Starboy #3 - The Circus

My wife is going to hate this one. Nonetheless, I feel it is an important element of my history.

I’ve spent the better half of my life as an adult deciding on whether or not I hated my father. Sure, he was an angry, man. Stern. Cross. Though he was no different from other men his age.

While war was not a threat that loomed over his immediate future like men my age, the horrors of the Holocaust still lingered in the back of his mind. Had I lived through it, I’m not quite sure I would have acted any different. All anger, little outlet.

Nonetheless, I first found sanctuary working on my grandparents’ farm. They were on my father’s side; Polish. They had a farm helper, Lionel, who I got along with. He was some distant relative of the old president, Alexander Lyes, and had grown up a rich snob. When his parents cut him off, he found himself with little knowledge, but a deep and innate desire to learn. 

My grandfather taught him how to turn a wrench. How to change the oil on a tractor. I worked with him for about seven months, before I got the (perhaps selfish) urge for something greater. When I talked to Lionel about this, he asked me why I longed for the stars. The farm was all that brought him true pleasure. It had become his life. And here I was, in shoes similar to his own, longing for what he described as the world beneath my thumb. Why?

Was my family not good enough for me?

I knew that once the draft caught up to us, something that felt more like an inevitability than a likelihood, I’d have to move out. I’d be a draft dodger, someone my grandparents had no business harboring. While my brother, a meek man who barely weighed a hundred pounds, would be sent off for death, I went on the run. I knew myself well enough to know I'd collapse under the pressures of war. I'd go mad. I'd kill. I'd destroy. And this was not me.

On the dawn of my eighteenth birthday, I scribbled a note on a sheet of yellow notebook paper, and left it by the coffee I had brewed for my grandfather as a parting gift.

I told them to watch the news each night. That was the only way they'd see me again. If I made something for myself.

And so… I, Vincent Rostenkowski, was officially homeless. 

I had it better off than a lot of other homeless people. Parties became something I frequented, often without an invitation. I was careful to keep a low profile-- A fight with me would probably kill a man, even if I held back. And often, I’d end up too intoxicated to hold back my strength anyways. 

That was my main vice. Drinking. I hated it about as much as I hated myself at the time, but that wasn’t the only connecting factor. When it’s bitter taste would burn my mouth, and my brain would turn fuzzy minutes later, it reminded me of how it felt to be a child, letting Adam chase me around by the lake. 

When that stopped working, it became a mere habit. 

When things got really bad, I returned home, but not with my tail between legs, no. I snuck in during the wee hours of the night, with one goal in mind: I wanted to steal back my car. I found that not only had they sold my prized possession for a quick buck, but that my brother (and therefore, myself) had, in fact, been drafted! 

Instead, I stole from my father. I knew he had a couple wadded up hundreds he kept in case he and my mother had gotten a divorce in a bundle beneath one of the couch cushions. 

After I bended over to claim the prize I had felt owed for my years of unpaid labor, I realized, with a shock, that my own mother was standing in front of me! 

I felt ashamed. For the theft, yes, for my mother’s glares, that too, but the most impactful of the shames was my inability to evade detection. In my younger years, I had become an expert of sneaking in and out of the house. How the mighty had fallen! 

My mother, ever contrasting my father, looked concerned. In just a year, she had aged a million. Her eyes were swollen and worn by the battle of a thousand sleepless nights. Her hair, which often found itself pulled into curlers this hour of the night, was as frizzy as mine had become, though I doubt it was because of a lack of a hairbrush. 

“Vincent? Is that you?” She asked, unsure if the sight of seeing me alive again was a mirage, a trick of mind that had befallen to madness and loss. 

I responded not with my words, but with a hug so tight that I hope it was worth a million. For what felt like hours, we sobbed into each other’s arms, never escaping (nor wanting) to escape one another’s grasps. 

She begged me to stay. She told me how sickly thin I had gotten. How worried sick for me she had been. 

I shook my head. I told her that I wouldn’t sit around in the room that my brother and I had shared while he was fighting and dying for god knew what. And that, while white, her account of my father, was a lie. Had he woken up, my father would give the two of us the beating of our lives. 

And worst of all, only mine would have been unsuccessful. 

Though, before I left, my mother insisted that I take a hundred dollars of her own money. I kissed her on the forehead, and I told her that once I would make something of myself, I would return, and share my riches with her and her alone. 

We hugged once more, this one feeling all too short, and I returned to the night. I used the money to rent out an apartment in a fledgling town called “Finger City.” They called it the town where politicians go to die and artists go to breath life into the world around them. 

It was at my mother’s request. I had a distant aunt who was a landlord at a rundown motel there, who could offer me a family discount, and warm soup each night. 

