After reading the travel stories from Jo Fredell Higgins and Rick McKay in The Voice, I was inspired to add my own travel story. No, not the one about my trip to 7-Eleven, but my circus travel disaster adventure in New Orleans, The Big Easy, where residents are hit with one weather disaster after another. My disaster mostly affected me.
If you’ve been reading my ramblings for any length of time, you’ve learned that my sister and her husband, Jim, spent many years in various circuses. When I could, I followed along because I had my eye on Renee, a certain young lady with the show. I met her in Aurora when the circus was in Phillips Park. She was a member of her family’s act and, like some of my past girlfriends, could walk a tightrope, juggle flaming torches, and ride an eight-foot tall unicycle. It’s hard to have a meaningful relationship when the circus is in a different town every day so, when I heard their show would be in New Orleans for three days, I had to go on the road.
The circus lot was adjacent to Lake Pontchartrain just off a busy highway on the East Side of New Orleans. The first two days were wonderful. I got to hang around with Renee, and after the evening show, doubled with my sister and Jim in patronizing the French Quarter and all it had to offer. On day number three, disaster struck.
That morning, we decided to go to Café DuMonde in Old Jackson Square to have coffee and beignets and pick up a few last minute souvenirs. Jim parked the van near a rail yard a couple of blocks away from the French Market, an area you’d better be out of when the Sun goes down. When we arrived back at the van, Jim turned the key in the ignition and nothing happened. He flipped open the hood and saw the battery had been removed, most likely against its will. The dangling cables were the only indication that a battery once had resided there. The afternoon show-time drew near, so we took a cab back to the lot. Jim was worried about what other misfortune might befall his van, so I offered to go back and guard it until Buck, the amiable, Scotch-drinking, circus mechanic, could come out and fix it. Bill, one of the clowns, offered to drive me back to the van in Buck’s old pick-up, because Buck was busy reassembling the elephant truck’s engine. In the bed of the pickup, Buck had an engine block waiting for its new home.
About halfway to the dead van, we stopped for a long, red, light. Bill decided he wanted to jump out quickly to pick up cigarettes from a newsstand on the opposite corner. It didn’t seem to matter that we were the head vehicle on the inside lane of an eight lane highway. He said if the light changes, pull over near the curb and to be careful letting up on the clutch because Buck’s truck had a racing trans and clutch and they were sensitive. I slid over to the driver’s seat and put my sweaty hands on the wheel.
Of course, the light changed. I stepped on the gas, and gently as I could, eased up on the clutch. It grabbed immediately. The truck hopped up and leapt forward like a scared gerbil. I heard a loud thrump, thrump, thrump and looked in the rearview mirror. In the middle of the eight-lane and four-lane highway intersection was a big, oily lump, the engine block that recently had been in the bed of Buck’s truck. I broke out in a cold sweat and jerked to the curb. Bill ran over, and deciding it was hopeless to ever get the engine back in the truck, we pushed and dragged it to the gutter while trying to avoid becoming road kill.
Bill dropped me off at the van, figuring he’d get help later to pick up the engine. I sat in the van and waited as the day wore on while drunks, youth gangs, and other derelict-types passed by. I even got to watch four guys stripping a railroad car. Wrenches in hand, a couple shot me a sinister look, so I slunk down in the seat and stayed there. When the sky darkened, I heard a loud vehicle approach. It slowed and stopped behind the van. Seconds later, Buck’s smiling face appeared at my window. I breathed a sigh of relief, opened the door and jumped out. At his beat-up station wagon, Buck reached in and took a big swallow from his cocktail glass of Scotch on the dashboard. His Big Easy, mini-skirted honey in the passenger seat smiled and gave me a small wave. Buck opened the tailgate and pulled out a battery and some vice grip pliers. I popped open the hood of the van. Buck dropped in the battery, clamped the cables to the terminals with the vice grips, and told me to start ‘er up.
It was late by the time we got back to the lot. The tent was down and some of the circus troop had left for the next town. Renee and her family were gone, along with my dreams of a last New Orleans night with her. As it turned out, it would have been our last night together. We lost touch when her family moved on to another circus, as did my sister and Jim. But every time I meet a girl juggling flaming torches, I think of Renee, dead batteries, and at least, our two wonderful days in New Orleans.