Red Nose

The Amazing Marcellis

This grainy old picture is a screen capture I snapped from the results of a Google search that I did on "Voorheis Brothers Circus," one of the shows I worked for back in my sordid youth.

It's a picture of the Marcellis -- I wish I could remember their first names -- a wonderful couple who treated me like a daughter. She was a juggler; he was a slack wire master. She also assisted him during the slack wire act, handing him props and generally being beautiful.

When I knew them, they were older than they were when this publicity shot was taken, but they were still amazing.

Slack wire, in case you hadn't figured it out, is looser than tight wire. The slack in the wire makes the balance come from the wirewalker's hips, as the wire can move back and forth beneath his feet. Slack wires are generally low, so the wirewalker can get on (and off!) easily.

Monsieur Marcelli was wonderful on the wire. He ran across it, nimble as an antelope; he did the splits like a cheerleader. He juggled on the wire; he rode a unicycle across it. The big finale was when he carried the Lovely Mme. Marcelli across the wire on his shoulders. When they reached the center, with the wire forming a graceful curve under his feet, they began to juggle, passing the clubs between them as Marcelli continued to walk. When reached the other side, she slipped gracefully off his shoulders as he backed away. It was simply charming.

But age was catching up with M. Marcelli; he knew he wouldn't be able to do the physically demanding act for very much longer. Circus folk are circus folk, though, and he was making sure that he wouldn't be out of work when he could no longer walk the wire.

I watched him practice his new act -- a knife balancing routine. He already had a name for it: The Count of Monte Cristo. Marcelli held a short dagger in his mouth, then carefully placed a beautiful sword on it, tip to tip. Once he established the balance point, he tilted his head back until the two blades were vertical. One slip, and M. Marcelli risked having the heavy sword plunge straight through his throat!! Then, slowly but surely, he returned the knives to the original right-angled configuration, flipped the large blade up and caught it by the hilt. Ta-DA!

Sadly, I never took pictures of the acts on that show. I wish I had, particularly of these lovely people.

But since I don't have any of the M. Marcelli in action, here's a video of another pretty wonderful slack wire artist, so you can get an idea of what a slack wire act is.

Caution: Clown makeup ahead! If you have coulrophbia, try to look past the whiteface and concentrate on the skill.

Guest Post: Please Welcome Golf Widow!

Hey, it's my first guest post! Or first post by a guest! Or first guest to write a post! Or something. You know what I mean. Anyway, the lovely and talented Golf Widow has a pretty nifty offer out there, to wit: Donate two bucks to her "I've Just Gotten Laid Off and I'm Panicky" fund and she will write a guest post for you, on the subject of your choice.

Well, Golf Widow is wickedly funny, and I had just gotten a rather nice bonus, so I thought, "Hey. I like Golf Widow, and I have two bucks. I will give it to her, and I will let her write whatever she chooses."

By the way, you should also buy her book! Or make someone buy it for you! It's here:

Getting My Think On

And here is her official Red Nose Guest Post.

Hi - I'm guest-posting for my favorite lady clown, today.

I'm sort of inspired to talk about the circus a little, obviously.

I actually have two clowny blog-buddies. Andy Martello, who is also my podcast cohost, is a Ringling graduate, though he doesn't work in a circus environment anymore. This is because, in a mad fit of irony, he married a woman who is terrified of clowns.

I used to be afraid of clowns myself, when I was a tiny kid. It wasn't anything personal. I was afraid of anyone who concealed their faces in any way, even by accident. My poor uncle had to cope with my hiding whenever he and his newly-cultivated mustache approached me. Our neighbor, another mustachioed gentleman, used to wait at the bottom of the slide so we wouldn't fall. I'd let him catch me (I wasn't allowed to slide without a grownup), but I kept my head well turned away. My mother once had to calm my terror just because a bottle of ketchup splattered on her cheeks.

Eventually, I got over my fear of clowns, but it was still years before I got to go to a real circus.

Circumstances conspired against me. The circus wasn't in town when I was in kindergarten; it was, when my brother went to kindergarten the next year.

