Tightrope

     It was a beautiful sunny day and the stands at the fairgrounds were full of families. Below us stood a cage, or two cages, filled with tigers. The ringleader introduced his special guest, Wonder Woman. It was the late seventies and the Wonder Woman TV show was on, though this wasn’t Lynda Carter but just some woman dressed as the character she played. Our seats were pretty high up but her sexy red, white, blue and gold outfit is seared into my mind as she cracked her whip at the big cats. 

    “You don’t remember that at all?” I asked my brother recently. He did not. A few days later I asked my mother and she didn’t recall any of it either. “I feel like I’m losing my mind,” I said.  

    The only other thing I remember about that day was an older man walking up a rope that stretched diagonally from the ground to the rafters of the grandstand. He passed right over our heads, carrying a pole for balance. I can very clearly see his white shoes; they were cleft, like a camel’s toes, to help him grip the rope. I remember thinking there was something dishonest about this. As he passed overhead, he looked down and winked at me, though I know for sure I’m making that part up. 

    Years later, our father took us kids to the Ringling Brothers Circus. Unlike that earlier experience, neither of my siblings contests that this one actually happened. All I remember are the elephants shitting behind the tents. It’s so lonely being the only one who remembers something, especially a spectacle as surreal as an Amazon princess taming a pack of wild jungle beasts. I know I didn’t dream it, though the memory has the feel of a dream. The old man on the rope winks at me again. I yell up to him that I hope he falls and breaks his fucking neck.