Free The Bear in a Muddy Tutu by Cole Alpaugh

either missing the net, or hitting the net and bouncing back out for a high-impact landing. And despite how nets had improved over the years, increasingly elaborate cannons were sending performers f a rther and f a rther . S ome of the top acts fl ew more than sixty yards. At that distance, the margin of error shrank, especially on windy days.
    Enrique wasn’t concerned about the wind as he stepped into one leg of his spandex uniform. One leg was red and the other blue, matching the stripes on the fifteen-foot tall cannon. Wearing no underwear accentuate d his manhood — a tip from his papa. A large white letter E was emblazoned on his barrel chest, and a shiny red cape , reminiscent of Superman , trailed behind.
    Enrique pulled on the thin leather helmet he’d painted bright blue and adjusted the chinstrap . The helmet wasn’t meant to protect his brain from impact, but rather to protect his hair from being ripped out when he crash ed into the rope netting , seventy feet from the release point. A deep pull from a pint bottle of Kentucky bourbon, and he strode through his trailer door and out into the New Jersey evening to the scattered chants of, “Enrique, Enrique … ” Now this is already Heaven , he thought, smiling broadly.
    A barke r known as Sir William, done with shit cleaning duty, was stir ring up the crowd of a hundred or so onlookers for this free show, clapping steadily and chanting, “Enrique, Enrique, Enrique … ” The human cannonball show was a last noisy draw to get customers into the main event tents. There were two medium - size tents because one large tent couldn’t be safely tethered in most parking lots. Plus, one big tent was nearly five times the price of two middle-sized ones. Enzo and Donato also emerged from their trailers, scann ed the crowd , and gestur ed impatiently for Enrique to hurry the hell up .
    Enrique waved to the crowd in the shadowy parking lot with genuine appreciation and climbed the ladder up the side of the cannon with flare and gusto. He loved the showmanship, the over-the-top dramatics. Enrique was Elvis at that moment. He was Liberace and Evil Knievel rolled into one glorious, red-caped package. He had been born a performer , and being the center of attention was what he lived for , what he would proudly die for . The spotlight was never boring, and being adored for his bravery could never be tedious, even after ten thousand shows. He dropped feet first into the dark , round opening, elbows supporting him to blow some final kisses to the families who were caught up in the show and were now all chanting his name and clapping, ensnared by the spectacle.
    Enrique waved a last wave, then pulled both arms in at his sides and allowed his body to slowly slip down the steep, seventy-five degree angle, to the platform below.
    Inside the cannon s ounds became a hollow echo , as though he was underwater . Enrique recognized the squeaky hinge of the toolbox holding the road flares, as Sir William began the ignition process. He heard the barker strike the flare to life , could he ar the hiss of the flame and smell the rotten egg stench of the smoke as the crowd screamed and cheered, fully captivated. Enrique smiled, knowing this was going to be spectacular. Sir William called out, “Ten! ”
    Thick white smoke reflected the red fire over head as Sir Williams counted, “Nine … eight … seven … ” and Enrique listened for the sound of the flare sparking the comically fat fuse. It caught with a crackling flourish and raced toward the base of the cannon, purpose ly setting off a stash of small bottle rockets that were sent whisking out in an arc over the parking lot.
    “Six, ” counted down the barker. “Five … four … ”
    Enrique reached up with his right hand and crossed himself.
    * * *
    Acapulco de la Madrid Cordero stood next to a sparkling clean second floor window of the Lucky Dollar Hotel and Casino, damp rag in one hand, a bottle of Windex in the other. The