Uncle Bub

"By all that is wonderful, any decent circus has at least one ape and a tattooed lady!" Father’s declaration at supper several nights earlier had Mother- a long-suffering woman- rolling her eyes.

Father loved the circus when, as a lad, he first saw a tattooed lady. The experience had transformed his life in some unexplained but profound way.  From that day to this he has gone as far as fifty miles out of his way to a circus, all in hopes of seeing a tattooed lady. In our family, you take it at face value. Just like Uncle Bub. Everyone in Massnahut, Maine acknowledged Father's brother Bob, my Uncle Bub, as the village idiot.

He was stupid, profoundly and irreversibly stupid. Now, there is no need to call me cruel for picking on a person of diminished capacity. He was not retarded or slow.  He had discovered early on that being stupid kept him from any real work. He seemed to enjoy it so much that Father said it was his Pursuit of Happiness and that it was his right, as an American, to be stupid. Everyone in town and the family understood-as we were wont to do in that simpler time-and didn't think too much more about it. Everyone thought him a "peach".

Apes enthralled Uncle Bub. The only books he owned were about apes. His room was decorated entirely in ape. About the only thing he could do in any organized way was to find, cut out and paste on his walls and in uncounted scrapbooks, pictures of apes.

Given a living example to observe, he would fall into a trance-like state, which was always noticed by anyone nearby who would always give him plenty of room to work. He would establish eye contact with the critter and copy, as if by telepathy, every move as though in a mirror. If you wish to try this yourself, be sure there is a barrier between you and the beast.

Given this, you can only imagine the state of excitement in Father's big, open touring car as Father, myself and Uncle Bub set off early one late spring morning to see a circus that was playing over in Chester County. Early on the traffic was light which was just as well as Father had a sort of glazed look as he rambled on about the various highlights of his hobby of tattooed lady watching.

Uncle Bub had the big backseat all to himself. He was sort of limbering up for whatever simian came his way that day. This started by assuming a squatting position-barefooted so as not to harm the leather- and then proceed to wave his arms about in various displays, checking the results in the rear-view mirror Father tilted up for him. While he did this he also ran through the calls of the sundry species he had observed.


He could chatter, chortle, coo, and grunt all the dialects from the most diminutive monkey to the mighty Silver Back Gorilla.  Squatting there in the backseat of the big open car, head down-shoulders up-his eyes tightly squinted and lower jaw thrust forward, wind in his unruly hair, he looked the perfect proof that old Darwin might have been right.  As we rolled along I saw several drivers nearly run off the road after a fleeting encounter with Uncle Bub.

By the time we got to the farmer's pasture where the circus had set up, Uncle Bub was –as they say these days- in the groove. We headed straight for the sideshow.

All of Mother Nature's little eccentricities were there to behold. A two headed calf in a big jar along with a live six-legged goat in one place for only a nickel. On one huge canvas wall there was a savage looking rendition of a wild woman, recently captured, who apparently soothed the rigors of her confinement by biting the head off a chicken or two every twenty minutes. There was also a fellow who just could not get enough light bulbs to eat and when he wasn't doing that, might just pound a nail in his nose.

Uncle Bub had settled into a long squatting lope, arms swinging, benignly gazing this way and that, and allowing a most discreet hoot every dozen or so steps. Mothers would hustle their children out of the way giving us a wide berth. Father would tip his hat

Father's pace suddenly quickened for he had seen the sign. Just ahead in the dusty sunlight. It seemed to fly higher, it's colors deeper, it's proclamation an elegant simplicity; "See the Tattooed Lady!"

A thin man with a thin mustache wearing a straw skimmer and brocade vest was wielding a thin bamboo cane with the flourish of a musketeer while expounding the glories of the poly-chromed flesh within.

He went on to describe how fortunate we were here in Chester County, that Madam Slovanish had cut short her protracted tour of the great cities of Europe to be here with us good folks today. His voice grew tense with fury as he described her as the daughter of a noble house of old Russia, reduced by the Bolshevik Evil to decorating her skin to obtain a living.

