By Deirdre Guthrie
The house manager and former clown I went to see for a job told me I’d be seeing the “working-class” side of circus life–a life the usher in the top hat had warned would consist of eating cookhouse slop, sleeping in walk-in closets, and squatting like trailer-park trash. I signed on for the summer tour, assigned to the box office.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
Tess, a big, boisterous girl with wild, frizzy hair and a massive cast on her leg, came from Oklahoma and liked to show me pictures of her family–lots of kids with home perms and ruddy cheeks.
After a late night in a local bar, I’d hear her heavy breathing and spat curses as she limped up the wooden block steps to our sleeper. Before she went to bed she’d puke in a plastic bag, neatly tie it up, then set it beside her on the floor before she passed out in her bunk.
Although I lived with the roustabouts in Sleeper Row, I was technically a “box office babe,” working in a trailer with retired showgirls. These ladies wore their purple uniforms pressed and tucked in, ordered out rather than partake of cookhouse fare, and, having paid their dues, were exempt from setting up and tearing down the show.
“Don’t have workers’ comp like you guys,” I answered. (Over the next six months I’d see a fair number of kids with sprained arms, broken legs, and bashed-in shoulders dragged to the ER after load out and my job description didn’t cover such injuries.)
