Grandpa, is that you?

I grew up in a typical small town. Sneaking cigarettes, used porn in a tree fort, 14-year-old rapists and seventeen suicides during my four years
of High School. Seventeen must have been a record because during my junior year, we were named The Suicide Capital of America.
This is the same town that fathered P T Barnum in the early 1800’s. The same town he ran to New York City from after several libel suits and a prosecution, which resulted in a 60 day imprisonment.

My first taste of liquor was with my best friend Ryan and a bottle of grain alcohol. We gave Jimmy Horton, the 19-year-old high school sophomore, money to by it for us. We forced it down while sitting in the Barnum family plot in the local cemetery.

My nickname starting in 6th grade was fag. (It stuck and is occasionally used to this day.) I was teased and tormented and was always labeled a misfit and freak by others. I held no shame in being different. As far as I was concerned, I had evolved far beyond the apes that I shared this rotten town with. So I spent much of my time alone drawing, reading and dreaming. It wasn’t people that I hated, just these people.
Very few friends and much solitude led to a dependence on creativity in order to survive. I found that I stood out and would be praised, even envied for a drawing I did, or a song I wrote. I loved that feeling. I need a bigger audience.
I started with puppet shows in the back yard. The puppets were made of socks, felt and yarn. All the performances consisted of the puppets acting out hit songs that I taped off the radio and played back in my cassette recorder. It was a hit! I had a regular audience of Moms and kids from the neighborhood.
I moved on to a full-blown, makeshift, cardboard and spit carnival. I charged the neighborhood kids a quarter to get in and five cents for rides and games. Rides were "The Wheel of Vomit"; the patron would be spun on a tire swing as long as you could stand it. "The Death Shuttle" was a rusty wagon that would be sent rolling down the hill into an over-grown honey suckle bush "Covered In Live Bees".
The featured attraction was "The Two Headed Dog", my very forgiving, best friend, Duchess. I made a paper mache replica of her head and attached it to her collar. You would peep into her Doghouse and she would bark at you.
I made $18.25.

I got a black eye and found 48 cents in the kiddie pool/ wishing well after Billy Simpson beat me to a pulp for $18.25.

As I grew older, my main goal in life was to escape this hell town.
The obvious option was to go away to college. Not only could I move
away, but my Parents would pay for it!
The internal battle began.
Move away with money in my pocket... Four more years of school.
I started doing research on any kind of schooling that didn't involve Math.
I spent time in the guidance councilors office and the library.
Easily distracted, I came across a book about the history of the circus.
Flipping though the pages, I found my answer.
In Florida, there was a CLOWN COLLEGE.
Not only was there no math, but it was far away, and I would get to wear make-up. I franticly began honing my juggling skills. I bought a used unicycle and taught myself to ride it.
I auditioned and was accepted.
My bags were packed.
At the last minute, my Dad had a complete melt down which consisted of yelling unintelligibly, throwing things and hiding my clothes.
He sat in the driveway in a lawn chair, blocking the cars in, arms folded, staring straight ahead, silent.
He sat there all night.
The next morning I got out of bed and checked to see if my Dad was still in the driveway. He was.
I dressed and went downstairs. My Mother was cooking breakfast and acting as if nothing unusual was going on.
This was typical of her.
I watched my Dad out the window for a few hours.
I had to try to make some sense of his craziness,
too much was on the line to ignore it.
I worked up the courage to talk to him.

He began to tear up as he spoke. He told me something he hadn't even told my Mother.
His Father, my Grandfather, had left his family when my Dad was only 9 years old. He was a drunk and was emotionless. This I knew. What I didn't know was why he left the family. My Dad sat there in the driveway crying and told me that his Father abandoned the family to join the circus. He wrestled alligators in a touring show and traveled the county as “Amazing Albert, King of the Gators”.
My dad never saw him again. This, he told me, was why he couldn't... wouldn't let me go.
I never went to Clown College, but I did mange to convince him to go see Ringling Brothers the next time they were in town.

Mark, NYC