Circus Parade by Jim Tully Read Free Book Online Page A

a bird, the roar of a lion, with different musical contraptions.
    He was always surrounded with noise-producing instruments. One extravagance had cost him three hundred dollars. They were a set of tympanies or “kettle drums.” He had seen the instruments in a store in Dallas. So great was his passion that he borrowed the money of Slug at fifty per cent. interest.
    Rosebud could juggle his drum sticks as he drummed. This was one of the features of the parade which Cameron quickly recognized.
    Those who called Rosebud effeminate were correct in their judgment of him.
    It was in an Oklahoma town. Our canvas roof quivered under the heat of the sun. He told me of his ailment.
    â€œYou won’t tell no one, will you?” he pleaded.
    â€œNo—I’ll not say a word,” was my reply.
    He looked doubtfully at me. “You know they’d run me off the lot if they knew.”
    â€œI know—and they’re not a damn bit better themselves—look at Finnerty—he’d be the first to slug you. But Jock would understand—you could talk to him. He’s been through hell and back agin.”
    â€œBut I won’t talk to him now,” was Rosebud’s hesitating answer. “I’ll just buy a lot more instruments and forget.” He polished a drum stick. “Playin’ a trap drum’s better than blowin’ your heart out on a wind like the clarinet, anyhow. Those poor devils in the band have to play when their mouths are all sore. I’ve seen ’em blow fever blisters right through the instruments—and all for fifteen dollars a week,” he grunted.
    It was our second day in the city. Life was easier when the circus played three days in a town. Release from pitching the tent and traveling gave us a chance to rest. We looked ahead for many weeks to such three-day periods of rest.
    â€œWhat causes it, Rosebud?” I asked, coming back to the one question.
    He looked plaintive, with drawn face.
    â€œI don’t know,” he answered slowly, “I’ve heard a lot of reasons. I never did like girls as far back as I can remember. Then when I got older it got worse. I used to like to nurse when I was five years old. It got so it was my mother’s way of rewarding me for being good. It never failed with her. I didn’t get any nourishment—just the sensation. Mother never understood. I didn’t either—then. And now of course I can’t tell her. She teaches Sunday School and belongs to a club in Denver.”
    I became Rosebud’s friend and talked to Jock about him.
    â€œPlease don’t say a word to anyone,” I begged of Jock.
    â€œNot me, Kid. I won’t say a word. It’s Rosie’s own business.”
    Jock’s words and attitude toward Rosebud gave me more sympathy for Rosebud and helped strengthen my early tolerance for the vagaries of sex.
    The Baby Buzzard was kind to Rosebud. Whether this sprang from a sense of hatred toward Finnerty or a generous impulse I could not tell.
    The third day came in a drizzle of rain. Finnerty was in a sullen mood. The audience was small, which gave him less chance to short-change the patrons.
    A surly oil worker claimed that Slug had shortchanged him. Slug was indignant at the charge. With persuasive tongue he apparently proved to the man that he was wrong.
    After the man had gone Rosebud appeared with his drum before a small tent a short distance from where Finnerty was taking tickets. The rain had made the drum heads damp. His sticks lacked the usual bounce and slipped out of his hands several times as he tried to juggle them. Finnerty leered across at him—“Master Bates! Cut out that damned noise.”
    Rosebud disappeared at once, murmuring to me, “Some day I’ll break a drum over his head.”
    The rain still drizzled before the evening show.
    The oil worker who had been short-changed in the afternoon now stood near Finnerty’s ticket wagon