Cosmo the Magnificent

In the twisted and complex world of carnival performing artists, Cosmo the Magnificent could be found on the bottom rung of the ladder of his profession as a psychic.  His seances and psychic paraphernalia was as amateurish and fake as any on the Midwest Circuit during the early 1930’s as national interest in the occult reached its zenith. 

Born in a small town in Oklahoma town forty some years ago, he was christened Earl Patrick Landers.  As soon as his legs could carry him he left home and became a member of Zyicendeld Traveling Circus or Ziggie's for short.  Yogart Zyicendeld, an immigrant from Slovenia, was as close as anyone could come to Robert Louis Stevenson's immortal Long John Silver from Treasure Island.  He even sounded like a pirate when he spoke with his thick Slavic accent.  Unlike the famous literary pirate, Yogart was not missing his leg, but the same could not be said for both his heart and soul as popular belief held that he had bartered them away a long time ago as part of the deal when he purchased his circus from the devil.  Often in a foul mood, he would shake his fists at all of his performers as he passed by them each morning as they traveled from North Dakota to Texas and back again during the spring, summer and autumn.

Now in his eighteenth year with Ziggie's, Earl sat staring in the mirror as he applied his pancake makeup so his white face would not appear as white Hamlet's ghost while he was running through his act in the third ring.  The third ring was on a platform and was close to the audience so they could see and appreciate his sleight of hand routine.  The routine had been done so many times, he knew it by rote and it often felt tired and boring.   Dead Mother was by far his fan favorite routine.   He would invite his dead mother to join him onstage where they would engage in a spirited conversation which usually ended in an argument that left the audience in stitches.  Dead Mother was an image of a veiled old woman projected on a screen behind him with Kim Voltheim adding the voice of Dead Mother.  Still of all his showmanship, it was his seances and tarot readings after the show that brought the money rolling in for him.

There was only one drawback and that was his predictions were wrong over eighty percent of the time.  His promotion guaranteed the opposite, so it was little wonder that some of his customers got riled especially when his forecast concerned his customer's financial future. And as it turned out, it was a dangerous time to miscast such affairs.

He had become the psychic who could not predict the future.  It was an inside joke among the rest of the crew and it hurt.  He would never let on to such a thing because spending over two hundred days a year with them, any sign of weakness or pain would become a target for ridicule.  Carnies were not known for their empathy or sense of compassion.

"Loved Dead Mother last night." Benson sat in the chair next to Earl and began to apply his clown makeup.

"Thanks." Earl managed to sigh as he began applying his eye makeup.

"You oughta Stick to that." Benson used broad strokes to paint his face white, "The other stuff just doesn't have that swing."

"Right, swing." He pointed his finger at the clown and pretended to shoot a pistol at him.

That evening everything went flat.  The projector malfunctioned and Dead Mother was a complete flop.  Some of the gimmicks also did not work during the séance and all of his customers demanded their money back.  Kim obliged their request in order to prevent a riot.

"Everyone has an off night." She flopped down in a vacant chair near him.

"Seems to be a more common occurrence lately." He  put his aching head into his hands.

"Nobody really knows the future.  I think it's for our own good." She takes a healthy swig from her flask and offers some to Earl. He shakes his head.

"If I could see into the future, I'd be doing my own bit on Vaudeville." He winked at her.  Though she was half his age, she was pretty with her bright brown eyes and dark hair that curled right at her shoulders.  With her hourglass shape and fishnet stockings, she was fun to look at, he thought as she got up and left the tent.

Ah the tent, his home away from home most of the year before he'd drift back to St. Louis where he'd hibernate at a flop house until spring. In his twelve by twelve space enclosed by canvas walls, he would exist and perform as the show traveled from town to town each with a grange hall and silos that reached to the blue skies like the hands of God.

Many of the carnies felt, if he was the genuine deal, he would not have been married six times.  Something should have told him, "Let's not go down this road again."  But temptation was like Dead Mother, the premise was seemed very promising, but the results never changed.  It was the one thing he seemed he could count on. 

Collapsing on his metal collapsible cot, he was asleep and did not hear the rumble of the thunderstorm that was approaching from the north.  The place where they had camped for the night didn't even have a proper name.  Some of the locals referred to the place as hog excrement, but using a much  cruder phrase.  The ground was marshy due to the Platte River flowing over flat hard ground.  

Thunderstorms were common in this area. The lightning would spider web across the ebony night sky followed by the cannon of thunder.  No matter how loud the cannon sounded, Earl did not stir a muscle wrapped in his cozy blankets.

