THE MOTORDROME ROLLER  GIRLS
From Freakish by Martin Higgins

It’s no secret that mechanical rides in a carnival are a timid person’s way of daring death; getting that tingle of excitement that builds into a jolt of horror. For a moment, anyway. Because they know they won’t crash on the roller coaster or fall from the Big Eli Ferris wheel. Well, ninety-nine percent of the time anyway. But it’s the possibility that they’re risking their life that provides the thrill they pony up for. Sure, there are other death-defying excitements on the lot: watching the sword swallower, the water-glass eater, the Indian fakir piercing his skin with long needles and lying on a nail board, or Madame Volta surviving an arcing and sparking electric chair.

But these are all gaffed attractions, performed for the rubes to gawk and golly over.

Then there is the motordrome – or as they used to be called “the motor velodrome” - the premier, carny daredevil show with motorcycles and go-carts racing around the inside wall of a gigantic barrel-like raceway. Looking like a stubby silo some thirty feet in diameter and standing twenty feet high, the drome has a staircase outside leading up to a raised catwalk around the top. Spectators look down into the wooden wall as the riders seem to do the impossible, effortlessly defying gravity. Inside the drum, the flat floor is ramped up into the sheer, wooden-planked wall. The riders gun the bikes around the floor and take to the upward-sloped floor until centripetal force lets them race up and down the wall sideways. Then they do dare-devil tricks and rise to the top to snatch dollars out of outstretched hands.

​Hell, there was even a guy - Claude Roue - who pedaled a damn bicycle fast enough to ride the wall sideways, defying gravity. He’d hang on to a motorcycle to get up to speed, then let go and pedal like mad. Seeing the bicycle and motorcycle zigzagging up and down drove the spectators wild. To add a bit of bravado, he’d steer with one hand and wave a little French flag to the spectators above. It was in all the newspapers.

After a couple years, Claude headed back to France and built his own motordrome attraction; Le Seau du Diable! which means The Devil’s Bucket.

Three things make this gravity-defying attraction possible – centripetal force, friction, and guts. While racing around, the gravity force – what you call your g-force – can be three or four times stronger than just standing on the ground. So, the bike frame needs to be specially re-enforced and the rider – say, 165 pounds – feels like he weighs five hundred pounds or so and, minute-by-minute, gets light-headed as the blood drains from his noggin. Or her noggin,

I know, I know. Hang on, I’ll get to that.

Five large is nearly Dolly Dimple’s six hundred on the hoof when she was with Ringling. The dimples in her elbows were so deep, they could hold quarters. That’s how she got her name. Celesta Geyer was her birth name, but Dimples became so well-known it’s now used as the name of any fat lady in a sideshow. After a major heart attack, her doc said she’d be a goner in six months when her heart finally gives out.
Next thing you know she starved herself down to a buck twelve in a year. That’s about a pound a day. There’s your death-defying attraction; staying hungry to beat the reaper.

But that’s another parable.

Before I ever saw board-track riders, Roland told me about the Coney Island Motordrome where Indian Scout motorcycles with beefed-up frames rode the walls. He met the man who built the vertical track in Luna Park and saw how Curly Lee Cody and his brother Cyclone Jack zoomed up the walls, crisscrossed, sat sidesaddle, and, more than a few times, crashed on their way down. But there was plenty of money to mend the broken bones when the Scouts conked out or got a flat and fell like bricks.

Eventually, the walls caught so much oil that even the fastest motorcycles couldn't always get traction. Add to that, the beat-up scooters often had dented, leaky gas tanks, random electrical sparks, and balding tires. The thrill of watching sideways racing was doubled by the possibility of a mechanical failure or driver flub to end a race with a bang.

After all, the bally was “Come see the reckless riders!” We carny folk love to play with words.
One season, that drome lost four people to never-should-have-happened accidents. The horror spectacles just brought bigger crowds.

When Roland and I first hit the road, several motordromes were touring with carnies.  They traveled with regular set-up and tear-down crews to speed up construction of “the barrel” but often needed to skip the smaller, quickie town bookings due to scheduling. The roughnecks and most of the riders were a kooky bunch and even the more normal of them was still half a bubble off level. I think the speed and fumes got into their heads and they all thought they were Brando when they threw on a leather jacket.

Young, daring boys set a lot of young gals on fire, especially those looking to escape their sleepy town life and the guys took full advantage of that. Of course, none of them was looking for love and marriage. The road is long and there are always opportunities to exploit. “Private parts and broken hearts…”

There were a couple of wall-racing gals who could handle both the drome and all the horndog townie guys… and sometimes the occasional aroused girl. They drew big crowds - sitting onstage straddling a shiny Indian Scout with its muffler removed, gunning the engine, and drowning out the wallah of the midway. Sometimes the talker would punctuate his bally by putting his microphone next to the exhaust pipe to send the roar out through the drome’s big, metal loudspeakers.

