Some of My Favorite People are Elephants: Memoirs of an Accidental Acrobat

By Charles B. Roegiers

Some of My Favorite People Are Elephants is a collection of short stories chronicling the author's four years spent traveling with a traditional American circus in the mid-1980s--first as a musician, then (quite unintentionally) as an acrobat and flying trapeze artist. Each short story playfully hints at a life lesson learned by a carefree young man on his unusual journey to adulthood.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9781639859795

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Preface

Chapter 1: The Call

Chapter 2: Big Top or Bust!

Chapter 3: First of May

Chapter 4: Morning Madness

Chapter 5: Bucket Baths

Chapter 6: Chains are Merely a Suggestion

Chapter 7: Mud Show

Chapter 8: Nice Butts

Chapter 9: Down the Road… Again

Chapter 10: Pie-Car Follies

Chapter 11: AWOL

Chapter 12: John-John and the Biker Bar

Chapter 13: The Curse

Chapter 14: Papa Vargas

Chapter 15: Pat's Cats

Chapter 16: Some Short Stories—I

Chapter 17: Homecoming

Chapter 18: A Fresh Start

Chapter 19: Dust, Dust, Dust

Chapter 20: Perspective

Chapter 21: Bonding

Chapter 22: Garden City Follies

Chapter 23: Routines

Chapter 24: Blowdown!

Chapter 25: Fear and Courage

Chapter 26: Some Short Stories—II

Chapter 27: Good Old Rolf

Chapter 28: September in Ohio

Chapter 29: Tough Brakes

Chapter 30: The Caveman Corollary

Chapter 31: Life in the Ring

Chapter 32: Sacramental Surprise!

Chapter 33: The Betcha Catcher Wager

Chapter 34: Some Short Stories—III

Chapter 35: Tim Frisco's Wife

Chapter 36: My Friend, Minnie

Chapter 37: Life Is Funny

Chapter 38: Making History

Chapter 39: Winter Quarters or Some Short Stories—IV

Chapter 40: Golden Anniversary

Chapter 41: Devastating Debut

Chapter 42: In Like a Lamb

Chapter 43: Suspicious Characters

Chapter 44: Clowns

Chapter 45: Some Short Stories—V

Chapter 46: Revelations

Chapter 47: Lemons and Lemonade

Chapter 48: The Line of Immodesty

Chapter 49: A Dangerous Fall

Chapter 50: Crossroads

Chapter 51: A New Chapter

Glossary of Circus Terms

About the Author

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Some of My Favorite People are Elephants

Memoirs of an Accidental Acrobat

Charles B. Roegiers

Copyright © 2023 Charles B. Roegiers

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2023

ISBN 978-1-63985-978-8 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63985-979-5 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Dedicated to

Mr. Chuck Gant

Mentor, role model, friend

1939–2022

Special thanks to Melanie and Mike, my patient proofreaders.

And to Dad—My Biggest Fan

The call came out of the blue.

Hey, Chuck, do you want to join a circus?

Sure. Sounds like fun.

That was my mantra in those days—If it sounds like fun, do it.

That call would change my life.

Preface

I was never much of a student. Things came pretty easily to me, though I scarcely took heed at the time. Grades were unimportant. Having fun was the priority. This philosophy, I would eventually learn, was much more manageable in high school than in college. Like most teenagers, I was preoccupied with myself and hanging out with friends.

In high school, I did not party or drink or engage in the use of illegal substances. It just wasn't my thing. I was strong and confident, and peer pressure held no sway. I grew up on a farm where beer was always readily available in the basement fridge. I drank it whenever I wanted, so it held no mystery for me, no forbidden allure as it did for many of my classmates. It was just a treat shared with my father after tossing bales of hay all afternoon in the heat of summer.

I was (and still am) a music nerd, albeit an atypical music nerd, I suppose. I was lucky enough to grow up in a small town in South Dakota where the high school allowed me to participate in both music and sports. Funny thing about that duality, it makes one a bit heroic to the music crowd. One of our own who is out there on the football field!

