Free Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen

bum. I been on the bum and it ain’t no life.” His forearms rest on his raised knees, his face turned to mine. “If you got a life to go back to, I reckon that’s what you should do.”
    It’s a moment before I can answer. When I do, my voice cracks. “I don’t.”
    He watches me for a while longer and then nods. “I’m right sorry to hear that.”
    The crowd disperses, moving from the big top to the parking lot and beyond, to the edges of the town. From behind the big top, the silhouette of a balloon rises into the sky, followed by a child’s prolonged wail. There is laughter, the sound of car engines, voices raised in excitement.
    “Can you believe she bent like that?”
    “I thought I was going to die when that clown dropped his drawers.”
    “Where’s Jimmy—Hank, have you got Jimmy?”
    Camel scrambles suddenly to his feet. “Ho! There he is. There’s that old S-O-B now.”
    “Who?”
    “Uncle Al! Come on! We gotta get you on the show.”
    He limps off faster than I would have thought possible. I get up and follow.
    There is no mistaking Uncle Al. He has ringmaster written all over him, from the scarlet coat and white jodhpurs to the top hat and waxed curled moustache. He strides across the lot like the leader of a marching band, ample belly thrust forward and issuing orders in a booming voice. He pauses to let a lion’s den cross in front of him and then continues past a group of men struggling with a rolled canvas. Without breaking stride, he smacks one of them on the side of the head. The man yelps and turns, rubbing his ear, but Uncle Al is gone, trailed by followers.
    “That reminds me,” Camel says over his shoulder, “whatever you do, don’t mention Ringling in front of Uncle Al.”
    “Why not?”
    “Just don’t.”
    Camel scurries up to Uncle Al and steps into his path. “Er, there you are,” he says, his voice artificial and mewling. “I was wondering if I could have a word, sir?”
    “Not now, boy. Not now,” booms Al, goose-stepping past like the Brownshirts you see in the grainy news trailers at the movies. Camel limps weakly behind, popping his head around one side, and then falling back and running along the other like a disgraced puppy.
    “It won’t take but a moment, sir. It’s just I was wondering if any of the departments was short of men.”
    “Thinking of changing careers, are we?”
    Camel’s voice rises like a siren. “Oh no, sir. Not me. I’m happy right where I am. Yes sir. Happy as a clam, that’s me.” He giggles maniacally.
    The distance between them widens. Camel stumbles and then comes to a stop. “Sir?” he calls across the growing distance. He comes to a stop. “Sir?”
    Uncle Al is gone, swallowed whole by people, horses, and wagons.
    “Goddammit. God dammit! ” says Camel, tearing his hat from his head and throwing it to the ground.
    “It’s okay, Camel,” I say. “I appreciate you trying.”
    “No, it ain’t okay,” he shouts.
    “Camel, I—”
    “Just shut it. I don’t want to hear it. You’re a good kid, and I ain’t about to stand by and watch you mope off ’cuz that fat old grouch don’t got time. I just ain’t. So have a little respect for your elders and don’t give me no trouble.”
    His eyes are burning.
    I lean over, retrieve his hat, and brush the dirt off. Then I hold it out to him.
    After a moment, he takes it. “All right then,” he says gruffly. “I guess that’s all right.”
    C AMEL TAKES ME to a wagon and tells me to wait outside. I lean against one of the large spoked wheels and pass the time alternatelypicking slivers from beneath my nails and chewing long pieces of grass. At one point my head bobs forward, on the cusp of sleep.
    Camel emerges an hour later, staggering, holding a flask in one hand and a roll-your-own in the other. His eyelids flutter at half-mast.
    “This here’s Earl,” he slurs, sweeping an arm behind him. “He’s gonna take care of ya.”
    A bald man steps down from the wagon. He