The first circus I went to was the one my brother's kindergarten class put on, after their field trip. My brother was the ringmaster. I was hellaciously, inordinately proud of this fact, even though he was way littler than my first-grade self.

You think I don't remember any of this. His top hat was made of green construction paper. Take that, memory banks.

The Big Apple Circus came to town a few times over the years, but I missed out on it every time for a while, there. It seemed they scheduled their tours to coincide with strep throat season. Everyone else was having popcorn and watching clowns. I was home having ginger ale and watching The Price is Right.

Finally, finally, the circus was in town at the same time I was actually healthy enough to go, and we went.

And I hated it.

The animals looked sad, and scared, and they smelled bad. The clowns looked happy from far away, but when they got close, you could see that that was just makeup - underneath, they looked ... bored.

I later learned from Andy that that couldn't have been any kind of quality circus, and that his own training was rigid about making sure you were In the Moment when you were being a clown. I rather agree with him, on that score. I still didn't like the fact that the animals couldn't get on a bus and leave if they weren't happy, but I eventually got over the whole bored-clown trauma.

My mother went to see "Barnum" at dinner theater, and had to convince a clown that he couldn't have anything to eat off her plate. I was sorry to have missed out on that experience (though I did go through a similar exchange with a hippie when I saw "Hair" performed in the round).

I haven't been to a traditional circus since that one-ring when I was a kid, but I do occasionally watch them on television, and I enjoy reading about them.

I wept copiously over the film "The Greatest Show on Earth," but it was a good weepy movie.

And Andy makes fun of me for liking Cirque du Soleil, but it is what it is: no animals; and the clowns are funny not because of their makeup, which is minimal, but because of their antics.

As is only right and proper. They don't call it "clowning around" because they're good at applying greasepaint.

By the way, Andy was not in my Clown College class, because he is just a precious darling boy and attended way later than I did. But he's totally right -- we were taught to always be in character and in the moment.

Honest, we're not all scary.

Thank you, Golf Widow!

He Ain't Heavy; He's My Porker

My circus pals warned me about this act before they arrived on the show.

"Wait until you see Uncle Heavy," they said. "It's one of the best animal acts out there." Or something to that effect.

"What kind an act is it?" I inquired quite innocently.

"Pigs."

"PIGS?"

Oh yes, indeed. Uncle Heavy's Pork Chop Revue was a trained pig act, comprising Uncle Heavy, Aunt Heavy, Heavy Junior, and more bacon on the hoof than my suburban eyes had ever seen. At first I though that the pigs in question were going to be sweet little Piglets -- but no.

We're talking hogs, kids. Two huge hogs and one smaller pig. One of the hogs might have been a sow; I never asked about their genders nor did I have the desire to get close enough to find out for myself.

The act itself was basically a dog act.

"Dog act?" I hear you cry. "What means this dog act?"

Oh come on, you know. The trainer walks across the ring as the cute lil doggie weaves in and out of his legs. The dog pushes a barrel across the ring, climbs up and slides down a sliding board, jumps through hoops and over teeny fences, that kind of thing.

Now imagine all that stuff with big giant hogs, in slow motion, to the tune of a manic racing version of Turkey In The Straw.

The big finish occurred when the big hog pushed a baby carriage across the ring to Uncle Heavy, who reached in and pulled out the little pig, who promptly "peed" all over the ring, courtesy of a squeeze bulb and tube that ran up Uncle Heavy's sleeve.

The audience loved it. Loved. It.

The Heavys traveled and lived in a converted school bus. It was a pretty nice arrangement, with a living room set up just behind the driver's seat, a complete kitchenette with a fold-down dining table, and a bathroom and sleeping space for the family just past that. And back behind the wall of the sleeping space?

Yup -- the pigsty, at the very back of the bus, accessed through what used to be emergency back door. They really only stayed in the bus while travelling; once the family got to a lot, they set up a pigpen right outside the back of the bus.

