This Edition of Thursday Stories Featuring Literary Fiction Carni-Style
Happy April, Friends and Neighbors, and welcome to Thursday Stories. Looking back over my dusty herd of short stories, I realize that some of these rascals haven’t seen the light of day in quite a spell. Time to let them romp a bit! And so—drumroll please—I give you Thursday Stories. I’m not guaranteeing a new story every Thursday, but I will do my best until all the archived tales have been set free.
You can find all of my stories and more at the Marco Etheridge Fiction Website:
This week’s edition of Thursday Stories features Frankie and the Wild Man, literary fiction for the backlot of the carnival. Little Frankie, the new kid at the carnival, meets the veteran wildman on his day off. This story first appeared in Literally Stories, published in 2023. Now, without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.
Frankie and the Wild Man
by Marco Etheridge
The wild man sat in his lawn chair and tried to ignore the small boy lurking behind the shabby travel trailer. The chair was made from aluminum tubing and woven plastic webbing. The coarse webbing sometimes pinched the back of the wild man’s thighs, but he was accustomed to this. He’d owned the chair for a very long time. The sneaking little brat, however, was a new and unwelcome annoyance.
Outside of his cage, the wild man wasn’t wild at all. He was plain old Curtis Rupert, sitting outside his travel trailer, savoring the early sunshine. The carnival slumbered late, quiet after a long, howling night. All Curtis wanted or needed was to drink his coffee, smoke his morning cigar, and be left in peace.
The other carnies would never disturb Curtis. Man wanted his privacy, that was his business. Carnival folk knew how to mind their own. And carnies didn’t have children. Once Jacques the sword swallower or Madame Mystic started breeding, it was time to abandon the circuit and settle down. So where did this annoying little shit come from?
The kid’s face reappeared around the corner of the sheet metal trailer. Half a face anyway. Little white boy, freckles, red hair. The goofy face, the kind plastered on cereal boxes. Then he heard the kid giggle.
Curtis Rupert didn’t deserve this shit. He set his coffee cup on the wooden crate beside his chair. He nestled his cigar into the bent fold of a Chock Full O’Nuts coffee can that served as his ashtray. He laid his long, bony hand onto his bare thighs and took a deep breath. Time to wake up the wild man.
The wild man launched out of the cheap lawn chair. An inhuman wail broke the morning stillness. The chair came with him, plastic webbing biting the back of his thighs before clattering to the ground.
He rocked from side to side on skinny, bowed legs, jibbering in a language only he understood. The wild man careened around the front of the trailer; outstretched hands held like groping claws.
The wild man expected to see the disappearing backside of a terrified boy hauling ass back to wherever he belonged. What he saw instead took some of the edge off his performance.
The bratty kid stood on the far side of the trailer tongue, his little arms stretched high above ginger hair. The boy’s snaggletoothed mouth gaped open and he roared like a tiny lion. Little fella, maybe six or seven.
The wild man stared at the roaring kid, then up at the morning sky. Lord help him. Couldn’t manage to scare off one scrawny boy. Damn shame.
The kid remained planted on the far side of the steel barrier. The wild man could chase the runt. The trailer was hitched to an old Chevy pickup. Run around the front of the truck or leap over the tongue. Either way, the kid looked like a fast little squirt. Just look foolish chasing him. The wild man persona evaporated.
Curtis Rupert did not chase the miniature interloper. Instead, he slid one bony hand under his wife-beater and scratched his belly. The kid stopped his roaring. They stood facing each other, a bow-legged Black man, and a skinny White boy.
The silence hung in the air until Curtis broke it. He had little experience speaking to children.
“Ain’t you scared?”
The freckled kid dropped his arms.
“Nope. You’re funny.”
Curtis tongued a stray bit of tobacco from a tooth and spat it on the ground.
“You reckon I’m funny, do you?”
The boy nodded, a gapped-tooth smile plastered across his goofy face.
“Why you sneaking around behind my trailer? Ain’t you got something better to do?”
The kid scrunched up his face and shook his head.