Then it happened.  Lightning has no feeling or sense of direction.  It is governed by the laws of nature.  The wires that hung loosely between each of the tents attracted a bolt of lightning.  The force of the energy from the bolt blew up the generator and snaked along the conductive wires.  It just so happened the path the surge of electricity went into Earl's tent as he slept and sparked up the metal frame that cradled him.  He sat up in his cot.  He did not see the smoke that escaped from his ears, because if he had he might have died of fright.

"What the Hell?" Was all he could manage.  His graying hair was standing straight up from his head.  There was a tingling still running renegade through his extremities.

 When he staggered out of his tent, the sun was breaking like an egg over the bruised horizon. 

The Chuck wagon was cooking breakfast.  The ground was soggy from the rain in the storm. He stopped for a minute.

Smoke.  Flames.  Hotel in town.  People screaming unable to get out safely.

"Hey Earl, what's up?" Cookie the chef asked as he scooped breakfast onto a plate and handed it to Earl.

"Do you smell it?" He asked, holding his plate.

"Smell what?" Cookie sniffed and shook his head. 

"Smoke.  Smells like something is on fire." He answered as he started to shake.

"Seriously?  I just got done cooking breakfast." He chuckled, "All I can smell is grease."

He put his plate down near Kim who was just finishing her breakfast.

"You smell it doncha, Kim." He asked before taking a fork full of SOS on his plate.

"What the mud, mold and mildew?" She lit a cigarette to have with her coffee.

"No, the smoke." 

"What smoke?" She blew the match out, "Are you getting on me about my habit?" 

"No, it smells like something Is on fire.  Like a building." He seemed shaken.  Kim had never seen him rattled like this before.

"Maybe I can borrow Yogart's car and see for myself." He put down his fork.

"Are you out of your skull?  He wouldn't let you borrow his car if Chicago was on fire." She laughed as she got up and left him sitting there with a strange expression on his face.

Getting the car keys was the easy part since Yogart never put them away. The road to town was challenging as it snaked and swerved along the river.  Charleton was the small town nearest to their camp, but everything looked peaceful and normal.  The police station was no bigger than a phone booth, but he parked his boss' car in front of the building.

A fat man in a policeman’s uniform sat at the only desk in the tiny room reading a newspaper. Looking up, the rotund officer asked, "Can I help you?"  

The question lacked a note of sincerity, but Earl stepped forward, "There's going to be a fire at the hotel." 

"And why do you think...wait a minute aren't you Cosmo the Magnificent?" He sat up, putting the paper aside. With a stern expression, "Only you weren't so magnificent last night."

"Sorry, but the hotel is going to burn down and a lot of people are going to die." 

"Who says so?" The large man asked with a definite expression of doubt on his face.

"I had a dream and-" 

"I've got better things to do-" He began.

"Like what?  Humor me.  What do you have to lose?  Sit here and watch the grass grow?" Earl shrugged.

Rolling his eyes, the officer got to his feet, "I should run you in, but I am kind of bored." 

Together, they walked out of the office.  The hotel was just a couple buildings away.  The desk clerk put away his bottle of whiskey when he saw Officer Payton saunter into the fleabag hotel with a stranger.  

“Can I help you, Officer Payton?” He asked, smiling.

“Sure can Shep.  This guy here thinks the hotel is in some kind of danger.” He jerked thumb toward Earl.

“I see.” He nodded.

“I figured I’d give him the courtesy of having a look around.” He shook his head to let Shepherd Rotterham know he figured this would be a waste of time. 

“Where are the fuses?” Earl asked.

“Follow me.” Shep led him into the basement which was no more than a small room with nothing but a couple of busted chairs and a fuse box.  Unlatching the fastener, the metal door swung open.  No soon had this happened when one of the fuses blew sending sparks arcing in every direction.  Some of them managed to light a chair on fire. “Son of a b---.” 

Shep did not have time to finish his final word as flames began to lick up the walls of the small room.  The three of them ran up the stairs and began beating on doors to wake the customers.  As the sleepy people poked their heads out of their room in a variety of sleepwear, Shep began yelling, “Fire!  Get out!” 

The hall quickly filled with thick black smoke.  Shep, Officer Payton and Earl managed to help everyone out of the hotel safely as the two fire trucks arrived, but by the time they were able to hook up their hoses, the roof collapsed and the Good Nite Hotel was no more, but everyone had managed to make it out safely.

“Cosmo, this town owes you a great debt in saving the lives of these folks.” Officer Payton declared.