I didn't care much for Uncle Heavy -- he was a big blowhard who drank too much moonshine -- but I got to be pretty good friends with Aunt Heavy. She was his second wife, much younger, and stepmom to Junior. She made all the costumes and helped in the act, but she didn't muck out the sty or feed the pigs. That delightful little chore fell to the males of the family.

As the season wore on, Aunt Heavy got more and more unhappy with Uncle Heavy. He was drinking too much, he was always yelling at her, he was (dare I say it?) a pig.

Evidently I Need To Stay Upright

I went to the Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus Clown College in 1975. Among the subjects I studied were mime (Shut up. It was cool in 1975.), juggling, makeup, circus history, and clown gags.

Oh, and acrobatics.

You know, stuff like tumbling, vaulting, trampoline, and other life-threatening activities. I was absolutely terrible at acrobatics. In fact, I hurt myself on the very first day of class. We were lined up to do vaulting (which I cannot even type, much less do). I was nervous, and with good reason, seeing as how I had never done such a ridiculous thing.

We were to run up to the mini-trampoline, jump on it, then dive over the vaulting horse into a forward roll on the mat.

Yuh-huh.

As we lined up, the assistant headmaster said, "Be sure to shoot your arms straight into the air as you come up off the mini-tramp. It'll give you enough height to clear the horse."

Seemed like a good idea to me.

Unfortunately, he neglected to tell us to tuck our heads as we hurtled toward the mat headfirst.

Can you guess the rest?

Yes, I landed flat on the top of my head. As I lay on my back on the mat, I thought, "Wow -- it's not just an expression; you really do see stars."

The headmaster helped me up and told me to walk it off.  That was his general remedy for everything. Landed on your head? Walk it off. Sprained your arm? Walk it off. Broke your leg? Walk it off.

I quickly realized that i was not going to be the star of acrobatics class, so I settled for the goal of not killing myself. I succeeded at that -- I even succeeded at learning to do a backwards somersault on the trampoline, as long as I was strapped into the harness.

And then? I was practicing a ladder gag, a classic slapstick gag where one clown is on the top rung of a freestanding ladder, which is being held up the other clown. The other clown lets go, and the ladder clown leaps off, straddling the ladder, and does a forward roll.

I was actually pretty good at that gag, until one fateful day, when the ladder swerved to the side. My foot landed wrong, the ladder landed on my foot, and the rest of me landed on the ladder. I lay on the mat (a position with which I was familiar) when the headmaster grabbed my foot and started twisting it around vigorously.

"Eet's okai," he said, "walk eet off."

I took one step and knew I wasn't walking anything off. Someone called an ambulance, and I got an all-expenses -paid trip to the Venice Florida ER, where my severly sprained ankle was wrapped up tight.

I did the big graduation show on crutches.

I have since avoided anything remotely resembling acrobatics, until now.

I'm taking Pilates.

The Call Of The Road Is A Siren Song

Every year about this time, I get the itch to get out on the road. I remember how I felt way back when as I packed up my van with makeup and eight-track tapes and clothes and beer, anxious to get going, to get away from home and into the world, figuring it all out as I went along, armed with a road atlas and CB radio just in case.

I'd kiss my folks good-bye, hop in the driver's seat and go -- west out I-70 or north up the BW Parkway -- and along about Hagerstown or Havre de Grace I'd start feeling absolutely free. Fire up a doobie and turn up the sound.

I was On My Own, heading for the Show and Who Knows What.

I watched for the Gas-Food-Lodging signs along the interstate; rest areas along the turnpike. KOAs were good places to spend the night; plenty of families meant you were pretty much safe and besides, there were showers. Scope out the light poles in parking lots because sometimes there were outlets and you could have lights and run the eight-track deck off juice instead of the car battery. Kmarts generally had clean bathrooms, more reliable than taking pot luck at a gas station.

And in New Jersey I'd never starve, for the diners were everywhere and open round the clock.

Yeah, I get itchy. I pass by the exit onto the Beltway and glance over to the westbound side. I stare but keep on going. The Lexus beside me tries to match up the paint and I lean on the horn and cuss. Two ATMs won't recognize my check, goddammit. I could double back; just go.