Girls noticed me, though again, I scarcely took heed at the time. Varsity sports and farm labor made me a sturdy, young man. Awkward social discomfort fashioned me into a comedian, a coping mechanism that made me the bane of just about every teacher I ever had. My love for music, however, came from somewhere genuine, deep within my soul. All these elements and a high tolerance for pain, served me well in life and in a very successful career as a Navy Musician—right after I spent four years traveling with a circus.

Oh. Did I leave out that bit?

I was also voted class clown my senior year in high school, which is hugely ironic, considering…well, you know.

Chapter 1

The Call

It was the summer after my first senior year of college. I told myself I was on a five-year program, though that thought had no basis in logic. Music was my life—music and beer, and the latter was currently winning the battle for my attention. My grades were spiraling. I had flunked a couple of courses that I needed in order to graduate as a music education major from the University of South Dakota. One was Indian Education, but let's be fair. The class met only once a week, Thursday evenings, over at the library. Thursday night was happy hour over at P-Dubbs, my bar of choice, and well—priorities, ya know? The other was Marching Band Methods, which I ended up flunking twice. I loved marching band, but the methods class, writing shows and such, was also held only once a week. This one met on Friday mornings at 8:00 a.m. Alas, another victim of Thursday night happy hour over at P-Dubbs. You are probably detecting a pattern already.

Deep down, I knew the folly of my ways and in my heart, again, deep down, I yearned to be a responsible young adult. After one particularly introspective night, I woke up determined to make some changes. I decided that I would attend classes that day. To my horror, I suddenly realized that I did not even know my class schedule! I don't know if you've ever had that kind of life-changing epiphany, but it felt like a punch in the nose. That morning, I decided to adjust my rudder and change course. I did not know exactly where I wanted to go, but I knew that I was heading in the wrong direction.

My dad's brother, Uncle Jack, and his life-partner, whom we lovingly called Aunt George, had extended an open invitation for me to come down to Phoenix, Arizona, during summers between school years. And this summer seemed like an excellent opportunity to jump on that offer. My friend Greg was in the midst of a similar life-crisis, so the two of us decided that a summer down in Phoenix was just what the doctor ordered: get some sun, clear our minds, do odd jobs around town, then return to South Dakota in the fall to finish up our music degrees.

That was the plan.

* * * * *

They say, It's a dry heat. Right, and Mozart was just some piano player. If you've ever been in southern Arizona during the summer, you understand my disdain for that rationalization. I would not say that I had another epiphany that summer. It was more like a slow-crawling realization that crept into my subconscious mind during those few weeks while digging ditches in the 110-degree dry freaking heat. I did not suddenly find a sense of direction down there, but I did identify another destination on the list of places I did NOT want to go.

On a rare day off, Uncle Jack and Aunt George took us tubing on the Salt River. It was the Fourth of July, 1983. We had plans to spend a relaxing day on the river, floating on large inner tubes while enjoying copious quantities of our beverages of choice. Then later that evening, we would go see the fireworks at Sun Devil Stadium there in Tempe.

Nowadays, we know about sunscreen and how important it is when spending any length of time outdoors…in the sun. That last part is the tipoff there…in the sun. We did realize that we forgot to bring any before jumping in the water, but we were too excited to get the fun started. Luckily, Aunt George had some baby oil in the glove compartment, which we happily slathered all over our bodies. As Arizona natives, both Uncle Jack and Aunt George were jaunty gadabouts with deep, permanent, bronze tans, so if it was good enough for them, surely, it would be good enough for us. Anyway, it would only be a few hours. What's the worst that could happen?

There is a technique in cooking called basting. It involves pouring some kind of juicy liquid over meat while it cooks in order to keep it moist. While it cooks. Please keep that image in your mind for the next couple of minutes.

If you've ever had a really bad sunburn, you know that the effects do not set in immediately. But by the time we were in our seats at the football stadium that evening, Greg and I were beginning to feel like hamsters in a microwave. My dear friend Greg is one of the finest musicians I have ever known, and from me, having spent a career as a Navy Musician, that is an enormous statement. He did not, however, spend a lot of time outdoors in his youth, so the sun was particularly harsh on him. Blisters were beginning to form all over his body. Torturous. For whatever reason, I was not quite so harshly affected, but it was still miserable. The slow-crawling realization urging me to change the course of my life was gaining momentum.

