This was the first time I had ever heard the Maple Leaf Rag by Scott Joplin, and I knew I would never forget that moment. Tennessee Jack was hammering the keyboard with the most energy I had ever heard come from the old blue box. The jingling notes, and the dancing melody transported me from my parents dark shack, to places I couldn't yet imagine. The warm Mississippi night smothered the sounds from outside, and I couldn't help but close my eyes and rock to the rag time. The competing melodic lines bounced back in forth in my 12 year old mind like bouncing balls, and as if the vision was a prophetic picture of my future. When I opened my eyes again I was 3 years older, and before them flew those same colored balls. They crossed up over my head, arced in a perfect ellipse and were caught again in my hands, only to be tossed again in a never ending loop I called the Crystal cascade. Fredo the Clown was standing at the piano now, inserting his funny little additions to the Rag tune as the pianist kept up the steady pace of Joplin's masterpiece. I twirled again in a circle, all the time keeping the five colored balls whirling in the space over my head, like mini planets orbiting my cranium. The crowd was laughing loudly now at the antics of Fredo, and I knew that I only had to keep the balls up a little longer, because Fredo would be over to collect them. I stole a glance and saw the clown, all makeup and red frills flopping across the ring towards me. The dancing beat of the Maple Leaf still pressed forward in the cacophony of the tent. As Fredo got close, I pulled off the next part of the act with near perfection. One, two, three, four of the balls flew from my hand and pelted poor Fredo in the head, until at last I was left holding just the blue ball in my hand. I looked out at the laughing crowd, crammed full of sweaty little kids, a few nicely dressed mothers, and the usual ragamuffins who filled out the grandstand. With an exaggerated shrug I tossed the last ball at Fredo, who neatly caught the sphere, and then began his own juggling routine. Fredo was of course, the true master, and my part in the act was done. I circled the juggling clown, feigning a look of great surprise and interest, accented by the elaborate face paint that coated my cheeks. A few more minutes of this and we would be done for the night. Then back to the tents and the railcars for the raucous party that would mark the end of our circuses stay in rural New York.
In the back after the show, Fredo walked through as I was stripping off my clown suit. “Hey Billy you reject” he rasped. Fredo had somehow already lit a cigarette even though he had just stepped out of the ring only a few seconds before. “You threw that last ball too hard, don't do it again or I will rip your head off, right there in front of the crowd” He said this with complete malice, and continued walking past, not even my poor performance could cause him to pause for a moment when there was booze waiting just outside . Fredo was what my mother would have referred to as a lost cause. Fredo did not struggle with addiction, in fact he defined addiction as well as vice. There was not one vice that he didn't have.
I didn't say anything, but just let him go. There was nothing to be done, because I knew tomorrow night he would say I threw the ball too lightly, or I didn't smile big enough. The show was now wrapping up and I could hear the talking, shuffling, and general noise that accompanied a departing crowd. A moment later Renoir the pianist appeared in the back tent area, dressed to the nines in his faded blue tuxedo. He walked slowly over and stood with me for a few moments.
“Good show Billy, I think the crowd really likes you out there” he said, his french accent making the compliment even more impressive.
“Thanks Ren” I answered, grateful for the encouragement. There were few other performers who ever gave me any encouragement, despite the hours I spent practicing, and honing my juggling. All the presitge went to Tarka the lion tamer, and Denise the show girl. Circus life was a hierarchy, and the only person who ranked lower than the clowns was the pianist. Hence the only friend I had in the whole troup was Renoir.
“Hang here for a minute Billy, I have something for you” he said and ducked back towards his piano.
A moment later he appeared with a bottle of Champagne, and two dirty glasses.
“Wuz this?” I asked, my southern drawl sounded so pathetic compared to Renoir's accent.
“A little celebration for you, because if I am correct, today is your 100th show.”
“Damn, you are right Ren. I can't believe it”
“Well boy,angel in the circus business time flies. Look at me, I planned to play in this disgusting show for a few months while I searched for real place, and now I have been here 15 long years.” he said.
“Well you know I am only 15 right? They always slap me around when I try and get some liquor”
He chuckled “I will tell you Billy, a year in the circus is worth 3 years on the outside. Just look at Fredo, I bet he is only twenty five”
I knew that wasn't true, Fredo was at least in his forties.
Renoir poured the two glasses, and then he clinked mine.
“To 100 shows”
I tipped back my glass, and tasted the sweet liquor. I had champagne only once before when I had nicked it from a sleeping Fredo. But when he got ahold of me later I regretted it more than the hangover.
“What do you want to drink to?” Renoir asked. The night had now gone silent, with only distant sounds coming from the train tracks a quarter mile away.
“How about......to the Maple Leaf Rag” I answered.
And we drank.
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