But I go home. My Home. My Place, where I've spent the last 20 years being a mom, being a wife, holding down a day job, accumulating and discarding stuff. I unlock the door and Joe's sitting on the back porch, studying the yard and smoking his pipe and talking to the cat, and I know I've found the scratch for my itch.

Sixty-Five In A Zero-Mile Zone

Today the lovely and talented Meg wrote about a caffeine jag she inadvertantly went on when she was a studying the ins and outs of the magical java bean, and it reminded me of an experience I had during one long long night, long long ago.

Long, long ago, when I was a young and stupid adventurous circus clown living in a Ford van, I had to drive home from my latest gig. The show closed in Enid, Oklahoma. I lived with my folks in Silver Spring, Maryland. It's about 1335 miles from Enid to Silver Spring. So I filled my gas tank, jumped in the driver's seat, and took off, heading east. I took the southern route, because it was late winter and I wanted to avoid some of the horrible weather I'd been experiencing already.

I made it to Parkersburg late the next day. I got off the interstate and had a bite to eat, and then I consulted my map. The most direct route home, according to the map, was US Route 50.

If I wanted to stay on an interstate, I'd have to drive up to Morgantown and pick up I-70, and then drive through Pennsylvania, and then into Maryland, and finally, to home.

Nah. Route 50. Direct and to the point. It's a US highway; what could be so bad?

(Cue ominous music.)

While I ate dinner, I decided to avail myself of a little extra medicinal driving help in the form of a black beauty* that I had copped the previous summer from my old pal Sweet Dave. Just a little zizz 'n fizz to keep me awake and alert on the ride home.

Off I went, plannng my surprise. My folks didn't know I was on the way home -- no cell phones in those days, and I hadn't called (collect, of course) in a few days. So I had visions of sneaking quietly into the house along about midnight, crawling into my comfy bed, and shocking the shit out of my mom and dad the following morning.

What I didn't realize was that, although it appears to be the most direct route on paper, Route 50 is a wicked, winding, two-lane road through the Appalachian Mountains. I had my first hint of this when I got stuck in a line of traffic at the foot of the first mountain. The state troopers had closed the road while a heavy-duty wrecker hauled an 18-wheeler off the mountain.

I waited over an hour, my van at a dead stop.

My mind, however, was coasting along at about 45 mph right about then.

Finally, the traffic started to move, up the mountain, around the hairpin curves, at a reasonable pace.

And then it began to rain.

As we got higher, the rain changed to snow. Traffic slowed.

Think it can get worse? Oh, it can and it did.

Fog. Thick, impenetrable, opaque, fog. Traffic crawled, then crept. I was driving about 10 miles an hour, on that twisty mountain road, but my mind was now racing at 60 miles an hour. I was gripping the steering wheel so hard it almost bent like butter in my hands.

Finally, a sign for a scenic overlook loomed up out of the white mist. I pulled over into the parking area and stopped the van. The line of traffic that had been following my tail lights pulled in behind me, then realized I was done and pulled back out. I was a little disappointed because I was ready for some company.

After all, I wasn't going to sleep any time soon.

I sat for minute, talking to myself, coming up with a plan. "It's cold outside, but I can't keep the engine running or I'll run out of gas or poison myself from carbon monoxide but I don't want to freeze either even though I have a sleeping bag I don't have my camping heater and anyway if I leave the engine off for too long it might not start again because the alternator acts up when it rains or snows so I guess I'll just run the engine once it gets too cold to be comfortable inside and I'll warm things up that way yeah, that'll work! but maybe I better take a walk around the van to figure out just exactly how close I am to the road because I don't want some idiot to hit me from not seeing me in the fog and maybe I should put my flashlight out in back of the van but maybe not because it might attract the wrong kind of attention but I guess I better look around now but I better be careful because what if I'm really close to the edge of the road and I fall off the goddamn mountain boy that would just suck shit through a rag..."

I walked around the van a few dozen times, both to warm up and to make sure it wasn't about to fall off the mountain. I read until my flashlight batteries started dimming. I sang to myself. I ran the engine. I walked around again. I curled up in my little van bed and tried to sleep. I checked to see if the fog had lifted. I repeated this ritual many times.

