Mary's Red Circus
It was the middle of July in a 1987 tiny Texas town named Grover’s Join. The locals shortened that to The Groin. The population of The Groin was around three thousand and on the decline. There were no secrets, there was no future, and there was nothing to do. Flat and dusty with one school, one hospital, and two bars. The town was bored.
The teenagers were nearly insane with the need to feel something, anything. Television sets glimmered to them like brilliant blue green fishing lures in the night, showing them other Americas where Stuff Happened. One kid ran away nearly every month. Some to New York, some to California. Half of them sent postcards back with lies on them about how well they were doing. The other half just became memories.
The town wasn’t dying so much as it was disappearing.
Until the Circus of the Dead came.
The brilliant red semi trucks pulled up into the parking lot of Lucky Lou’s tavern that afternoon. They were immaculate. The chrome trim on them was sparkling and fresh. The red paint on them was as bright as a brand new barn. There wasn’t a speck of dust on them. They were gorgeous.
After their air brakes died down and the engines shut off, the dust of their passage settled around them back down onto the deserted parking lot, tired from the brief excitement. It was a windless day and the sound of the Henderson’s dog barking in the distance echoed out over the scene.
The passenger door of the first semi truck chunked open with a hiss and white smoke tumbled out to the ground through a dim blue light like the inside of the cab was not merely air conditioned but refrigerated. A long leg dressed in black leather arched out and the metal heel of a black cowgirl boot clinked on to the first step.
She came down slowly like she’d just woken up and the sun was thawing her out. She wore black leather head to toe. The sun glinted off of the silver plated holsters on her hips. The sun glinted off of the buttons and zippers on her creaking leather outfit. The sun glinted off of her polished spurs. Wild bright red hair splayed out around her pale face like an iridescent halo lit to fire by the sun. An old leather top hat perched on her head at a rakish angle trying in vain to tame the hair. She was wearing large sunglasses that almost looked like welding goggles and her red, red lips were twisted in a cruel smile.
She was pulling her gloves off finger by finger and walking towards the bar. Her spurs jingling were the only sound. Even the Henderson’s dog had gone quiet.
Behind her, the trucks waited in the noon sun like sleeping giants waiting to build.
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The teenagers were nearly insane with the need to feel something, anything. Television sets glimmered to them like brilliant blue green fishing lures in the night, showing them other Americas where Stuff Happened. One kid ran away nearly every month. Some to New York, some to California. Half of them sent postcards back with lies on them about how well they were doing. The other half just became memories.
The town wasn’t dying so much as it was disappearing.
Until the Circus of the Dead came.
The brilliant red semi trucks pulled up into the parking lot of Lucky Lou’s tavern that afternoon. They were immaculate. The chrome trim on them was sparkling and fresh. The red paint on them was as bright as a brand new barn. There wasn’t a speck of dust on them. They were gorgeous.
After their air brakes died down and the engines shut off, the dust of their passage settled around them back down onto the deserted parking lot, tired from the brief excitement. It was a windless day and the sound of the Henderson’s dog barking in the distance echoed out over the scene.
The passenger door of the first semi truck chunked open with a hiss and white smoke tumbled out to the ground through a dim blue light like the inside of the cab was not merely air conditioned but refrigerated. A long leg dressed in black leather arched out and the metal heel of a black cowgirl boot clinked on to the first step.
She came down slowly like she’d just woken up and the sun was thawing her out. She wore black leather head to toe. The sun glinted off of the silver plated holsters on her hips. The sun glinted off of the buttons and zippers on her creaking leather outfit. The sun glinted off of her polished spurs. Wild bright red hair splayed out around her pale face like an iridescent halo lit to fire by the sun. An old leather top hat perched on her head at a rakish angle trying in vain to tame the hair. She was wearing large sunglasses that almost looked like welding goggles and her red, red lips were twisted in a cruel smile.
She was pulling her gloves off finger by finger and walking towards the bar. Her spurs jingling were the only sound. Even the Henderson’s dog had gone quiet.
Behind her, the trucks waited in the noon sun like sleeping giants waiting to build.
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