Views and Mechanics Publisher's Note Editor's Note Review of Coventry Review of Virginity Or Death! Review of Imperial Reckoning Poetry Politico By Beth L. Block Peonies By Natasha S. Garnett A Foreigner in the Street By Tony Zurlo Sand Hill Cranes and Other Eccentricities By Jaqueline Powers On Sleepless Nights By Joy Harold Helsing I Don't Want To Be Hughes By Joe Koch Fiction Baseball Games and One-Eared Cats By Pete Laffin Beige By Dawn Merrow Geezer Cage By Scott W. Alten Sandlot By J. Conrad Guest Dinosaurs and Barbie Dolls By Michelle McMahon Burlesque Show By Stanley P. Anderson About the Contributors © 2006, River Walk Journal and respective authors and artists. All rights reserved. Do not use or reproduce without permission. River Walk Journal, Inc. Board of Directors Chairman - Elizabeth Ross Vice Chairman - Joseph Koch Secretary/Treasurer - Geri Stock-Ross Editorial Director - Patti Kurtz, DA Literacy Director - Vacant Policy Director - PA State Rep. Jess Stairs Advisory Board Chairman - Patti Kurtz, DA Asst. Chairman - Dan Lachenman, PhD Samuel Hazo Christopher Leland Edwin Yoder Joseph Bathanti Journal Staff Publisher - Elizabeth Ross Editor-In-Chief - Joseph Koch Sen. Fiction Editor - Patti Kurtz Sen. Poetry Editor - Neeldhara Misra Sen. Creative Nonfiction Editor - Brenda Coxe Contributing Editor - Robert Dittman Blog Contributing Editor - Maggie Koster Publicity Director (PA) - Geri Stock-Ross For information about submissions, visit http://www.riverwalkjournal.org/subs.html. Questions about promotions, subscribers' services, and advertising should be sent to publisher@riverwalkjournal.org. River Walk Journal, Inc. is a non-profit corporation run entirely by volunteers. For information about volunteer opportunities and internships, visit VolunteerMatch. |
Burlesque Show By Stanley P. Anderson In June of 1955, when my older brother, Carl, and I were 12 and 11, respectively, our town’s celebration of Timber Days included a traveling carnival from Missouri, complete with a Ferris wheel, a merry-go-round, and other rides, chances to win big Teddy bears and other prizes at various booths, and tents that featured human freaks, a “house” of mirrors, a maze of horrors, and a burlesque show. One night, Carl, my cousin Sonny, and I stood in front of a tent where a barker announced that a mere 50 cents would pay for “the finest display of shapely female flesh on either side of the Missouri.” The barker brought out a specimen, a busty redhead in a low-cut, sequined dress who wiggled around so much as she stood in place that I thought she had to pee. A wave of men approached the tent, crowding the three of us toward the entrance. The ticket-seller, a leather-skinned man with a cigarette stuck to his lips, told us to scram. His order was enforced by the barker, a beefy, square-jawed man who had the name “Charlie” sewn into his shirt. “Let’s go out back,” Sonny suggested. We made our way to the deserted area behind the tent. Sonny looked in all directions before he got down on all fours and crawled into the tent. Carl went next and then me. We found ourselves in a dressing room where three show girls were in various stages of undress, reminding me of the pictures on the inside walls of the outhouse on my Uncle Warren’s lake property. “So, there’s three of you,” a blonde said. Her white thighs showed in sharp contrast to the black silk stockings she was putting on as she sat in a folding chair. The other two girls were sharing a pint of Jack Daniels. One was the redhead we had seen earlier. She was sitting in a chair, her legs spread wide, forming a V. The V was filled by a large brunette, who was bumping and grinding her pelvis and jiggling melon-sized breasts covered by tasseled pasties. I figured she was warming up, like a football player doing calisthenics before a game. “You boys better scat before Charlie sees you back here,” the blonde advised. “He’ll throw you out on your ear. He’ll feed you to that crowd out there.” The three of us bunched together, forming a small crowd of our own as we gazed at the wonders God had created. Sonny said, “We thought we were sneaking into the horror show.” “Well, you’ll be part of a horror show if Charlie catches you in here,” the brunette said. The redhead took a swig from the pint of whiskey. “That’s right. You better scram before you get a woody and won’t be able to worm your way out.” I did not know what a “woody” was. I guessed that it had something to do with Timber Days. Sonny seemed to know better. “I already have one. It’s in my pocket.” The blonde rose from her chair and approached Sonny. “This I’d like to see, big boy.” Loud music sounded from the main body of the tent. “It’s show time,” the redhead announced. “Get them out of here, or we’ll all be in trouble.” “There’s not enough time,” the blonde said. “You boys better hide over there.” She pointed to a rack of bright-colored, sequined dresses in a corner of the tent. We hid among the dresses, adolescent boys in drag. The blonde said, “I sure hope Charlie doesn’t see those shoes. I can see all six of them.” The show started with the large brunette. Male cheers and yells mixed with the loud music. “Let’s sneak out now,” Carl whispered, panic in his voice. “Not yet,” Sonny said. “I want to see more.” I was torn between these two positions, between fear and curiosity. Charlie was in and out of the dressing room as he managed the show, ensuring a smooth flow from one act to the next. He did not catch us until the last act, which was performed by the redhead, the star of the show. She was in the middle of her first song when he spotted our shoes. He slid the dresses apart, exposing three open-mouthed boys. “What the . . .” “Sir,” Sonny said. “Don’t be mad. We thought we’d sneak into the maze of mirrors, but we chose the wrong tent by mistake.” “Bullshit! You boys line up over there by the stage. I’m going to show this hick town what happens to boys who sneak into my tent without paying.” We lined up obediently. As the redhead danced to her second song, Charlie forced us out onto the stage one at a time, kicking each of us as he did so. When the spotlight centered on me, I was the momentary star of the show. The mood of the male crowd switched from lust to laughter, which lasted until the final adolescent butt, the one attached to me, was kicked out of the tent. I hoped that news of my stardom would stay within the confines of the tent. During the long journey from the bright lights of the stage to the entrance, however, I glimpsed a deacon from our church, who fooled nobody with his wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses; my uncle Warren, whose outhouse was another girlie show; and the editor of our town’s weekly newspaper, who, much to my dismay, had a yellow notepad in one hand and a busy pencil in the other. The story, “Boys Bumped From Girlie Show,” appeared on page 1 of the paper, below the fold. It withheld our names, but word-of-mouth had already spread our fame throughout town by the time the paper was printed. We were admired by every young boy in town. Being grounded, Carl and I for an entire week and Sonny for one whole day, was a trifle compared to this admiration. We had enjoyed a girlie show and had left the show with all of our money in our pockets, heading not for what the editor called our “permanent humiliation,” but for stardom made legendary by the editor himself. |