The two of us spent a few days convalescing and rubbing goo from the aloe vera plant on our crispy skin. My uncle had a few plants in his backyard along with a small swimming pool, and both came in handy while we suffered through our recuperation.

That's when I got the call. Rolf Olson, another great friend of mine from high school, had gotten UJ's phone number from my folks and had just asked me the question that would change my life.

Hey, Chuck, do you want to join a circus?

My response came without hesitation. Sure. Sounds like fun.

They need a trumpet player and a tuba player for their band, so naturally, I thought of you. Only thing is, we have to be in Rapid City by the thirteenth.

Cool. Let's do it.

No great excitement. No dramatic, epic announcement. Just a calm, tempered response in the affirmative.

I have never considered myself to be a bold individual, but looking back, I do believe that I was a bold, young man. I was certainly confident and impetuous beyond my own merit to be so. Ah, the brash, indestructability of youthful optimism.

I didn't even own a horn.

Chapter 2

Windjammer

Big Top or Bust!

I hope you're good, and I hope you're fast.

A wild-eyed man with a black, handlebar moustache brusquely thrust a folder full of music on my stand and with no other greeting, was gone. Such was my welcome to the circus band.

I am, I replied without sentiment. Again, the brash, unearned self-confidence of youth.

Welcome to the circus.

Several days earlier…

The rotting flesh from Greg's sunburn blisters created a most unusual smell. It was unpleasant but not completely foreign to my senses. As a farm kid, I was familiar with the odor of dead flesh. Poor Greg was still suffering from our Fourth of July adventure but was clearly on the mend. The body heals quickly when you're twenty-one years old.

We drove straight through the night—about twenty-two hours—and arrived home in Vermillion, South Dakota, with only a few days to make plans. I found out from Rolf when we got home that the circus owned a tuba, so I did not need to worry about buying a horn. My lack of a plan was working perfectly. Bus tickets, a farewell meal with the folks, and Rolf and I were on our way. We had no idea what to expect, but life was an adventure, so head first into the murky water!

It's a little under four hundred miles from Vermillion to Rapid City, but bus trips are tedious and filled with stops along the way, so it took forever. Eventually, we landed in Rapid and hired a cab (the first in my lifetime). We need to go to the circus. The cab driver had no idea what we were talking about, but we had been told that it was out by the mall. It was not hard to find.

The Big Top* was enormous, so much larger than we had expected. It was truly an awe-inspiring sight, but we would have to wait until later to give it the gawking it deserved. We had been told to ask for someone named Geary Byrd, presumably the head honcho. He eventually caught up with us and escorted us to our living quarters. Geary was the kind of guy who seemed to be exhausted by life. In his defense, he had a mountain of responsibilities, never getting credit when things went well and always getting the blame when things went wrong. He sighed a lot and looked at the ground as he spoke. Apathy appeared to rule his heart and mind, and he certainly did not give two shits about a couple of new, pie-eyed, college-boy, band members. He carried a large flashlight that was nearly three feet long and wielded it as though it was an extension of his right arm. We would later find out that he used it as a weapon of self-defense. Circus life was rough. Nobody was in charge of your safety but you.

Don't suppose either of you two have a commercial driver's license, do ya? This was our introduction to Geary Byrd.

No, sir, we replied together.

Didn't think so, he said with a sigh as he continued walking right past us. After a few steps, he turned back without stopping. Well, come on.

We followed him obediently, exchanging confused glances, and eventually arrived at a long, blue, fifth-wheel trailer that had been gutted and repurposed into living quarters for Back Yard* folks who weren't quite at the bottom of the social structure. That was us—not quite Artists* but certainly a step above the rough-and-tumble unskilled laborers that shared our neighborhood. The trailer had one big compartment up front, one smaller cell in the middle, and two tiny ones in the back. It had once belonged to Geary and his wife, Barbara, the boss's daughter, and must have been very nice once upon a time. A recent fire had relegated it to its current status. We were in the middle cell.

Charlie, these are your new guys. Put 'em in D.R.'s Chevy for the Jump* with those other three. And with that, Geary drudged off, sighing and swaying his flashlight.

Ah, First of May*, Charlie slurred. Well, come on in. Ya wanna beer?