“Everybody’s sleeping. My mama, too.”
“That right? Who’s your mama?”
The boy puffed himself up proud as a peacock.
“My mama is Giant Gracie. She’s gonna be the new star. The other fat lady got dead.”
Curtis winced at the mention of death on a bright, sunlit morning. Bad luck.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Frankie Burton.”
“Well, Frankie Burton, didn’t your mama teach you no manners? You come visiting someone, best to walk right up and introduce yourself. You mighta got shot sneaking around like that.”
The boy seemed to think that one over. Curtis just wanted to sit his ass back down and finish his cigar.
“Tell you what, Frankie. Why don’t you climb on over here and we can have us a proper visit, ‘stead of standing here like strangers. What you think about that?”
Frankie must have thought that was a good idea because he scampered over the trailer tongue like a monkey. Curtis stared down at the smiling child. Couldn’t scare the brat off and now he was inviting the kid for a visit. Hell of a morning. He waved a hand.
“Well, come on if you’re coming.”
He led the way around the trailer until he came to the fallen lawn chair. He righted the thing, planted it back where it belonged, then lifted his coffee mug from the wooden crate. He flipped the crate sideways to make a seat for the boy.
“Sit yourself down, Frankie Burton. You want something to drink? I got some sodas in the box.”
“Yes, please.”
“Alright, then. You sit tight. Don’t let nobody steal nothing while I’m gone.”
Curtis climbed two wooden steps to the trailer door, popped it open, and disappeared inside.
A fella might swing a cat inside the cramped interior, but it had better be a small cat. A narrow bunk, a built-in bench seat and table across the rear end, and a tiny counter with a hotplate. That’s all she wrote.
Curtis hunched down and pulled a battered cooler from under the counter. The latch snapped loud in the tight space. A tin baking pan held bologna and a block of cheese. Beneath the pan, soda bottles floated in meltwater and the last chunks of ice. He fished a bottle out by the neck, ignored the water that dripped onto the faded linoleum. Levered the soda into a church key nailed to the edge of the plywood counter. The bottle cap twirled to the floor and rattled off under the bunk.
Frankie was still perched atop his box when Curtis clambered down from the trailer. He offered the dripping bottle.
“Hope you like RC. It’s all we got.”
“Wow, thanks. Uh, what’s your name, mister?”
Curtis settled himself into the lawn chair and picked up his half-smoked cigar. He fished a blue tip from the box and struck it, cupped the yellow flame, and puffed until the cigar was smoking right. Then he swirled out the matchstick. Never said a word while the kid stared at him. Always keep folks on the edge of their seat.
“There now. My name’s Curtis Rupert.”
The boy cocked his head.
“What’s your other name, when you’re working I mean?”
Curtis raised one eyebrow and gave the boy an appreciative nod.
“They call me Bonza the Wild Man.”
“Do you eat the chickens?”
“Naw, I leave chicken killing to the bona fide geeks. Mostly I just jump around inside the cage, scream and holler, sometimes throw stuff at them.”
Yeah, and sometimes during them late shows, when there ain’t no kids or cops about, Bonza drops his loincloth and gives the rubes something to remember. Good Baptist men, some of ‘em probably deacons and such, smirking and nudging each other. Laughing while their women pretend to faint, that good old southern tried and true.
He and Maggie used to laugh about it, sipping brandy late into the wee hours after the midway went dark. Maggie Rose. The Magnificent Rose. His best friend in the world. Before her heart exploded.
“Maybe I could see your show sometime, Mister Curtis.”
“Curtis will do just fine, Frankie. You can leave off the mister.”
“Mama don’t let me see her show. Not never.”
“I ’spect that’s for the best. Your mama sounds like a smart lady.”
The boy took a pull from his soda, holding the bottle with both hands. Then he let go a burp.
“‘Scuse me.”
Curtis chuckled.
“You a polite little rascal. Ain’t no womenfolk around. You belch all you want. Where y’all come from before you landed here?”
“We were with the Talley show. I don’t remember before that ‘cause I was too little. Then Mama said we had to leave. Said them Talleys were right bastards.”
