Ron Burch

Ethan Swann

Nick Ostdick

The Equilibrist

The Equilibrist's given name was Randy May but he had legally changed it, despite the slow unbelieving shake of Judge Morgan's head, after joining The Holy Smokes! Circus. He became The Equilibrist. He even carried, tucked away in his old black wallet, a credit card with this moniker on it. He no longer responded to Randy or Mr. May. He did, however, let close friends call him T.E.

Other names he considered at the advice of his agent, Max Flense: The Walker, The Tightrope Walker, The Balancer, The-Man-Who-Faced-Death-On-The-High-Wire. Max really liked The Amazing Razing Randy. No matter how many different ways Max pronounced it, T.E. repeatedly said, No.

When The Holy Smokes! Circus auctioned off their torn, weather-beaten canvas tents and the animal cages with peeling red and yellow paint, T.E. found himself without a job or a dingy trailer to call his own. They left him stranded in Ohio. He had little job experience and only a high school education. He only knew how to walk the high wire. T.E. realized that he wasn't that great anymore, that his occasional taste for the booze and his age took off his edge. That he relied on the net too often. But now it didn't matter.

He sat in his room at The Red Hotel, scrounged from what meager savings he had, on a stiff bed covered by a scratchy orange-flowered comforter, and bed sheets not their original color of white. He could hear, infrequently, a couple in the next room. His savings dropped low. He‘d lost contact with his friends from Holy Smokes!.

He contacted other circuses but with no luck: there seemed to be a surplus of high-wire walkers. It's that goddamn circus school, said Bixby, the owner of The Windy City Circus. There're too many freaks running around. Bixby offered him a job as a geek, setting the ropes. T.E. scoffed and said, I walk on the wire not below it.

At night, T.E. dreamed of being buffeted by the wind as he reclined against the wire, sharp and hot, a trail of fire across the ridges of his spine, against his lower back, running down the length of the legs as the wind rocked him to sleep.

Max tracked down T.E., who'd been passing the days in an Old Spilt Hickory bourbon/CNN haze of news bytes and bottle slugs. Over the phone, Max, barreling through his words, had come up with a crazy, crazy publicity stunt for The Equilibrist, King of the High Wire. T.E. was already doubtful. Max kept going, saying, Hopefully, it'll get you Vegas—forget those guys with the white tigers and that magician who makes the jet disappear.

What is it? T.E. asked.

There was a pause before Max announced that it was walking the high wire down the Vegas strip.

What a great idea, huh? Max said. I even have some interested corporate backing.

I am not a Vegas act, I’m an Equilibrist, T.E. said, hanging up the phone.

My life does not revolve around the wire, T.E. said to himself. There are other things.

The phone rang.

It does not, he said as he let the phone ring.

Names of famous Equilibrists: Rudolfsky, DePietro, The Amazing Hiro, Mitterden, Schmnunz. These names ran through T.E.'s mind as he sat on the toilet, crying, spilling out words that he didn't really understand.

In the hardware store, T.E. wandered alone up and down the numbered aisles. He compared the prices of toggle switches. He examined the threads on a few couplings, a fifty-foot green garden hose with a yellow-head attachment to modulate water flow. He debated the advantages of metal clips over plastic clips. He examined 2 and 1/2 inch utility hinges and tack cloth with a thread count of 20-12. He searched for strong hemp rope or steel cable but only found large spools of Indian twine and 25-foot pieces of white rope in clear plastic bags. A bored clerk in a tan apron twice asked him if he needed any help. No, no, T.E. cheerily replied, you don't have what I need.

T.E. flipped through the Help Wanted ads in the local Sunday paper. His fingertips were smeared with dark ink, smudged with the remnants of the printed words. He read through every ad, a blue-ink pen, fine-point, with the hotel name on the casing, in his right hand, poised to circle. He didn’t find a job that he thought he had a chance of getting. He put the paper down and picked it up again, starting over with the first ad.

I have made love in the lion's cage. I have made love to the Siamese twins—the Porters, Lana and Lane, lovely gals both of them, even with that strange mouth tic that Lane had. I have taunted death by walking barefoot over Niagara Falls without a net. On the wire, I have danced jigs, juggled bowling pins, lounged in wooden chairs, ridden bicycles while seated backwards, and leaped blindfolded over the crouched bodies of other equilibrists. I have faced the wind at night when the wire was a thin trampoline. So why can't I find a job? T.E. wondered.

A string quartet by Mozart played on the radio. That is how I once walked, T.E. said and turned up the radio.

He received a package, delivered by a brown-suited UPS man with a moustache. It was a small box, held together by massive strips of packing tape that T.E. eventually ripped off in sections, not being able to locate his orange-handled scissors in any of his bags. Inside the box was a colorful red pillow, small, the size of a book, little fabric flowers in blue and green and other wonderful colors sewn to the front of the pillow. Also inside was a handwritten note from the Porter sisters (they were right-handed; Lana wrote): We miss you!