Finally, my mind released its grip on consciousness and I fell into a 65-mile an hour sleep.

When I woke up, it was close to dawn. The air was clear and cold; the sky was greying up into daytime. I was a wreck, but I climbed into the driver's seat and cranked the engine. Thankfully, it started right up. I pulled out of the scenic overlook, made my way down the mountain, and headed for home.

When I got there, I slept for 20 hours straight.

---

*Kids, listen to me: Drugs -- especially speed -- are bad. Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad.

Up On A Tightwire

Yes! The guy on the tightwire has baskets on his feet!

Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages, I present to you the masters of the tightwire, Los Latinos!

Actually, Los Latinos were Herbie Weber and his Lovely Assistant, Marcella. Herbie was probably in his late fifties when I met him, back in 1976. Marcella was from Mexico, so the "Los Latinos" name had at least a smidgen of authenticity. She was young enough to be Herbie's daughter. I was never quite sure of the extent of their relationship, mostly because I never had guts enough to ask.

In any case, Herbie really was a master of the tightwire. He was more of a wire dancer than a wire walker, and I mean that. Herbie didn't just walk along the low, tight wire; he leaped, he danced, he boogied.  His act was amazing -- not only did he walk the wire using the baskets, he walked the wire on stilts, he rode a bicycle across the wire, he jumped rope on the wire.

Marcella was no slouch either. She walked the wire wearing toe shoes, en pointe.

But the absolute best part of the act was the grand finale, where Herbie jumped over Marcella and landed on the other side of the wire. He set up a platform under the center of the wire as the ringmaster announced the trick. Marcella walked the wire out to the platform, then stepped onto it, looking back at Herbie.

Then she bent over from the waist as Herbie walked out to her, gauging the distance, preparing to jump over her. The ringmaster went into full announce mode at this point:

"Now ladies and gentlemen, this is an exceedlingly dangerous trick, as Senor Latino cannot see his landing point. Therefore, we must have complete silence. And now, all eyes on Los Latinos!"

The drumroll began. Herbie milked that moment perfectly, then he'd leap over Marcella's back.

Now here's the thing. If the day was nice and the lot was grassy and the crowd was good, Herbie fell.

Yes.

After his leap, he landed on the other side of Marcella, wobbled and shook on the wire, and then he slipped off, grabbing the wire on the way down and landing full-length on the grass, his head on his arm, his body limp.

We clowns looked shocked; the ringmaster dropped the mic and rushed out to him to help him up; Marcella climbed off the platform and went to his aid. Herbie would lean against the rigging, his hand over his heart, and then he would whisper to the ringmaster while he held up his index finger.

The ringmaster would shake his head in horror, but Herbie would insist. The ringmaster would then announce, "Ladies and gentlemen, Senor Latino is all right, and he's going to try it one more TIME!"

Marcella would shake her head in disbelief and dismay, but Herbie would have none of it. She resumed her position on the platform as Herbie limped to the ladder, climbed up, and limped across the wire.

Yes, he limped across the wire. He shook slightly as he measured the distance and prepared to leap over his partner Then, gathering himself together, he jumped. He landed on the other side of Marcella, fought for his balance, got it, and then he reached down, grabbed the wire with both hands and swung himself all the way around it. Then he jumped off and bowed with the Lovely Marcella.

The crowd went nuts and gave him a standing ovation.

Every single time.

That fall was much, much harder to do than the trick and much more dangerous. That's the hallmark of a true showman, I think. He knew the power of the tightwire is the audience's anticipation of the accident, so when the conditions were right, Herbie gave them an accident.

But he also gave them the triumph of trying again and succeeding, and the audience loved him for it.

And that's what made him a great wire dancer.

Iron Jaw, Are You Ready?

My old clown partner, Steve Russell, sent me some memories of our season on Famous Hunt's Circus, way back in 1978. I had to smile when I saw this photo of a gag that I blatantly ripped off from my classmates at Clown College.

