The Ground Act That Could

The house was unlike any other we've performed at. Four stories high with all of the latest art deco appliances and decorations, it was by far the fanciest house in all of Tallahassee. Huge glass windows covered most of the walls, allowing guests to look down at the pool, the street or the luscious grassy yard below. The owners, two men who were clearly partners, gave us the tour, pointing out where we could leave our belongings. Not wanting to disturb all of the precisely placed ornaments, we chose a small corner in one of the guest rooms. We had a lot of items, the boards, cylinder, mats, clubs and more, but somehow managed to make them all take up as little space as possible. And in comparison to the house, the taken space was hardly noticeable.

I received the call a few weeks earlier. Being in charge of local events for the circus had its benefits: I knew about all of our gigs first and got paid for attending each and every one. I finagled prices and time slots. The performances were for ground acts, those that could be preformed on the ground without the help of massive apparatuses, such as trapezes. For the smaller performances, I asked teams who were willing to help, those with not as much experience as others. For larger, more exciting performances, I had my friends or the more experienced teams come. We performed in anything from town celebrations to parties honoring the governor. Once we traveled up to Georgia to perform in the town's celebration honoring their movie theatre's 25th anniversary. We ate cotton candy and cookies and were mocked for pronouncing it Cairo, like in Egypt, rather than Kay-ro, with a thick southern accent.

This was a holiday party. The two men had their entire architecture firm come over to drink liquor from the three bars, eat food catered in from various lavish restaurants, and watch a bunch of twenty somethings perform circus acts. We felt immature and out of place, and not just because we were wearing bright gold, garnet and black leotards.

There were four acts performing: quartet adagio, balancing, fire poi, and rolla rolla. I was in the last one. For the act, Jason, my partner, would balance on a board that was atop a cylinder. Once he was sturdy (which usually took him a second, maybe two, he was so used to the act) I would climb on top of him. We would do a series of balancing poses and falls.

A year earlier we started the act together. At first, I was unsure. We were trained on a safety line, so if either of us made any wrong movements, I wouldn't plummet to the concrete below. The act itself was incredibly fun, but my partner was questionable. I'd spend more time stopping him from feeling me up than concentrating on staying tight and not falling. After we became friends and he learned that there was no way I'd ever date him, we started to trust one another. I quickly learned that even though I had the line and he didn't, he'd still jump to save me if need be. We lost the lines quickly, preferring to perform without the aid, as it only got in the way. We became competitive with the other teams doing the act and created new tricks, better tricks. Quickly we were the best in show, with tricks like Shelf that literally had me upside down with my shoulders simply balanced on his.

I took my sweatshirt off, it was getting down to the 30's and for Florida that's beyond freezing, and adjusted my outfit. I was wearing my favorite performance outfit, one that got handed down to me from a far superior performer. The short gold halter top fit snuggly and exposed my midriff. The long gold pants were tight on top and loose on the bottom; the waste was adorned with small garnet rhinestones. Jason wore black tights with gold sequins sewed in a thick straight row down the legs.

There were six other performers there with us, some of my closest friends, and we mostly stuck together. In a room full of adults we felt like children, even though some attendees were close to our age. Seeing him eye the bar, I grabbed Jason's arm quickly to divert his attention.

"Not until after the performance."
"I know, I know," he answered, mockingly. I was half joking and half serious. I knew that even with a few drinks in Jason, we'd still be able to pull off the act fine. He was a card carrying alcoholic and could handle his liquor better than most celebrities. I stopped him for two reasons, though. As paid performers, we had to look good. Sure, he could drink afterwards, but he had to behave himself. We all did. We didn't want to give the circus the reputation of housing drunkards (which wasn't far from the truth.)

Second, I feared where we were performing.

In the backyard was an open pool. We were performing right next to it, on a small slab of cement. There was plenty of space for people to mingle, people to watch, and people to eat, but there was close to no room for us to perform. The other acts could use the soft grass next to us, but we needed a sturdy, flat surface. So mistakes were not aloud. One wrong movement on the wobbly cylinder and I'd be in the pool in the 30 degree weather in front of over 50 architects.

There was no room for errors and this small fact made the performance all the more exciting.

(to be continued...)