The stage bike’s rear wheel was on a pair of rollers so she could “ride” with her feet up on the pegs while revving a crowd-drawing racket. Right there you’d have four things that guys crave: speed, noise, sex, and the possibility of watching a race and a wreck. The money rolled in, and the drome agent’s cut was hefty.

The best “Wall of Death” performers were always looking for a new twist to outdo their competition. Yeah, there were motorcycles with and without sidecars, go-carts, bicycles, and even miniature automobiles pulling in big crowds, but there were two women who wanted to take it to the next level.

Bonnie and Vena were tired of working the Roller Derby and skating hard to keep up with the pack, jamming, blocking, and throwing punches when need be. Both were bruised, scarred, and looking to opt out of the racket when they hit our midway in Redding, California. Penn Cranna’s “Well of Hell” drome was packing them in.  They’d heard the roaring drone and crowd cheers and it struck a chord in them and they were willing to wait in the crowded line through a full show to climb the stairs and get a peek.

By the time they got to the walkway they were giddy with excitement and seeing Dorothy Schoonmaker riding sidesaddle around the wall, they knew where they wanted to go. I’m not going to get into it, but there were more than exhaust fumes in the air. Girls will be girls.

They stayed to watch a half-dozen shows, talking between themselves over the roar of the engines. Dot took note of them after her second run and gave them a wink. Later that night, they snuck onto the backlot and introduced themselves. After a couple compliments and laid-back chit-chat, the three of them took off and didn’t come back to the lot until the next morning.

The other bike riders were suspicious when Dot announced she had new “partners.” Bonnie was beefier than half the guys there and Vena had turned on the charm. There was confusion and suspicion all `round. The “partners” bit had them all scratching their heads. What kind of partners?

Straight off, Penn said, “No good” explaining his crew cut wasn’t big enough to pay for any hire-ons. Besides, neither of the women could handle a cycle and he already had a gal, so why add two newbies? He stared at them hard and stood his ground. Dot nodded and looked from Bonnie to Vena to Penn.

“Fine,” she said, “I’m gone. Cash me out.”

Penn looked to his riders and mechanic to look for support. Nobody made a peep.

Like I said, Bonnie was a gruff farmgirl all of six feet tall and built like a well-digger. Vena was slim, seductive, and assertive, so the guys were careful about how they handled the new wannabe additions to their crew until they could figure out how they were going to lay it down. Or lay Vena down. If, that is.
You know, it’s always ad-lib `til you can suss it out. Then you take your best guess.

In those days, operators rarely had insurance, so everyone was “on their own” when it came to accidents and losses. At first, the crew argued about the women suffering physical injuries and the likelihood of track accidents with newcomers. Bonnie lifted the leg of her pants and showed a long, deep scar from sustaining a compound fracture during a derby pile-up, and Vena pushed a dental flipper out on her tongue holding her two front teeth. The guy’s concerns were shelved.

Still, Penn was resolute. “I don’t want or need more riders.”

Dot said, “They won’t be riders.”

“Then what?” Penn barked, coming to a rapid boil.

She said, “Watch. Just hold your mud and watch.”

Penn shook his head, “Nutso. Just plain crazy.”

Dorothy told Bonnie and Vena to skate up and head into the well while she warmed up her Indian. The rest
of the crew went up on the catwalk expecting to watch a disaster. They got a surprise.

Dorothy kick-started her bike and started circling the floor, just below the inclined wall ramps. The skaters rolled in through the hatch door, wearing their old roller derby jerseys with new, black, inked-in names scrawled across their shoulders; Bonnie’s read “Assault” and Vena’s, “Pepper.”  As the Indian passed them, they grabbed onto the back of its wide, leather seat and took off, up onto the ramp.

The crew stared at a sight they had never seen before.

The skaters were used to high-speed maneuvers, whipping each other ahead with a shove, and juking back and forth to change positions. Once they were sideways on the wall, they were as at home there as on the flat and banked tracks they rolled over for years. Dorothy roared forward and Bonnie yanked Vena’s arm and whipped her ahead of the cycle, past the front wheel. She spun around, skating backward, and held the handlebars.

Above her, the crew went goggle-eyed. Penn instantly knew this stunt alone was worth jacking up the admission price. He cooled down as he ran numbers in his head. He had the oddest habit. When he was thinking business, he stuck his hand in his pants pocket and jingled coins. He always had a load of coins in there.

Nervous, I guess.