Colonel Charles E. Stevenson was the band boss on this show. He was a pickled, old lizard who apparently got the job because he was willing to hang around. He got his nickname (Colonel) because he had once played in an Army band. He had never been an actual colonel, of course, nor did he claim to be. It was simply circus hyperbole. There is a lot of that in a circus. Being offered a beer by Charlie was the opening salvo of an implied social contract wherein a group of people would work together to ensure that there was always beer on hand.

The tiny living space to which we had been assigned, housed four bunks and was already haunted by Charlie and another pasty, old codger who was just visible behind him. The room measured about ten feet in length and was limited to the width of the trailer, approximately eight feet wide. Charlie had claimed the bottom bunk near the door but was currently standing in the doorway, beer in hand, shouting at passersby—his afternoon mantra. The other fellow, Drummer Bob, was seated on the opposing bottom bunk, shirtless. He was wiping down his fermenting flesh with a disgusting, old rag as he hovered over a plastic basin that was half filled with equally disgusting liquid that may have once been water. It was apparently a bathing ritual of some sort. We would eventually refer to the putrid bowl as Bob's Bile Bucket. It was incredibly gross.

This is Bob, the tub man. He was on the kit when the Wallendas fell, Charlie bragged.

Well, not the big fall in '62, Bob countered, and it wasn't the Wallendas. Still, I got all the rim shots when they hit the ground. Dark, circus humor.

Rolf and I looked at each other blankly. What the hell are these guys talking about?

Nice to meet you guys, Rolf said as we tossed our sleeping bags and suitcases up on our respective beds. Rolf took the upper bunk above Drummer Bob, by the window. We exchanged pleasantries and then told the two older men that we wanted to go have a look around.

Suit yourself, Charlie replied. Was he miffed that we didn't sit down and drink with them?

First show is at four-thirty. Second one is at eight. Dinner is between shows in the Cookhouse.* You might still be able to catch some lunch if you hurry. He looked at me. Your horn is in the bandwagon. You may want to have a look at it before the show. I nodded in reply. Ya think?

That was a lot to assimilate, considering the barrage of new sights, sounds, and smells that were assaulting our senses. To be honest, we were more than a little freaked out. Where do you go to the bathroom? Where do we eat? Am I ever going to shower again? We decided that in order to survive, we could rent a hotel room once a week and shower at that time. Maybe we should just stay in hotel rooms all the time. Okay, that was just the panic creeping in.

Well, first things first. Let's go find the bandwagon. After all, I had a mystery sousaphone to inspect and prepare before the first show. Have you seen the bandwagon? No, I was looking at the animals. Well, it must be in the Big Top. That makes sense. Do they just—let you in?

Adrenaline, dopamine, cortisol—everything was on high alert! Exhilarating!

As we entered the Big Top, the amount of activity was insane! People were running about, hustling to set up ring curbs and props and aerialist rigging and bleachers. Bleachers made from semi-trailers? What the heck? The cabs were still connected! Do they just leave them there during the show? I'd have to check that design out later. Riggers* were climbing ropes all the way to the top of the tent and hooking up pulleys and lights and…what the heck is THAT thing?

The bandwagon was a metal trailer with a sidewall that opened up to form a stage of sorts. Four musicians were working, setting things up—a senior couple and two young Mexican men. You must be the new Windjammers.* Welcome! the older woman chirped. It was the first genuinely friendly greeting we had received. Windjammer is circus talk for musician, the older gentleman said. You're gonna learn a lot of new words in the next few days.

Which one of you is the tuba player? Your horn is over there. Might wanna oil the valves.

I saw the sousaphone case on a shelf beside the organ. Organ? I opened the case. Fiberglass?!? Dammit. Fiberglass sousaphones are like plastic forks. They work okay, but you wouldn't want to do anything important with them. I would have to look in to buying my own brass horn if I ever got serious about this business. Time to run a diagnostic and get ready for the show.

"You sit right there next to the Calliope* [pronounced kal'-ee-ohp by circus folk]," the kindly woman instructed.

That's what we call the organ, my new old friend translated.

As I sat down and got to work, I did not see the wild-eyed man approach me from behind. He was not there when we walked up. He thrust a folder full of music on the stand in front of me.