I was able to get a job working for my aunt, vacuuming for the motel. It was a modest living. She told me that for the work I did, she’d often wish she could pay me more. My aunt was honest that way, told me the hard truths of life. She told me that she couldn’t afford to let me live without rent, and that she was already losing money with the discount she offered me. 

So, it was work for pennies on the dollar, or live on the streets through god knows what.

I worked there for a few years, taking in a dog: Harvey. He was a sweet little stray who my aunt hated for scaring off tenants. He was an angry thing, probably came from a rough home, and to tell you the truth: When I took him in, it started off as out of spite. 

Here we were. Two angry, orphaned creatures that bit when they didn’t need to. I wanted to love him before he loved me. 

But he loved me more. In just under a week, I had him as my pet. He’d sit, he’d speak, but more than that, he’d play. For many of those long nights, with nothing but junk food and adult films keeping me going, he’d be who I would confide in. 

I was pulled out of my loneliness, as young men often are, by my penis.

The Circus had come to town. All throughout the day, I had heard whispers. They were from some country overseas, Galzavania. They had come, for one night only, to entertain Americans in this new fledgling city. And a few of them had chosen to take sanctuary here at our motel. 

Including her. 

I want to imagine the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen. Now times that by infinity. Her deep brown skin was as smooth as a butterfly’s wing, her eyes flickering between brown and gold on a whim, as if all the light around had coalesced in an inferno of sand and sun. 

Her name was Arla Abazi. Her outfit, which left little to the imagination, revealed her as a trapeze artist. 

As she went to her room, I contemplated asking if she needed someone to carry her luggage to her room for her, but my own nerves decided I was not to make a fool of myself today. She seemed perfectly capable, and better yet, she seemed like she knew that. 

Instead, I opted to find my aunt, at the front desk, who had noticed the line of sweat forming around my forehead. She chuckled at my dilemma. 

“You don’t have a chance.” She said, returning her attention to her magazine. 

“I know,” I said. 

“You know that even if you succeed she’s going to tear your heart from your chest and spit it out in a ditch, right?” 

“I know,” I said. 

“Good. You’re not a total idiot.” 

“Do you have any tips?” 

“Uhhh, their ringmaster’s throwing a party tonight. But… you’d need to wear a suit. Which you don’t have, much less, can afford…” 

I shot her a sad, puppy dog look. 

She sighed. 

“But… I have a suit you can borrow. It’s what I wear when I go to the Q, so if there’s even a wrinkle on it, it’s coming out of your paycheck.” 

The Q was a lesbian bar three blocks down. 

“As your boss, I’ll let you take a few hours off. As your aunt, be back by four. Whether or not it’s with her, I… don’t honestly care.” 

I nodded. “I promise. I’ll be back before you open tomorrow morning.” 

I was not back before she opened that morning. In fact, I never returned to my aunt’s motel for another few years. 

They called it the Bartos Ball, and it was one of the nicest events I’d ever attended. It wasn’t particularly fancy, but it was certainly more lavish than my bar mitzvah (Which is saying a lot. Years of living on the streets had reshaped my memories of the rather mediocre shindig into an event that felt worth remembering). 

I spent the first thirty minutes of the party awkwardly shuffling around, as I had always tended to do. I contemplated giving their bar a visit, but I decided against it. I’d been trying to kick that habit. 

As I shuffled, catching occasional glances from partygoers who didn’t recognize the strange, remarkably skinny young man who had made their space into their home. 

I was shocked by the misfits’ remarkable feeling of… comradery. Though I doubt they shared my particular oddities, I found myself sympathetic to their plights. They, too, were judged unfairly for what they were unable to control. They, too, had lived their life feeling as if they didn’t belong. 

The difference? They had each other. I watched siamese twins carry a boy with black and white striped skin between their heads; I gawked at the two women kissing on the couch, not even noticing the man with the enlarged forehead, fiddling with a rubix cube at a breakneck speed. He solves it, before tossing it to his side. I follow it, with my eyes, and find that it had joined a large pile of similar cubes. 

And then… I saw her. She was magnificent. And I was Vincent. 

The two of us locked eyes, and, for a moment, I felt seen. I felt for the first time since I had been with Adam. And then, she was called off by a friend. She disappeared from my view just about as quickly as she appeared. This happened about six more times. 

Until the ringleader waddled onto the table. He was a stout man, about five foot. While round, he was decidedly not fat. He looked rather muscular, if not for my superpowers, I wouldn’t have a doubt he’d win against my thin frame nine times out of ten. 

He spoke with slurred words. He thanked his benefactors for coming out to support them, insincerely thanking his freaks for caring for making him his leaving, before nearly stumbling over himself as he got down. 

Halfway through his nearly illegible speech, I felt a small and nimble hand slip something into my pocket. 

I didn’t dare look at who it had been, my heart wouldn’t have been ready to endure a gaze so close. Though, the moment he spoke his last words, I removed the slip of paper. There, written on a napkin, smudged by my sweat, was a command: 

Meet me. 