Father's agitation was becoming more acute during this stirring
description. Apparently he was deeply moved by Madam's plight and was, no doubt, anxious to commiserate with her in person. He went through his pockets and handed me a five-dollar bill! Five smackers, just for me! He told me he would meet Uncle Bub and me at the main tent for the show and promptly joined the curious throng for further revelations of the Madam's plight.


Uncle Bub was unmoved by any of this. He had shown some mild interest in the Wild Woman but this quickly paled when, as luck would have it, a fellow happened by dressed in a sparkling suit of gold and red with white fringes. Following him were three fair sized chimps dressed in the same finery.  Uncle Bub stood transfixed for about five seconds before giving me a beaming grin and, falling in behind, expertly mimicked their gait.

All I could do was follow along smiling and waving at the many turned heads. This little parade went on till we reached a trailer on the outskirts of the circus. This was the home of Mr. Johnson and his chimps.

He had been tolerant of Uncle Bub playing at chimps as we walked along and he now seemed to see in him a kindred spirit and so made us welcome in the shade of a tarp thrown up nearby. His performers were Bongo, Bonzo, and Bingo. They all shook hands in an extravagant fashion as though we were within the confines of some mystic lodge. Uncle Bub was beside himself with joy.

He went into the ape act with all the stops pulled out. Within moments he and his new friends were involved in a game of making faces at one another while Mr. Johnson poured some lemonade and chatted away pleasantly about circus life.

As nice as this was, the sounds from the mid-way kept tugging at me and Mr. Johnson suggested I go avail myself of it's wonders. He offered to keep an eye on Uncle Bub until show time. He was very gracious and said Uncle Bub was a "peach". The last sight I had of Uncle Bub was of him leading his new friends in a lusty conga line to the sound of some unheard, distant drum.

Grand sums spur grand schemes. French fries soaked in vinegar, games of chance and skill for fabulous prizes. Even as a kid I was a keen shot and the man at the shooting gallery had to hand over a satin pillow emblazoned with "Oh you kid!" for Mother when I had figured out the windage. Down to two dollars, I thought it prudent to hold these back for some future need.

When I returned there was no trace of Uncle Bub, Mr. Johnson or the chimps. In a mild panic I found Father near the main tent and told what had happened. Nothing to worry about. Uncle Bub would be fine and we would find him sooner or later.

We settled in to watch the show. Bareback riders, elephants, lions and tigers followed by breathtaking displays of acrobatics and high wire prowess. Next there was a whole troupe of clowns emerging from a tiny auto. It was all a person could ask.


Then the ringmaster announced the next act, Professor Johnson and his chimps. Out they came into the glare of the spotlight that threw back points of light form their splendid costumes, Mr. Johnson, Bingo, Bongo, Bonzo and, yes, Uncle Bub.

Father closed my mouth with a gentle finger. Uncle Bub was wearing around his shoulders a cape of the same material as the others- a bit too small- which such pride that it mattered not at all.

It was astounding. Uncle Bub followed every move the chimps made. The audience went wild with laughter, stamping and cheering. It was then I noticed the look in Father's eye and the little smile that crept across his face. He sat there with his chin in hand, absolutely rapt, at his brother's talent in that tent.

With a chance meeting, Uncle Bub had become, in a single afternoon, the leavening Mr. Johnson needed to turn a so-so chimp act into a unique and valuable offering in the circus world.

While the Professor and Father had a quiet chat, Uncle Bub passed out Luckies to his new friends and they sat quietly smoking under the shade of the tarp like a bunch of old men at a hog boiling.  Things were quickly settled. Uncle Bub would collect his few things and return in the morning.

Uncle Bub had found his place.

It was a thoughtful ride home. Father showed me three picture post cards of various angles of Madam Slovanish showing all of her tattoos. Uncle Bub was in the back seat quietly rolling his lower lip in and out still wearing the cape-which he refused to relinquish even for one night- around his shoulders.

Father was philosophical about the events of the day. He explained how fate works in mysterious ways; how Right Thinking will defeat the Bolshevik Evil and how circus life will be just the thing for Uncle Bub.

"The only thing now," he said as he slipped the post cards into his shirt pocket, "is how to break it to your Mother."

And that is how Uncle Bub joined the circus.