I hope you're good, and I hope you're fast.

Chapter 3

First of May

One of our first Windjammer lessons was the old ta-da chord. Yep, it's a real thing, but it's not a two-note fanfare as one might expect. I mean, that's what we always hear in cartoons or sound effects mimicking circusry. Instead, it's just one chord—a big, fat, ol' Bb (B flat) chord inserted wherever the heck the band leader deems appropriate. It does not matter what key the music is in or if we even finished the phrase. He gives the cut, and cues the ta!—a big, fat, ol' Bb chord. At first, it creates a mental conflict in one's hierarchy of musical cliché sensibilities, but one quickly adapts.

Circus life is not for the weak. It's tough on people and on equipment, but it is the stuff of legends. The Carson and Barnes Circus was a Mud Show,* playing on dirt Lots,* which when mixed with rain—well, you get the picture. Everything was packed into tractor-trailer rigs, large trucks, or some such vehicle and hauled down the road rather than traveling by train. Those circuses are called Rail Shows* and are becoming quite rare.

Carson and Barnes boasted a very impressive menagerie. Elephants and horses made up the bulk of the mobile zoo, but the show also carried a couple of young giraffes, a squad of camels, two zebras, a few llamas, a hippopotamus, a white rhinoceros, a cadre of pint-sized donkeys, and of course, an assortment of lions and tigers. Contrary to contemporary misconceptions, the animals were treated very well. After all, they were the lifeblood of the organization and were treated accordingly.

The people on the other hand…well, we were left to fend for ourselves, more or less. One might say that the circus is an exercise in self-reliance. This was a new kind of tough, one that I had not experienced before, even growing up in the American heartland where hard work and toughness are common virtues.

The four-thirty show, my debut as a professional musician, left me astounded and exhilarated! Everything I imagined as a child when I thought about a circus was there, part of the show, not just stories told by well-trained liars to entice Rubes.* They were all true, exactly as described and vividly on display right before my very eyes. My eyes and mind were racing, of course, trying to keep up with the blistering tempos of the circus band while inundated with visual wonder. Honestly, my chops were pretty rusty, having spent the first half of the summer digging ditches in the Arizona heat.

Eventually, the spectacle ended. What a ride!

How'd ya like your first show? Can you still feel your face?

William and Claire (the older couple we met earlier) were very invested in circus folklore and its dialect. It was adorable.

You did pretty well for a couple of First of Mays.

That's circus talk for newcomers, William again translated.

Now we head to the Cookhouse for dinner. That's where we eat. Gotta be quick, though. Next show is at eight.

Adorable.

The Cookhouse was basically a lean-to tent rigged up to the side of a semi trailer, the entirety of which had been converted into a functioning, commercial-style kitchen. Just grab a metal prison tray and step up to the window. Pretty good chow, considering the circumstances, and it was free.

By the end of the second show, Rolf and I were truly exhausted. At first, we scarcely noticed the wild amount of activity taking place even as the circus customers were still exiting the Big Top. Bleachers were being disassembled, acrobats' rigging and lighting fixtures were being lowered, and free-walking elephants with working harnesses were entering the tent, obediently following their handlers. Once the music stopped and the audience departed, the circus took off her makeup and was all business.

This is nuts!

And pretty cool, really.

Rolf and I were amazed and truly impressed with the clockwork precision of the teardown.

Well, we have to get packed up tonight, Claire said with a twinkle. We head out at five o'clock tomorrow morning.

That reminds me, Charlie intervened. Pepe, these guys are riding with you. Take care of them, okay?

Okay, boss, Pepe replied without missing a beat.

Wait. Heading out tomorrow? Weren't they just setting this thing up this morning?

Sure. This show moves every day.

What?!? How?!?

Eb'ry day! Raphael echoed with glee.

How do you not know this? Pepe asked.

Chapter 4

Morning Madness

Whonk!!! Whonk!!!

5:00 a.m. comes awfully early sometimes. For most of my college life, I didn't even know that five o'clock happened twice a day. The dual blasts from the stake truck's mighty horn repeated its call again and again. It was the rooster of the circus, a nagging reminder that we had been blessed with another day of life.

Can't we just ride in here?