“I have heard that very thing. So, it’s just you and your mama?”
The boy got a serious face, and Curtis regretted the question. None of his business but too late to take back the words.
“My daddy’s on a big boat. He sails all over the world. Mama says he never sets a single foot on dry land, never except that one time.”
“Well, don’t that sound fine? I bet your daddy loves being out on his boat.”
The boy hunched over his soda bottle, eyeballing the ground like he was looking for something. Stared a while at Curtis’ feet. Raised his face looking all curious.
“Something you want to ask me, son?”
“What happened to your legs?”
Curtis raised one leg and pointed it straight out. A skinny leg, roped with muscle, bones bent inward crooked as a bow saw.
“Yeah, they’re funny looking, ain’t they? I got the rickets when I was a baby.”
“What’s rickets?”
“Rickets is a sickness, Frankie. Comes from being poor, not having proper food. My folks were real poor. Sharecroppers. You know what that is?”
The boy’s eyes were big, face gone all solemn. Shook his head and waited. Someone had taught the kid how to listen.
“Sharecropping is when a farmer works a piece of land, but he don’t own it. Works like a mule and then gives over a share to the man who owns the land. My daddy wasn’t much of a farmer, may he rest in peace. Handier with a jug than a plow. Wasn’t enough food to go around, and what there was weren’t much good. I was the youngest and got the least. And I got the damn rickets, too. Bent my legs up like an old willow tree.”
“What happened after that?”
Curtis puffed his cigar and watched the smoke float out over the weeds and gravel. What happened after was growing up dirt poor. Going to school barefoot when he could be spared from the fieldwork. When Curtis turned twelve, his daddy hired the boy out to a traveling carnival. Wished him good luck. Didn’t look back as he walked away. Been a carnie ever since. Thirty years and more now.
“Well, I’ll tell you what happened. I ran away to join a carnival. Been at it ever since. I weren’t born to the show like you, but I took to it real quick.”
“Did you like it? I mean, when you was little, like me.”
Curtis heard the nervous in the boy’s voice, sure as the sunrise. Natural for him to be scared. Just a kid, coming into a new show, all alone, and no place waiting behind. That first step into carnival life was like jumping off a cliff and can’t see the bottom. No telling where a body end up, and no getting back. A scared kid didn’t need to hear that stuff.
“You know, Frankie, I did like it, and that’s a fact. Shoveled more shit than I ever did on the farm. Goats, ponies, dogs, you name it, I shoveled it. Ran everywhere I went, tending the critters, doing errands for folks. Hey boy, fetch us some cold drinks. Curtis, run me a message. All day long, sunup to sundown. And food to eat, every day. Thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”
Frankie rubbed his thumb over the soda bottle. The sweating glass gave off a wet squeak. Then he looked up.
“And you made friends, right?”
“You know I did. The show is sorta like a big family. Folks squabble with each other, sure, but everybody helps each other in a pinch. They’re mostly good folks, but I’m gonna tell you something, and I want you should listen. You watch out for the roustabouts, them that drive the trucks and run the rides. They can be rough. You don’t never let yourself be alone with one of them, you hear me?”
The boy’s eyes were serious, taking in the words.
“Curtis?”
“Yeah, Frankie.”
“Do you have a best friend?”
Curtis took a last puff on his cigar, gave the butt a hard look, and dropped it into the can.
“I surely did, but not no more. Maggie Rose was her name. Best friend I ever had in this world. She passed not long ago. But we had us some times, that’s for sure. Laughed like nobody’s business.”
“Was Maggie Rose the fat lady before my mama?”
“Sure was. The Magnificent Rose. She didn’t have no family ‘cept the carnival. Just like me. The bosses pitched a fit, but they paid for a decent funeral. Had to buy a double-width coffin. Maggie was a big woman. We used a forklift to tote her to the grave.”
“I’m sorry your friend got dead.”
Without a thought, Curtis reached over and ruffled the boy’s ginger hair.