The evening’s performance at Ziggie’s was standing room only.  When Cosmo the Magnificent took the third ring, he received a standing ovation.  Later there was a line that wrapped around the fairgrounds of people to have their fortunes read.

“Am I gonna get Maybelle to marry me?”

“Am I gonna have a bumper crop this year?”

“Is my daughter gonna have a healthy baby?” 

“Am I gonna get good grades in school this year?”

“Am I finally gonna be able to leave Charleton this year?”

“Is getting a new tractor a good idea this year?”

All the questions he was asked were about things only they cared about.  But Earl was having other premonitions that disturbed him, especially Yogart selling the circus to an investor who would give all the members of the company their pink slips.  Being out of work was a death sentence to most of the carnies who had no other employable skills.  He saw the great winds sweep across the Midwest especially in Oklahoma and Kansas where the Dust Bowl would make the lives of the people miserable in the Midwest.  

Why had God given him this gift?  Was it a gift since with it came the horrible visions of the future.  It was not a pleasant picture either.  Battleships were being bombed.  People in Europe were disappearing in camps where they were murdered by the millions.  People of Japanese descent were sent to internment camps in this country even if they were born in the United States.  Black people were subjected to subhuman treatment in many places.  There would be changes in the climate of the world due to unrestricted consumption of the earth’s resources.   

Each night he would have a new nightmare about the future. Some of the nightmares he did not understand, but the message was clear that the future was not as bright as he had hoped.  But he would keep that secret to himself. 

He would tell them what they wanted to hear knowing that most of it was a lie. It was no different really than when he had no idea of what was going to happen in the future before the thunderstorm.  If he told them the truth he saw, the customer would not wish to hear the reality, because it was not what they wanted to happen.  He was wise enough to know if he wanted to keep collecting their money, he was under an obligation to give the customer what he or she wanted.  Each night he would drink himself to sleep hoping to keep the restless spirits quiet.  

“Why so glum?” Benson asked as he was removing his clown make up after a show.

“I dunno, just feeling a bit uneasy.” Earl answered as he lit a cigarette.

“We are making a killing, because of you and your psychic abilities.” Benson glanced over at him with half his face still covered in white grease paint. 

“Yogart is thinking of selling the show.” Earl sighed.

“What?  That’s looney.  He’s making a fortune.” Benson stared bug eyed at him. 

“He’s getting too old to travel…so he says.” Earl tossed his cigarette on the ground and crushed it out with his foot.

Ziggie’s was pulling up stakes about six miles from Wichita when Yogart called a meeting to announce that this would be the last swing through the Midwest.  At the end of the season Ziggie’s would no longer be in business.  Benson burst into Earl’s tent in a violent rage.  After nearly beating Earl to death, he runs out never to be seen again by the rest of the crew.

Most of the bruises and contusions heal, but knowing that this would be their last year, made Earl morose to the point he could no longer do his act as Cosmo the Magnificent.  

While in Pierre, South Dakota, a late summer thunderstorm swept in.  A bolt of lightning struck a tree near Earl’s tent. The bolt arced and sent a current of electricity through his metal framed cot. 

When he awoke, he felt very rested.  He did not have any of his usual nightmares.

“How ya doin’?” Cookie asked as he handed him a plate of biscuits and gravy.

“Pretty darn good.  My shoulder does not feel stiff and some of my bruises are healing.” He sat at the portable table that was the cafeteria.

“So whadda make of this being our last gig?” Cookie sat at the table with Earl.   Earl knew he wanted to hear Cosmo the Magnificent speak about what he was seeing in the future, but what was strange is Earl did not have a clue.  He saw nothing.  The future was as black as the prairie night. 

“I guess we're gonna have to find new jobs.” Earl said as he swallowed.  There were lumps of flour in the gravy as Cookie was not so good at mixing ingredients. 

“Well if that don’t beat all.” Cookie hissed.  He wasn’t sure if he was more disappointed in the bleak future or the fact that Earl’s answer did not seem to answer the question the way he hoped it would.

“I’m gonna probably find my way back to St. Louis.” Earl nodded as he dumped his nearly full plate into the garbage can. “I have no idea what’s gonna happen after that and frankly I kinda like it that way.” 

That evening after their final show in Pierre, Earl Patrick Landers grabbed his valise and walked to the railway station where he would ride a boxcar with a dozen or so other riders toward St. Louis.  

On his metal cot lay the turban he used to wear when he was Cosmo the Magnificent.