And that I did. As the circus left for the night, I hopped onto one of their trucks. Lining the back of the truck were six other four men and two women. Up front was a thin man with sharp features dressed as Robin Hood, a bow in his hand, a quiver on his back. His name was Spencer. To his side, were the two women I witnessed kissing upon the couch. They introduced themselves as Riff Raff and Taffy. With their faces no longer interlocking, I realized that they were supposed to be clowns. On the left side of the van, was a large man, with a head the shape of a large “U,” his eyes on opposite sides of the curve. His name was Moses. Besides him, was a man with the words “SAUSAGE FINGERS” tattooed across his exposed chest. His fingers with nearly two inches wide.  He was Jude. 

And finally, there was the young man I had seen during the party, with black and white striped skin, reminiscent to that of a zebra. The boy spoke the least English out of all of them, introducing himself as Otto. 

The others were less hospitable, Spencer even pointing his arrow at me, unaware of how futile it would be. I introduced myself as Vincent. I spun them my tale, leaving out my infatuation with their friend. I explained to the group that I, like them, was a mutant. 

They shook their heads. Compared to them, I was no freak. No artist. 

I promptly began to levitate. 

We spent the rest of the drive to the motel that the six had been staying at listening to my recount of my life story. I took a particular liking to Riff Raff and Taffy. They were so lacking in sincerity, they circled back around so far that they were two of the most honest people I would ever meet.

I spent my night with Moses and Jude. Moses was silent, while Jude was a loudmouth. He seemed to have an opinion on just about everything. Despite his comments, he was also one of the best listeners I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet me. He’d hear my stories and offer me wisdom I’d carry for the rest of my life. He told me that my capabilities were not what made me strange, but what made me beautiful. He told me that anyone who didn’t see that was not worth my time. 

It was his words that inspired me to become an author. Seeing his eyes light up with wonder at my words made me not only want to tell stories, but to search for them. To live for them. 

The next morning, they encouraged me to introduce myself to their (hungover) Ringmaster. He was a sleazy man, who, upon seeing me bend the medallion of gold chain in half, smiled a yellow and gold smile. I would work nicely. 

My first performance? That night. 

Jude, despite his sausage fingers, was a masterful seamstress. From the finest silks, he created a costume for me. Black spandex, with a flowing red cape, a red star on my chest, and vibrant red boots, with bright red shorts held up by a belt. 

I looked dumb, I knew that, but I also felt… free. It felt like I had put on my skin for the first time. 

I wasn’t given much attention my first night. As I flew around, people assumed I was hung up on a wire, despite Riff Raff and Taffy assuring them that I am, in fact, the real deal. I’d bend dumbbells in half, and they’d think I was a joke! 

Though I hate to admit it, when I first saw Arla’s trapeze act, I hate to admit that I imagined her slipping and falling, and me, rising from the crowds like a champion, coming to save her. Alas, I never got the chance. 

After the show ended and the crowd dispersed, we threw a party in the parking lot. Taffy did a toast to me, giving me a name: Vincent, The Starry Springbean.

As we returned to our motels, I caught Riff Raff and Arla exchanging whispers. Riff Raff had convinced Arla to stay at the motel with us, in exchange of Moses! I could kiss her! 

Though we rented three rooms, Spencer, Riff Raff, Taffy, Otto, Jude, Arla, and I never left each other’s room, sleeping on everything from beds to balconies. 

We drank, we smoked, we talked about everything from our families, to lovers, to dreams. To what we’d be doing with our lives if not for the circus.

When we got to dreams, not much came to mind. Jude had inspired me to be a journalist, but that idea was hardly older than a day. I imagined the dreams I once held onto as a younger man: Adam and I, treasure hunters. Getting babes, punching Nazis. 

I thought about how far away all of that felt. How hungry I was. How little I noticed. How little I wanted these moments to end. 

Slowly, we all passed out. First Spencer, then Otto, then Jude. Then Riff Raff, then Taffy. 

Arla was the last one up. She had this woozy, glossed over expression. 

“Why’d you give me that note?” I asked her.

“You looked like you needed it. You looked lonely.” 

“Are you real?” I blurted out. 

She paused for a moment, unsure. 

“I think so.” 

There was another moment of silence. Silence scared me. With my family, silence was a punishment. I never slept without the television on, or a record playing. I never let myself merely exist. 

“I couldn’t help but notice you were silent. On the topic of pasts.” 

She gulped. She locked eyes with me, and her eyes softened. I put my hand over hers. 

“I’m from Galzavania. The LSD War ravaged my people. My father and sister died when I was very young. My mother was very poor. She sent me on a ship to America.” The Ringmaster had taken her in, but with that, her everything. The money that she brought. The money that she made him. Her immigration papers. Her identity.  

