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The Gorilla Tent By Bob Liddil |
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September snuck up on us like a wolf stalking a sheep. Suddenly summer was gone, school was back, shoes had to be worn, fishing poles took second place to pencils and notebooks. Hot days and warm water swimming were more a temptation than a fact. Suddenly, life was all about school. Nobody was more bummed out about September than my friends and me. But September held out one mystery, one surprise, a single thing to hope for and look forward to. It was a lollapalooza, an explosion of sight and sound and smell. The strange, the exotic, the unbelievable were all wrapped up in a single neat bow-tied package the last week of September, just as the reality and despair of nine months of school sank in. That last week was the week of the South Carolina State Fair and oh my! How we were ready to reach out and grasp summer one last time!
My friends, Buddy and Larry each had a dollar bill to spend at the fair, as did I. It cost a quarter to get in the gate, which Justify three quarters for nickel rides, games and food. That was a month’s allowance for Buddy and me, and two weeks for Larry, who had rich parents. We’d been talking about it off and on all summer. One day in July, sitting on the log above the swimming hole. Buddy said, out of the blue, “This is gonna be the year.” “The year for what?” I retorted. I wasn’t on the log, I was on the little grassy spot eight or nine feet away from where the log crossed over the waterfall. “This is gonna be the year I get into see the belly dancers at the fair.” “In your dreams,” scoffed Larry. He made a motion indicating height. “You have to be ‘this tall’ to ride that ride.” That set off a debate that lasted more than an hour, finally ending with Larry pushing Buddy off the log and into the water. “Cool off, boy,” Larry shouted down at him, and then dropped a thumping cannonball a foot away from where he floated, shouting curses all the way down. Buddy brought the subject up again on Fair Day, on the inside of the turnstile, as we stepped out onto the midway with money burning a hole in our pockets. The South Carolina State Fair was a cornucopia of things to do. There was The Mad Mouse, a roller coaster that creaked and shivered every time a car rolled into a turn, the Bullet, which was as close to riding in the cockpit of a fighter plane as a kid could get and even the Himalayan, a high speed tilting, whirling contraption guaranteed to make you dog sick. By far the most spectacular, and brand new for that year, a monstrous double Ferris wheel, that not only took you higher than the roof of the YMCA downtown, but both wheels rotated end to end on a giant arm while also turning their on axels. It made me dizzy just to watch it as it loaded passengers. As cool as these attractions were, they were all forgotten. We followed Buddy and headed for the backside of the fairgrounds, to the tent where Little Egypt would do her dance of the seven veils. They had played the song on the radio and now we were ready for our biggest adventure. “What? Are you guys kidding?” The man up in the ticket box said. “How old are you boys, 12, 13?” He pointed his cane toward the fine print under the giant poster of Little Egypt. “Read that.” “Must be 18 to enter,” I read ruefully, aloud. “We’re all 18…” Offered Buddy indignantly. But he already knew it wouldn’t work, even before several bystanders busted out laughing. The ticket man said, “Try the sideshow alley. No age limit.” He made a “go away” motion with his hand, indicating that we were holding up the line. Buddy was swearing like a shore patrol busted sailor as, dejected, we walked away. He was still griping as we turned down the sideshow alley, more because it was there than out of any genuine interest. We’d seen the freaks at fairs before. The Dog-face boy, The Tattooed Man, Human Oddities, which was actually grotesque “dead babies” in jars displayed behind a window in a trailer – all this were old news. At least it was until I spotted the gorilla tent. A crowd had gathered round a barker in front of a gigantic yellow poster on which was painted a picture of a ferocious gorilla, screaming in anger, teeth bared, blood dripping from blue letters proclaiming, “World’s Most Dangerous!” On a platform above and behind the barker stood a man in khaki, wearing a pith helmet, carrying a short whip, obviously dressed for the jungle. The barker was in the middle of describing the khaki-man’s perilous journey to the Congo, his mission, to fetch back the world’s deadliest gorilla and how the creature had almost killed him until he discovered it’s secret. “For just one quarter,” called the barker, as jungle drums drifted outward from inside the tent, “you can discover the secrets of darkest Africa!” Instantly, we were hooked. No rejection here. He took our money with a knowing smile, as though to say, you’re gonna remember this, boys! The inside of the tent was dark except for a single spotlight that played down on the center of a stage at the back of which stood a