“Come on, Joe. It’s not that bad,” I say.
“Dude, get out while you can. You have everything to live for up there in New York.”
“Pennsylvania.”
“Right,” Joe says.
I look at Hannah. She doesn’t seem concerned that my friend doesn’t know where I live. “Can I try that?” she asks, pointing to the trampoline.
“No $%#*ing way,” Joe Jr. answers.
“You don’t have to be a douche about it,” Hannah says. “Shit. Gerald here thought you were his friend.”
I look at him and shrug.
Joe sighs and crosses his arms. “Yeah. Well, friends tell each other how it is. And this is how it is.”
I stare at Joe. I try to figure out what I’m doing here. Why I came. Why I dragged Hannah along. What we’re going to do now. I stare at the trapeze. I try to picture Lisi and me. I try to picture ice cream, but it’s all gone now. All that Gersday. MG has completely landed me in the present. No more future Gerald at nineteen. No more bluebirds.
Joe looks like he feels bad now. “Look. You can stay in our chalet. Just for the night, though, okay? Big Joe will kill me if he thinks I invited you.”
Only circus people can get away with calling something a chalet.
57
JOE’S FAMILY EATS together at a huge table in the main house. There are four chalets that surround it at a distance, and an uncountable number of sheds and barns. Joe introduces us as his “friends from New York” and we are introduced to two other sets of visitors—a couple from Colorado and a couple from England.
Joe’s mother says, “All the way from England!”
They have accents like Nanny’s. I instantly want to coat their plates with toilet water.
Then Hannah puts her hand on my leg under the table as if she sees that their accents grate on me. Her hand reminds me that I am in Florida in 2013, not on TV in 2002. It’s hard to remember sometimes that a normal life is possible for the Crapper. Joe’s family doesn’t recognize me. Yet.
“I think the $%#*ing French act sucks,” Big Joe says. “It’s all $%#*ing fire and flashy but there’s no talent in it. So what if some guy jumps through a $%#*ing ring of fire? Jesus! It’s been done to $%#*ing death.”
“True,” Joe Sr.’s wife says. “It’s been done a lot.”
“I don’t know,” the Englishwoman says. “I think it’s sweet the way they’re imitating the old animal tricks. The ball balancing and all that. It’s cute. Arty.”
Joe Sr. looks at her as if she’s an idiot and goes back to eating his roast beef.
At last count, Joe Jr. has five siblings. It seems all of them are married. The only people who seem to notice Hannah and me are the kids, who are eating in the adjacent room, having a loud conversation of their own. Twice now, a little guy—maybe four or five years old—has come up to me and given me some of his clay.
There’s something about the tension around the adult table. It’s like they’re all about to kill one another, but something is stopping them. Maybe it’s the fact that they have company all the way from England! Maybe it’s the fact that they have a TV on—a flat screen mounted to the wall behind Mrs. Joe’s head—that’s airing the day’s local news. Something about an alligator. Something about a shooting. Something about an accident. Something about a bald kid with cancer.
Then a story comes on about tonight’s finale in Dance On, America!, a reality TV show, and Mrs. Joe says, “Oh my god, if Helen doesn’t win this show, I’ll be so angry.”
“She deserves it,” someone says.
“I like Jennifer. I think she’ll take first place,” a sister says.
“Yeah. Jennifer.”
“Jennifer can barely stand up straight,” someone else says. “Helen totally deserves this win.”
Mrs. Joe nods at this and can’t keep her eyes off the news-show footage from last week. Two women in dancewear evening gowns, grinding and doing the latest pop-dance moves.
“Helen is too old,” a brother says.
His wife smacks his arm. “Age shouldn’t matter. You’re such an idiot.”
“She’s not that old,” a sister-in-law offers. “She’s only twenty-nine, I think.”
“Like you’re twenty-nine.”
“$%#* off,” the sister-in-law says.
“Jennifer is better at the sexy stuff. Helen is better at the older-woman stuff.”
“Christ,” someone says. “The older-woman stuff? What the $%#* does that mean?”
“It means more men will vote for Jennifer,” a brother-in-law teases.
“No doubt.”
“Do you guys ever think about anything other than sex?”
Most of the men in the room shake their heads.
“Helen is more talented. If she loses, then I’ll lose faith in the whole world. She deserves it,” Mrs. Joe says.
I think: Wow. And I thought I was the only one who was allowed to base my faith in the whole world on reality TV.
“Sex sells,” a sister says.
“It’s why you married me, right?” her husband says.
She hides her head in her hand and says, “Not in front of my parents, Don.”
Joe Sr. says, “How’d you think we brought you all into the $%#*ing world?”
The sister’s face gets redder with embarrassment. “Oh god.”
“I’m just saying Helen is a better dancer. It’s Dance On, America! It’s supposed to be about who the best dancer is.”
“I think Jennifer is the better dancer,” a brother says.
“That’s because you’re a man.”
“You’re a $%#*ing idiot,” he replies.
“And you’re a lazy ass**le,” someone says.
A sister—the youngest-looking one, maybe in her early twenties—stands up and throws her empty plate at the floor to shut everyone up. It works. We all stare at her. “Who gives a $%#* about Dance On, America!?” she says. Everyone looks at her, ready to pounce on whatever she says. Then she smiles and looks at her boyfriend/husband, who’s sitting next to her. “We’re $%#*ing pregnant!”
After the loud response and the many claps on the back and hugs, the women start clearing the table. I excuse myself and go back to the chalet. Hannah stays. Joe Jr. eventually shows up at the chalet and knocks on the door before he lets himself in.