All held in a safe, the key around his neck. I was furious! What gave him the right? What gave him the right to hold power over her? 

That night, we devised a plan. My whole life, I had been scrappy. I lived in spite of authority. I refused, ontologically, any authority in my life. But tonight was the first night I made a difference. Tonight, I had found my purpose. Tonight, I fought for something that mattered. 

The Ringmaster summoned me into the press box at intermission. Strapped to the Ringmaster’s thigh, in a holster, was a long white pistol. Like the snout of a pristine Borzoi. 

“May I impress your guests?” I asked the Ringmaster. 

“Why, of course!” He said, punctuating a huff of his cigar. “Give them a preview.” 

I smiled. 

“Gentlemen! You may look and see not much. You may see a tattered and slapped together wrestler uniform, on the figure of a beanstalk! What if I told you… I was the strongest man alive!” 

Nothing. A few snickers. This would be fun. 

I lifted one of the men up by his coat without breaking a sweat. “I can lift anything!” I took a bite out of the other’s man chair. “I can eat anything!” I put the large, fat man on my shoulder. I raced around the room, giving him a piggy bag ride, the man squealing with glee like a joyous pig. As I ran, my heart began to pump out of my chest. He had a gun. 

One wrong move, and I’d be a goner. Eventually, I grabbed the key off of his neck, tossing it in the underwear that lined the outside of my costume. 

“I can do anything!” I thought of a joke, and stifled back a laugh. I looked down at their bewildered faces. “During tonight’s final act, you will even see me disappear!” 

I flew out of the press box, key in hand. I raced outside of the circus, running around the parking lot. He had to have kept his safe somewhere near! I searched, and I searched, eventually finding one of the vans that had transported it us. 

As the announcer called my name, my heart began to beat even harder. I raced to the nearby train station we had agreed to meet out, and nervously darted my eyes around the terminal for anyone who had followed me, using my super hearing to listen to her from across town. 

Eventually, though, I found the safe in one of the vans. I took off my cape, and loaded all the loot, the passports, the money, all of it, before tying it off on the end. Now, I played the waiting game. 

Arla and I were moment from running off, moments from the rest of our lives, I tried to convince myself, despite the knot in my stomach. Had something gone wrong? Had she been caught? 

My thoughts were interrupted by her entering my view, running for her life. 

Upon seeing me, she hugged me. She kissed me.

And she grabbed my cape from my hands. She gave me one more kiss, this one, our last. 

“I love you,” I said, between kisses. I couldn’t help myself. I did. She continued to kiss me. The entire world around us faded away, as the world felt, for once, not written against me. 

When she pulled away, she looked like her heart had broken. 

“I’m sorry.” She said. It didn’t take long for me to realize what she meant… “I didn’t mean to fall in love.” 

The knot in my stomach returned, this time with another perpetrator. I tried to maintain my composition, but I could not. 

To make matters worse, the Ringmaster and his cronies had followed us, unbeknownst to her. 

They fired their guns at her. In that moment, time began to slow down. I hadn’t even thought to move her out of the way, no. I was no match for a speeding bullet. Instead, I stood in front of her, in a bold act of defiance. I carried her onto the departing train, gave her a final kiss. And bid her farewell. 

As Arla’s train left the station, and as I raced off once more, now on the run from a crazed circus ringmaster, now with no chance of a normal life on my horizons, I was on the run once more. 

Still, I wonder. What if I never left the circus? What if I stayed with Arla? And Riff Raff, and Taffy? And Spencer, and Jude? And Otto? 

I think about them at least once a day. 

I often find myself pondering what it was that ran through my mind. Did I know that I was impervious to bullets? Surely, I had to have assumed that. But… often I catch myself wondering. Maybe I didn’t know. Maybe I didn’t know I was bulletproof.

Maybe I just knew that she wasn’t. I don’t know. 

I truly hope Arla is doing well.¹

1. As far as I could find, there are little to know records of an Arla Abazi ever existing. Due to Vincent merely using the term "Ringmaster," as opposed to the late great Antonia De Fanucci's, beloved for his Emporium of Freaks. While this text is littered with contradictions, I still remain baffled as to how it feels more real than real life!

I might as well apologize, while I'm here. I understand updates have been infrequent, and I feel I owe you an explanation. These texts move me greatly, in a way I struggle to put into words. They feel more real than real life! The moment I begin to transcribe Vincent's words, it is as if they are lifting directly off of the page and into my mind. I vividly feel the life he describes as if I am living it myself. As I absorb myself into the objective fabrications Vincent describes, I feel as if I am reconnecting with something that I had not known I had lost, as if I am rediscovering something that felt simple and innate to everyone else. When I find myself in Vincent's world, I feel... alive. In a way I'm not quite sure I ever did.