Sadly, T.E. put the pillow and the note back into the box and slid the box under the bed.

For a pack of cigarettes, T.E. crossed Summit Street to go to a small Indian deli, a large yellow sign out front, daily newspapers held down with bricks. The cigarettes were a contemptible habit he reacquired whenever he became bored or depressed. Outside the door to the deli, he felt the weight of his feet against the ground and a shudder of revulsion went through him. He looked quickly at the people moving around him. He momentarily disliked these earth-heavy, lumbering, clay-bound walkers.

Without the cigarettes, he ran back across the street to the doorway of his hotel. He held back the obscenities until he was hidden, ashamed, in his room.

No Experience Necessary. All Apply, the ad in the paper read. There was also an address. He asked the desk clerk how to get to the address. The clerk wrote in pencil on T.E.'S newspaper.

T.E. caught the No. 3 bus across town. The driver, a heavyset woman in an all blue uniform, make-up covering blemishes and straw hair, repeatedly told him to step back behind the white line as he fumbled in his pocket for exact change. The coins slipped out of his fingers and down in his pocket, lost in the folds of his handkerchief. He paid and awkwardly lurched to a seat, the jerking and heaving of the bus throwing him off-balance.

The job was at a diner named Howard's. Short-order cook. For twenty minutes, T.E. spoke to Wally, the owner, in a back office near shelves of canned vegetables, all in the same packaging, their contents printed in thick black letters: Corn, Beets, Peas. Wally, in a wide-collar red shirt, smelled like cigarettes and used something shiny to keep back his thinning black hair. Telling T.E. that anyone can learn, Wally brought him to the front line. Herb, the other cook, threw an apron, not-so-white and deeply stained, to T.E. and handed him a silver spatula. The fryer splattered hot oil onto T.E.'s new heavy black work shoes.

He did not like the job of short-order cook.

He did not like being cooped up in the steaming hot kitchen, the grease from the dirty blackened grill crusting on his skin, a sticky layer forming, mingling with his sweat.

He did not like the rancid smell of cooking meat nor the shrill calls of the tin pipe-throated waitresses dressed in identical outfits, red and white tops with long black polyester skirts.

T.E. barely spoke while he was there.

T.E. didn't contribute to the employee contest: Name the New Turkey Burger!

T.E. didn't return after the first week.

Within an old brown suitcase, leather-covered with tarnished gold locks, a gift from his grandfather, T.E. carried his jumble of newspaper clippings. Loose in the suitcase. Torn. Yellowing. Faded. He picked through them, reading on, laying each on the table next to the bed, as he picked up another and put it down. His eyes narrowed. His head moved against the pillow, his body splayed across the bedspread, as he picked up a three-year old magazine article about himself. With a color picture of him in his spandex outfit, his left arm curled around his balancing pole, his balancing foot forward. He was smiling.

T.E.'s up on the wire by himself. The circus featured only his act. Three glaring spotlights. No net. He stood on the little platform. He wore a huge red billowing cape that was about twenty-five feet long. The cape billowed even though there was no wind to billow in. He dramatically removed the cape, letting it float down. He then threw over his balancing pole, letting it also fall to the ground with a rise of dust to one sharp breath of the audience. Every spectator was mesmerized by T.E., no popcorn stuffing, no soda spilling, their unblinking gaze as he stepped out onto the wire. He rode their tension as he performed his feats: The Blindfold Walk, The On-Your-Knees Dog Walk, The Swooping Crane, The Snake Dance, Sit-Up-And-Crow, Hang Ten, and the dreaded Dead Man's Leap. Devoted the crowd was to him. Aroused, erotic, their breath coming in harsh grunts to his movements. A few women cried glamorously into Kleenexes, their heads twisted away in fear, guarded by a boyfriend's protective arm. The applause lasted for almost an hour with eleven encores by T.E., his body quivering from exhaustion, spandex soaked and sticky with sweat, but again up he went. He offered innumerable bows from his stand before he realized that he was not wearing any pants.

A local carnival offered him a job walking a rope that was only raised ten feet into the air. A totally safe walk. Max pleaded with him to accept.

I’ll do the walk down the Vegas strip, T.E. said. Three miles.

Fabulous, Max replied. I'm glad you're not taking that lousy carnival job. I'll get right to work on this. You are an artist.

Yes, I am, T.E. replied.

At the Blue Danube diner, a young man, around the age of twenty, recognized T.E. and sat down, unasked, in the booth. The young man told T.E. that he too desired, unequivocally, to be an equilibrist and asked how he may receive the best training. Without a word, T.E. raised his wiry right arm and beat the young man, only enough to cause sharp stinging sensations around the neck and shoulders.

T.E. attended the Annual Equilibrist’s Convention, this year in Chicago, only six hours away by bus. The convention was crowded. T.E. recognized some people there, spoke to old friends and had drinks with them at the bar. The keynote speech, given by Munson, a retired equilibrist, was long and self-congratulatory. T.E. was surprised when the other members applauded Munson's speech. T.E. stood and asked for a minute. The members turned to him and T.E. berated the other equilibrists.