“Thank you, Frankie. But you don’t need to worry about that stuff, you hear?”
Across the gravel lot, one of the silent trailers began to rock back and forth. A door popped open and slapped against the metal skin.
A bulky shadow filled the doorway and squeezed sideways into the daylight. The shadow materialized into the shape of a huge woman. She took the steps slow and careful, one foot beside the other, until she reached the ground. Then she raised one massive arm, shaded her eyes, and peered into the bright sunlight.
Her voice cut through the still morning like a chainsaw.
“Frankie Burton, is that you? What did I tell you about bothering folks?”
Curtis heard the sternness in her voice, but he also saw the smile that creased many folds of flesh. Frankie shot off his box like a rocket.
“Ain’t bothering nobody, Mama. This here is my friend Mister Rupert.”
Curtis raised his arm and gave the woman a wave. Gracie Burton returned his wave. Her housedress waggled like a tent in a strong wind. Frankie’s head swiveled back and forth between his mama and Curtis. Curtis smiled at the boy.
“You best go on now, Frankie.”
The boy held out the empty soda. Curtis wrapped his hand around the bottle, the glass warm and sticky where the kid had held it. He looked into Frankie’s face, saw hope and confusion.
“Listen here, Frankie. You be sure you come see me tomorrow morning. And you best not be late.”
A huge grin damn near broke the kid’s face in half. Frankie nodded fast, then took off running. Gravel crunched under his feet as he raced into his mama’s arms. Damn near disappeared altogether when she hugged him.
Curtis Rupert, who by night became Bonza the Wild Man, sat in his lawn chair and watched the sun climb higher in the sky. The chair creaked beneath him. The coarse webbing tried to pinch his thighs, but Curtis was accustomed to this. He’d owned the chair for a very long time.
That’s it for this week’s edition of Thursday Stories. More stories are coming your way. How will you know when a new story breaks? Glad you asked, Friends. Read On! Drumroll and… Meanwhile, don’t miss any upcoming stories. You can stay tuned for all the latest by following the MEF blog:
And… if you desire more literary fiction, look no further than my collection U6 Stories:
U6 Stories – Vienna Underground Tales
Every train carries a story.
The U6 is one line of the Vienna underground transit system. The silver and red trains carry stories, many stories. A woman mourns her musical lover, and a man discovers his courage. A Syrian family flees to a fragile new beginning, and a young man helps circus performers during a pandemic. Lovers rediscover each other after decades apart, and a man finds a father he never knew. A contract is broken, and neighbors defend their own. Eighteen tales of love lost and found, of the darkness within us, and the glimmering light that keeps us afloat. Unforgettable characters struggle against the pressures of an impersonal world, and against the burdens they carry within. Welcome, Reader, to the stories of the U6.
Marco Etheridge is a writer of fiction, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His stories have been published in more than seventy reviews, journals, and magazines in Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. U6 Stories gathers eighteen of his best short stories into one collection. The U6 is one line of the Vienna underground transit system. The trains transport more than people. Each silver and red carriage carries stories, many stories. A woman mourns the death of her musical lover, and a man discovers his courage. A Syrian family flees to a fragile new beginning, and a young man helps circus performers during a pandemic. Lovers rediscover each other after decades apart, and a man finds a father he never knew. A contract is broken, and neighbors defend their own. These eighteen stories tell tales of love lost and love found, of the darkness that lies within us, and the glimmering light that keeps us afloat. Unforgettable characters struggle against the tides and pressures of an impersonal world, and against the burdens they carry within. Welcome, Reader, to the stories of the U6.
Disclosure of Material Connection: Some of the links in the page above are "affiliate links." This means if you click on the link and purchase the item, I will receive an affiliate commission. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255: "Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising."
Marco Etheridge is a writer of prose, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over one hundred reviews and journals across Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. His story “Power Tools” has been nominated for Best of the Web for 2023. “Power Tools” is Marco’s latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor for a new ‘Zine called Hotch Potch. In his other life, Marco travels the world with his lovely wife Sabine. Website: https://bro.uxw.mybluehost.me/