The gag's called Iron Jaw. It's so simple, and yet so stupid, that it always manages to get a laugh.

The one and only prop is made up of a ring, a length of elastic, and a sports mouth guard.

I hold the ring in my hand as Iron Jaw puts the guard in his mouth and walks backward, stretching the elastic to the limit.

And I announce:

Ladies and Gentlemen, Iron Jaw will now attempt to catch this ring on his head! This is a very dangerous feat, requiring split-second timing and enormous agility!

I turn to Iron Jaw.

Iron Jaw, ARE YOU READY??

And Iron Jaw yells:

YES!!

And the mouth guard flies at me, knocks me down, and we end with the Obligatory Clown Chase-off.

Hmm. I guess you had to be there...

First of May

I'm a member of the Clown College Graduates Yahoo group -- a diverse set of folks if there ever was one, even if we do have that elite educational institution in common. On May 1, one of the clowns posted his "First of May" experience, so I figured I would do the same.

Now, a First of May is a performer who has just joined the circus. It comes from the tradition of circuses beginning their seasons on May 1 -- so if it's your first season on the show, you're a First of May.

My First-of-May day was April 1, 1976 -- yeah, April Fool's Day!

I arrived in Parkersburg, West Virginia on a very damp, overcast day with my slightly-better-than-cardboard footlocker, my brand new circus clogs, and a bad case of nerves. I'd accepted the job with George Matthews Great London Circus on the strength of a brief letter from the owner's son.

Things got off to a bad start when I told the cab driver to drop me off at Scott Field and he replied with, "Huh?"

Well, one way or another, we found the lot. The big top looked fabulous -- a four-pole, three-ring, orange-and-white striped tent in the middle of a beautiful, green, field. We found the ringmaster's trailer and I knocked on the door.

First surprise. No one told the ringmaster that a girl clown was going to be on the show. When I told him I was to be on the show, he said, "Oh, aerial ballet?" And I said, "No, clown." And he said, "Oh. Well, you'll have to stay in the band bus with the other clowns." And I said, "Well, okay," not because I especially wanted to share living space with a bunch of clowns, but mostly because I didn't know what else to say.

Second surprise. So I knew I'd be living with the other clowns, but I wasn't prepared to find that the "room" in "room and board" consisted of a plank bunk. Why was it called the "band bus"? It used to house the band. At least the clown's quarters were walled off from the prop crew's quarters. Lucky for me the other clowns were nice enough guys. Pogo and Zippo were already there; Ralf arrived shortly after I did. (Zippo was wrapped up in his sleeping bag when I arrived, a lovely wine carafe full of pee on the floor beside his bunk. Very high class, no? I'm happy to report that he changed that behavior immediately.)

Third surprise. No donikers -- sorry, I mean bathrooms. None. Not even Porta-Potties. Walk to the gas station or just dump where you could, as long as it wasn't too close to the big top or cookhouse. And -- some guys did. Nice!

Fourth surprise. Clowns were expected to help with tear down, hauling the quarter poles to the pole wagon. Clowns were also expected to sell Hershey bars during intermission -- we got a dime a bar (I think).

My first night was one of the best and simultaneously the worst night of my entire circus career. The show was wonderful -- great acts, a straw house, good gags -- but the weather was ugly. Cold rain pelted down throughout the show, turning the back yard into a sea of mud. Tear down was excruciating for everyone -- especially for naive girls who had to help haul 60-foot steel quarter poles and then lift them up to the guys on the pole wagon. The mud was so deep that all of the seat wagons got stuck, all of the tractors got stuck, even the performers' trailers got stuck. Not even the elephants could pull them out of the quagmire.

Of course, all the extra help blew the show. Because of that, all the performers had to help fold up the big top. Let me just say that clogs are not the right footwear for folding slippery wet canvas. Indeed -- I fell hard during one pull and watched the canvas close over top of me. Great -- killed on my first night on the circus by getting rolled up in the big top.

But I didn't die and I didn't quit. The sun came out the next day. I learned how to take a shower at the water wagon and I bought a foam pad for my bunk and work boots for my feet.

