The Greatest Of Ease

A Circus Story

Summer, 1976, Reno, Nevada, USA

The circus renders a distinct smell. It’s animal dander mixed with sawdust with a touch of greasepaint, popcorn, cotton candy, and the false smoke used as a distraction. That odor lives in my daydreams, my exotic reveries of a life filled with travel—and an audience.

I was acting as a helper at the circus for a charity by selling cotton candy. The circus came once a year, and teen volunteers would sell treats that could make up to $3,000 for our charities. We were saving balding children with sad smiles by slinging sugar. Plus, we got to watch the show over and over until the sequins and fishnets permeated our souls. This act of volunteerism started my wanderlust before I knew what it was to crave travel and new places.

We sold the cotton candy before the show and during the intermission, leaving us free to gaze open-mouthed as these super humans defied gravity, tamed wild beasts, and performed unthinkable feats of daring. I snuck backstage and into the makeshift dressing rooms trying to be noticed and, hopefully, swept away with the show. I dreamt every night of an acrobat swooping down from the ceiling, his legs the only thing holding him on the bar, wrapping his strong arms around my waist, and swinging me up to the shadows. Most of the performers acted as if I was a ghost they could not see. Being so young and full of myself, it became a self-imposed dare to become noticed.

One show, a young, pink-tighted man held me captivated. He was part of the “Moscow Circus,” a troupe that toured internationally. The name was a generic term for the circus shows from the USSR that traveled abroad during the Soviet Era. Their act was called “Hoop Diving.” It was a Chinese acrobatic specialty involving tumblers performing jumps through hoops stacked precariously above one another. It was mind-blowing to watch their calisthenics and manipulation of a simple steel ring.

They were wrapped in pink, skintight leotards that showed every bulging muscle. I wormed my way into the “tunnel” after their act, swinging my hips to catch the youngest performer. The tunnel is the main entrance for all acts; it is simply a load-in dock. But when the circus was in town, that tunnel became magical. Elephants lumbered, tigers roared while being pushed in their tiny steel cages, and graceful flyers donning heavy velvet capes pranced through to the center ring.

I hid in the shadows and then jumped out to offer my cornered Russian acrobat a free paper container of spiderwebs of sugar. Startled and delighted, he told me his name was Emile and he spoke no English. His form-defining sequined pants; long, flowing mane; and sapphire blue eyes drew me in to see if he would ignore me too. He did not. Using hand gestures and raging pheromones, I lured him into an afternoon of flirting and testing the hormonal ricochet we were both experiencing. We made out under the grandstands during the second act. Amongst the discarded popcorn tubes and Coke cups, no words were needed—only lips and secret touches. He would scurry out when he heard his music crescendo to cue the single trapeze with his sister. From my crawl space on the sticky floor, I could see the scorn on her face as she saw his swollen lips.

Two glorious days of being with an exotic boy were more intoxicating than stealing my mom’s Blue Nun wine. My lips were bruised from so much kissing. It was my first heartache when he left, even though forty-eight hours prior, he did not exist. I cried myself to sleep, soaking my Cookie Monster pillowcases. I got a postcard from him in our barnwood mailbox that showed the Missouri Arch. He wrote “Hi! Emile” on the back. My heart miraculously healed, and I read every possible version of meaning into “Hi,” including “He loves me and wants me to join the circus.”

He stayed working in the States, and we became pen pals. His postcards came from every town in the United States and Canada and tiled my walls along with Michael Jackson and David Cassidy posters. My letters to him focused on my teenage angst, droning on about my friends, school, and horrible parents. Although I wrote weekly, they were sent to him in batches twice a year, as the main office of the circus only delivered mail at the beginning and end of the season. He learned to write in English, and I treasured his letters and vision of America through Soviet eyes.