Don't you realize what is happening to us? he asked their vacant faces. Asked to leave, he called them Fools and Charlatans and tipped over the podium.

As he was escorted out by two hotel security guards, he yelled, We have no place to go. And why don't we have a better Pension Plan?

At the Press Conference, the crowd of ten or so local reporters, some with cameras and lights, asked if he was really going to walk the Vegas strip on a tightrope.

T.E. nodded.

From Luxor and ending at Circus Circus, said Max, all smiles. Max sat next to him and fielded the other questions. There were four men with them behind the table, the sponsors who also smiled at T.E. as if they were old friends. T.E. didn't care. His mouth was dry. He hadn't had a drink in weeks knowing that he had to dry out. Max pointed at him, and T.E., by rote, smiled and thanked his sponsors: MPA, the leader in telecommunications, and OLD SPILT HICKORY, makers of the finest bourbon in the country.

As I can personally attest to, T.E. added, making the reporters laugh. The VP's of Marketing, in their stiff black suits, grinned, relieved. They all grabbed T.E.'s hands and raised them above their heads as if they'd just won a sporting event.

The sponsors moved him to the country with its gravel roads and brown fields. He practiced with three trainers he did not like. For two months he worked on The Time of The Rope. There was no alcohol, no place to buy it. He had no car. The trainers supplied necessities for him: chicken, apples, orange juice, bottled spring water, razor blades. Whatever he needed. He practiced, slept, and watched a small color TV.

T.E. heard the trainers whispering among themselves one night while they were playing poker at the kitchen table. They said that T.E. did not have the right form. That he would not make the crossing. He walked to his room and went to sleep after a while. Later, he woke up, around 3 AM, worrying that maybe he had lost his step.

Closer to the walk time, T.E. supervised the set-up of the wire from Luxor to Circus Circus. He hired old friends from Holy Smokes!: Lou, Al, Crazy Hank, and Kicker. Great geeks. He could trust his life with them. He had before. He reminded them to avoid running the cable near any bodies of water, if there were any large swimming pools on the way. The water’s movement might confuse him, resulting in a loss of balance, his fall, his fractured and bleeding head. They understood.

A beautiful red-haired woman came to his room one night. T.E. had not been sleeping well. She made advances to him. T.E. didn't know if his agent had set this up or if she had come out of her own interest. T.E., still somewhat asleep, babbled a response and let her lie in the bed. He asked her not to remove all of her clothing. She did not stay long.

Max picked up T.E. and they drove to downtown Las Vegas. The high wire was stretched for three miles across the state, 50 feet high in most places. The 11/16th steel cable had been wiped down free of grease although T.E. knew that the sun would draw more grease out of the cable. Cavalettis were spaced at 25-foot intervals, anchored to the ground with thick ropes of hemp. Corporate banners hung limply down around the podium.

The thin line of cable whisked off into the distance of the horizon. T.E. was cold. A VP of MPA said a few quotable words to those gathered around, six reporters, a camera crew, and a dozen spectators, curious on-lookers. Max patted T.E. on the back and said quietly, If you make this, we will be paid millions in endorsements. You will never have to worry about money again.

T.E. climbed up the rope ladder to the wire.

His hands, sweaty, slick, refusing to dry.

He had a slight migraine above his right eye, maybe from nerves.

They made him wear a one-piece metallic-looking suit and a small cape emblazoned with corporate logos. Before T.E. had always walked for himself, the circus paying so little. But he didn't think this would have an effect on him.

He tried to concentrate but he had been off for so long.

A VP gave him a prop to hold up. He tried to explain to the VP that this cape would catch the wind and throw off his balance.

It's in the contract, the VP said. The logo.

T.E. looked at Max who looked at his shoes. T.E. shook his head and left the cape on. He didn't think it would really be much of a problem.

He reached the top.

The audience was meager but it was still an audience.

He readied his balancing foot, his better foot.

He had his moment of final doubt. If he fell, he might not get back up. He made the last salute, proud of his fear.

Now, as he had always done, he fixed his eyes on the endpoint three miles away that he couldn't really see. He was ready for the crossing. That was the most important, not the corporate banners or the logos or the reason why he was really doing this walk.

If he made it, he probably would not remember much of it.

Max waved goodbye to him and a few people applauded.

T.E. picked up his balancing pole, heavy in his hands. The wind blew the cape and T.E. lost his balance for a second. The crowd responded. T.E. took a deep breath and exhaled. He just had to readjust to the crossing.

He stepped out onto the wire and felt it bend beneath his feet. He steadied himself as the audience gasped.

He was still an artist. He just had to be true.

Down below a bored young couple turned away from watching him, deciding they'd rather play the slots, and went inside.

Ron Burch's short stories have been published in Mississippi Review, The Saint Ann's Review, Small Spiral Notebook, Pindeldyboz, and others. He lives in Los Angeles.