresser? Box with compartments? Anyway, it took up a lot of space, so I replaced it with a cedar chest that held my clothes and clown stuff.

I bought a great Coleman cooler at Kmart. This cooler stood on end, like a wee fridge, and held a 20-pound block of ice in a separate compartment. It kept my beer cold and fresh. On top of the cooler I had a nifty camping sink. You filled it with water, and the spigot was actually a little pump that pumped the water into the sink itself. When you were done with your washing up, you pulled the plug and the water drained out through a plastic pipe. I hooked up some tubing to the pipe so that I could drain the water right out through the door.

I hung curtains on bungee cords that I could hook up over the rear-view mirror. I put another on a tension rod across the double side doors, aka the entrance to the "living room".

Music was supplied by my trusty 8-track tape player. When I was driving, it slipped into a bracket in the dash; when I was parked, it slipped into a sort of docking station that ran on regular power.

If I could have installed a working toilet and shower, who knows? I might still be living in a van.

Nah. Now my idea of roughing it is no shampoo and conditioner in the bathroom of the suite.

Zippo

My first day as a circus clown was April 1, 1976, George Matthews Great London Circus. I stepped up into the rickety old converted school bus that served as a rolling bunkhouse for the clowns and the prop crew, full of nerves and hope.

There, in the middle bunk on the left side of the bus, lay a tall guy with a long ponytail. I introduced myself and he stuck out his hand and introduced himself. He told me to pick out a bunk and stow my stuff. He made me feel comfortable, even though I'd be sharing the luxurious quarters with the other -- male -- clowns.

Zippo. Dear, dear Zippo.

I don't have a single picture of him out of makeup, but that's okay. I'll always remember him as this elegant whiteface, wearing his red-and-white checked pants and bright green shirt. With his electric blue hair, he was quite the primary-colored clown.

He was funny, too. He knew the gags inside and out and taught me a lot.

He was a bit of a dog, too. He was great at using his clown-ness to pick up town girls and ensure himself a hot shower and a soft bed for the night.

Once he kind of fell for a girl and persuaded her to come along with the show. He got her a job as the Electric Girl on the sideshow -- all she had to do was hold two ends of a thick wire and let the mild current make her hair stand on end. She had shoulder-length hair, so it was pretty impressive, at least to the folks who had never watched a Mr. Wizard show or gone to a children's museum. The girl got bored after a couple of weeks, blew the show, and went back home. Zippo moped around for a day or so, then perked right back up.

Another time he let Bullitt the Gazoony do the grunt work for him. Bullitt picked up a skinny blond girl with a baby on her hip and treated her to lunch, bought tickets to the show, fed the baby candy floss; you know, the works. Zippo caught her eye during the show, however, and the rest was history. Bullitt was not amused, but he knew he couldn't compete with a clown.

 

I only worked with Zippo that one season in 1976. I never saw him again, but I thought of him over the years. I looked for him at the Clown College reunion (he was in the Class of '71), but he didn't attend. I did sit at a table with some of his other classmates, so at least I knew that he was really real; I didn't imagine him. (Does that make any sense? Probably not.)

Anyway. Zippo died last week after a motorcycle crash. He was 56 years old. A rep from the Culpepper-Merriweather Circus sent a brief note to the Clown College grads list informing us all of his death.

It hit me surprisingly hard. I hadn't seen Zippo for 33 years. I shouldn't be as sad as I am, but there it is.

In the circus, you don't say goodbye. You always leave open the possibility that you will meet again, on another show, under another big top, in the center of the ring.

See you down the road, Zippo.