large cage with thick steel bars. Jungle drums softly thrummed. The floor smelled of sawdust and the air smelled vaguely of hot summer crowd and faintly of animal. We worked our way around the side of the crowd and gradually up front just as the show began. The khaki man, Sir Reginald, made his way into the spotlight and began to speak in a thick British accent. He told of the expedition, and the hardships, mosquitoes as big as dragonflies, swamps, crocodiles, and losing more than a dozen men before discovering the giant ape’s one true weakness. We were all ears, and stood rapt and still, waiting for the answer. Sir Reginald said, “There I was, sitting at a table having a spot of afternoon tea, when suddenly, this huge black form crashed out of the jungle and into the clearing. It gave off a loud snarl and beat is hands on its chest, baring teeth so sharp that they could have been used as knives.” I barely breathed. Not a single sound could be heard anywhere in the tent. Even the occupant of the cage, just behind the perimeter of the spotlight had fallen silent. It was captured by the spell of the storyteller. “I stood up,” said Sir Reginald, “and walked right over to where the beast stood.” As he said this, Sir Reginald moved toward the back of the stage, the spotlight following him. He stopped at a table near the cage on which a teapot, cup and saucer were now visible. He poured a liquid into the cup and moved over to the cage. “I looked right into those savage eyes, felt the hot breath of the killer gorilla in my face,” said Sir Reginald, “and offered the great beast a cup of tea.” So saying, he did just exactly that. A great hairy hand reached out from between the bars to accept the cup. I let out an audible gasp. The rest of the crowd was absolutely thunderstruck dumb. You could have heard a pin drop on that sawdust floor. Then everybody started talking at once. The spotlight shone on the gorilla now, calmly sipping tea, pinky extended, as though any minute a conversation would begin between it and my granny. Buddy had gotten an “there better be more than this” look on his face, and Larry had just started to say, “Holy…” when suddenly, that gorilla let out an ear-splitting angry roar originating from somewhere deep within it’s diaphragm. It smashed the teacup on the floor of the stage and began to ferociously rattle the bars. Incredibly, the cage door burst off its hinges and the huge primate lumbered onto the stage, snarling and clawing the air. Its bloody red eyes were looking straight at me! “Oh, My God, It’s LOOSE!” Someone shouted. “We’ll all be KILLED!” As if all of a single mind, the crowd turned and rushed madly for well marked exits, which were conveniently much wider than the entrance had been. As that mass of humanity surged away from the stage, I felt a hand grab me by the belt and pull me to the side of the tent. I shouted, “Help! It’s GOT ME!” to Larry as he disappeared through the exit, but he didn’t hear, and probably could not have pushed against the flow even if he had wanted to. The hand on my belt was Buddy’s. He dragged me away from the stage and into the shadows of the exhibition area. The gorilla, meanwhile, still onstage, had calmed down considerably. It stood there, seven foot tall and obviously a man-eater. It had made eye contact with me previously and I was very scared. I punched Buddy in the shoulder for keeping me from safety and he said, “Ow!” just loud enough to attract the attention of the one creature more than prepared to make me its lunch. For an instant, there was not a sound. The gorilla stared at me, jaws open. The gorilla trainer, whip in hand, stared at the gorilla from stage Justify and Sir Reginald stared at us all from where he stood stage right. My heart pounded like a Chevy with a bad rod. Then, the trainer turned his attention to Sir Reginald and shouted, “I told you, NEVER put sugar in his TEA!” and cracked his bullwhip with a loud “POP!” The Gorilla turned its head toward the trainer, while at the same time; Sir Reginald poured tea into a fresh cup. He crossed the stage and handed the cup to the gorilla, who sampled it and let out a grunt of satisfaction. Cup in hand, it allowed itself to be led back toward the cage. “You boys better get out of here, “Sir Reginald called seriously to us, a tinge of fear betraying the dignity of his English accent. “I don’t know how long I can keep him calm.” As if on cue, the gorilla growled menacingly. No second invitation was necessary. Buddy and I beat feet through the egress as if the demons of hell were on our trail. That was a lucky day for us, a September summer day, a lollapalooza! Buddy found a five-dollar bill on the ground near the double Ferris wheel. I puked a coke and three hot dogs on the Himalayan and the fireworks that night were louder and brighter than I ever remember them having been. “Next year.” Buddy stated flatly, as we went through the turnstiles toward where the bus waited to take us home. “What?” Larry and I both said at the same time. “Next year,” Buddy said emphatically, “We see the belly dancers, even if we have to sneak under the tent.” |