“Sorry,” he says. “My family is a freak show.”
“Dude, get out while you can. You have everything to live for up there in New York.”
“Pennsylvania.”
“Right,” Joe says.
I look at Hannah. She doesn’t seem concerned that my friend doesn’t know where I live. “Can I try that?” she asks, pointing to the trampoline.
“No $%#*ing way,” Joe Jr. answers.
“You don’t have to be a douche about it,” Hannah says. “Shit. Gerald here thought you were his friend.”
I look at him and shrug.
Joe sighs and crosses his arms. “Yeah. Well, friends tell each other how it is. And this is how it is.”
I stare at Joe. I try to figure out what I’m doing here. Why I came. Why I dragged Hannah along. What we’re going to do now. I stare at the trapeze. I try to picture Lisi and me. I try to picture ice cream, but it’s all gone now. All that Gersday. MG has completely landed me in the present. No more future Gerald at nineteen. No more bluebirds.
Joe looks like he feels bad now. “Look. You can stay in our chalet. Just for the night, though, okay? Big Joe will kill me if he thinks I invited you.”
Only circus people can get away with calling something a chalet.
57
JOE’S FAMILY EATS together at a huge table in the main house. There are four chalets that surround it at a distance, and an uncountable number of sheds and barns. Joe introduces us as his “friends from New York” and we are introduced to two other sets of visitors—a couple from Colorado and a couple from England.
Joe’s mother says, “All the way from England!”
They have accents like Nanny’s. I instantly want to coat their plates with toilet water.
Then Hannah puts her hand on my leg under the table as if she sees that their accents grate on me. Her hand reminds me that I am in Florida in 2013, not on TV in 2002. It’s hard to remember sometimes that a normal life is possible for the Crapper. Joe’s family doesn’t recognize me. Yet.
“I think the $%#*ing French act sucks,” Big Joe says. “It’s all $%#*ing fire and flashy but there’s no talent in it. So what if some guy jumps through a $%#*ing ring of fire? Jesus! It’s been done to $%#*ing death.”
“True,” Joe Sr.’s wife says. “It’s been done a lot.”
“I don’t know,” the Englishwoman says. “I think it’s sweet the way they’re imitating the old animal tricks. The ball balancing and all that. It’s cute. Arty.”
Joe Sr. looks at her as if she’s an idiot and goes back to eating his roast beef.
At last count, Joe Jr. has five siblings. It seems all of them are married. The only people who seem to notice Hannah and me are the kids, who are eating in the adjacent room, having a loud conversation of their own. Twice now, a little guy—maybe four or five years old—has come up to me and given me some of his clay.
There’s something about the tension around the adult table. It’s like they’re all about to kill one another, but something is stopping them. Maybe it’s the fact that they have company all the way from England! Maybe it’s the fact that they have a TV on—a flat screen mounted to the wall behind Mrs. Joe’s head—that’s airing the day’s local news. Something about an alligator. Something about a shooting. Something about an accident. Something about a bald kid with cancer.
Then a story comes on about tonight’s finale in Dance On, America!, a reality TV show, and Mrs. Joe says, “Oh my god, if Helen doesn’t win this show, I’ll be so angry.”
“She deserves it,” someone says.
“I like Jennifer. I think she’ll take first place,” a sister says.
“Yeah. Jennifer.”
“Jennifer can barely stand up straight,” someone else says. “Helen totally deserves this win.”
Mrs. Joe nods at this and can’t keep her eyes off the news-show footage from last week. Two women in dancewear evening gowns, grinding and doing the latest pop-dance moves.
“Helen is too old,” a brother says.
His wife smacks his arm. “Age shouldn’t matter. You’re such an idiot.”
“She’s not that old,” a sister-in-law offers. “She’s only twenty-nine, I think.”
“Like you’re twenty-nine.”
“$%#* off,” the sister-in-law says.
“Jennifer is better at the sexy stuff. Helen is better at the older-woman stuff.”
“Christ,” someone says. “The older-woman stuff? What the $%#* does that mean?”
“It means more men will vote for Jennifer,” a brother-in-law teases.
“No doubt.”
“Do you guys ever think about anything other than sex?”
Most of the men in the room shake their heads.
“Helen is more talented. If she loses, then I’ll lose faith in the whole world. She deserves it,” Mrs. Joe says.
I think: Wow. And I thought I was the only one who was allowed to base my faith in the whole world on reality TV.
“Sex sells,” a sister says.
“It’s why you married me, right?” her husband says.
She hides her head in her hand and says, “Not in front of my parents, Don.”
Joe Sr. says, “How’d you think we brought you all into the $%#*ing world?”
The sister’s face gets redder with embarrassment. “Oh god.”
“I’m just saying Helen is a better dancer. It’s Dance On, America! It’s supposed to be about who the best dancer is.”
“I think Jennifer is the better dancer,” a brother says.
“That’s because you’re a man.”
“You’re a $%#*ing idiot,” he replies.
“And you’re a lazy ass**le,” someone says.
A sister—the youngest-looking one, maybe in her early twenties—stands up and throws her empty plate at the floor to shut everyone up. It works. We all stare at her. “Who gives a $%#* about Dance On, America!?” she says. Everyone looks at her, ready to pounce on whatever she says. Then she smiles and looks at her boyfriend/husband, who’s sitting next to her. “We’re $%#*ing pregnant!”
After the loud response and the many claps on the back and hugs, the women start clearing the table. I excuse myself and go back to the chalet. Hannah stays. Joe Jr. eventually shows up at the chalet and knocks on the door before he lets himself in.
“Sorry,” he says. “My family is a freak show.”