And I had the time of my life for the next three years.

It's A Wonder I'm Alive

I'm in a Yahoo! group for Clown College graduates, and one of the members recently suggested that we send in tales of train travels (or overland travels, for those of who missed out on the whole train experience). And I, of course, thought to myself, "Aha! There's an entry in there!"

The tale begins in Memphis. Sidewall Sam had taught me how to drive his Ford Econoline van in Jackson, and I was now responsible for getting it from lot to lot. He drove the spool wagon, which contained the tent. Our destination that night was Blytheville, Arkansas, a straight shot up the interstate.

About halfway there, I ran out of gas.

See, one of the many "features" of the van was the broken gas gauge. I usually depended on Sidewall Sam to keep the gas tank full, but it didn't always work out that way.

Anyhow, I pulled over to the shoulder of the road to wait for one of the other troupers to pull over and give me a lift to the nearest gas station. Well, it didn't happen. The trucks were either ahead of me or way behind, or they didn't see me, or they just figured I was pulled over to catch a nap.

So there I was. I thought about hitching, but decided to hang out and wait to see if Sam showed up.

About an hour later, an 18-wheeler pulled over. It was a very spiffy rig -- a corporate rig from Amoco rather than an independent -- clean and shiny. The driver slid out of the cab and came over to talk to me. I told him my sad tale, making sure to emphasize that the circus trucks would no doubt show up eventually and that my BOYFRIEND would certainly be looking for me, so thanks for your concern, but I'm fine.

And the driver allowed as how he really wouldn't mind taking me to the nearest gas station so that I could get enough gas to get off the side of the road, and he was a good guy, and he didn't like the fact that I was stranded by myself on the interstate where anything could happen.

And I thought, Like getting picked up and murdered by a random trucker in Arkansas?

But then, in a stunning example of either trust in my fellow human beings or complete idiocy, I decided that I'd go ahead and let him take me to get gas. I grabbed the empty milk jug we used as a gas can (um, yeah, highly illegal), put my pigsticker (highly illegal knife) into my back pocket just in case, and climbed up into the cab.

The driver regaled me with tales of long-haul trucking. He loved driving, it paid well, he preferred working for a corporation because the work was steady, he only took a white cross (speed) now and then to get him through a particularly long stretch of driving, and so on.

We got to the gas station with no problem, and I cajoled the sleepy gas station attendant into letting me buy a gallon. So far, so good.

On the way back, we had to pass the van and double back. And so we took the next available exit.

And made a wrong turn, ending up on a very narrow two-lane road.

Which was deserted.

In the middle of the night.

In a huge 18-wheeler.

The driver gritted his teeth. He knew he'd have to turn around -- somehow. I must admit that I got a tad bit worried about whether (1) he'd be able to do it and (2) whether he'd get pissed off enough at me to do something that would make me regret having gotten in the cab.

Amazingly, he turned and angled and backed up and pulled forward and turned and angled and finally, after about a 2,576-point turn, he did it.

And I began to breathe again.

We got back to the interstate and made it to the van, still sitting by the side of the road.

As I got out of the cab, he invited me to join him at the next truck stop and he'd buy me a cup of coffee. He made it clear that he meant no monkey business, just a cup of coffee, and I figured that I at least owed him that much, since I'd nearly been responsible for him getting his rig stuck on what was practically a dirt road in the Nowhere, Arkansas.

He pulled off, I got the van started, and yes, I met him at the truck stop, where he was sitting with a group of buddies. He was such a nice guy that I decided I owed it to him. His eyes lit up when he saw me -- I've always wondered if he really thought I wouldn't show up. He bought me some coffee and I entertained the truckers with tales of the circus, and then I said good-night. He shook my hand and told me to take care, and I'm sure he probably said something like, "See? I told you I picked up a clown tonight!"

After that, I made sure there was plenty of gas in the van before I got on the interstate, even though I knew there were good guys out there -- good guys who just wanted to make sure single girls driving alone at night were okay, and maybe buy them a cup of truck-stop coffee and talk about the circus.