Bonnie and Vena had to maintain just over thirty miles an hour to skate sideways while standing upright, so the bike strained under the increased load, blowing smoky exhaust and backfiring all the way `round. Remember, they were now several times their own weight – Bonnie was 180 on solid ground – so there was a fair amount of muscle strength involved. The overall effect was staggering, inciting a morbid fascination in the crew that rubberneckers succumb to when they slow down to stare at traffic wrecks.
Each spin around the drome promised a crash.

Vena pushed off the handlebars and spun to face forward, juked to the side, slowed, and veered down to the ramps while Bonnie pulled up next to Dot and took the controls. Dot spun backward and raised her hands as Bonnie steered and handled the twistgrip accelerator until she spun back again and took over the controls. Bonnie let go and coasted down to the floor, but misjudged the ramp, fell hard, and tumbled into the parked bikes on the floor. Dot cut power, dropped down quickly, and made a couple circles on the floor before ditching the Scout and coming to Bonnie’s aid.

Penn and the crew rushed down to the hatch door, but by the time they got there, all three women were outside, excited and laughing about their performance. All eyes were on Bonnie who held up her left hand for Penn to see; the pinkie was dislocated, pointing sideways at an odd angle from her palm.

“See?” he said.

Bonnie grabbed the pinkie with her right hand, pulled it straight, and set it back in its joint without making a sound. She waved the pinkie at Penn.

“See?” she said.

And that was it. They were in. Penn hung a new banner on the drome; “MOTOR ROLLER GIRLS!

By the end of that season, all three Roller Girls had silver, metallic leathers with “MRG” embroidered on the jacket’s back, skin-tight pants, and knee-high black boots. They never used helmets, leaving Dot and Vena’s brunette hair to fly in the wind and Bonnie’s short “butch cut” to stand tall above her forehead. Dot understood that her partners were… as they say, “partners” and kept clear of getting between them. She knew Bonnie had a short fuse.

Vena, on the other hand, had a working arrangement with Bonnie to bring in extra cash by “dating” the Clems – fleecing them - and occasionally doing likewise with interested women. There was never any sex, per se, that was the hard and fast rule between her and Bonnie – but there were seductive trysts and expensive gifts and, more often than not, cash for the taking. A cheek kiss or prolonged hug was the pay-off for the chump, that and a whispered “We must do this again” to stave off the overheated swain. I called the con, “a peck and a promise.”

With her sharp looks, a short skirt, and drenched in perfume, she took to fattening her roll by wing-dingin’ in the back of the crowd at the ten-in-one stage.  The talker would bally up a juicy crowd and, when he brought out a strong freak, she’d shriek and swoon into some sugar daddy to create a hubbub and swell the crowd. The talker would grab the attention to have the crowd move forward – toward the stage – to “give her room to breathe.” Get a bunch of marks to follow three of your commands and you own them.

For this, she got a modest cut of the take and, often as not, a potential sucker that night for her “peck `n promise” con.

Bonnie thrived on playing jealous and many times lorded it over Vena to make her feel like she was a whore. Just idle crap and half-joking insults all the time, even in front of the other drome riders. That was catnip to those rough boys, each figuring if there might be some workable angle to score Vena. They heard what they wanted to hear in the insults and their imaginations ran wild. Riders had their hands full anyway with flocks of small-town girls who saw sexy guys and a ticket to anywhere else. Cranna became an expert at cooling down and flagging off outraged fathers.

Bonnie kept on teasing Vena who started getting her back up about it, but the side cash and pawnable gifts were enough to keep them both hooked up; eating top-shelf and living what looked like happy. So, it never came to blows. I figure all the gravy covered their meat and potatoes.

Look, I know everyone has some kind of kink – from craving raisin cookies to poking in a phone booth. What you do in your off-time is nobody’s business, but I kept a wary eye on the girl’s grift when they started badger-baiting married guys.

Vena’d agree to a dinner with some fat dupe, or fish around a gin joint for a tipsy mark, or stroll along a shady lane and chat up a passing admirer. Bonnie would be off aways, watching her like a hawk. They worked out a bunch of hand signals and cues, so they could to let the pot come up to a boil before barging in. Bonnie’d be full of piss and vinegar, accusing Vena of being unfaithful, then bum-rush the guy – puff-`up big in his face –threatening to pound him. Or, as I said, occasionally smack a hot-to-trot gal.  Either way, the mark would be scared stiff trying to puzzle out the lesbian angle and – as I said, Bonnie was a sizable gal, dressed like a lumberjack who’s never been in a forest – and getting between two women in a liaison back then was more dangerous than it is now.

Bonnie tagged a few guys; broke some noses and blackened eyes. The cops might show up on the lot the next day, but since we were always on the move, the law had problems connecting her to the assault. That was a bonus for Bonnie – a benefit of being ‘with it.’ Nothing made her happier. She got into the other kinds of scraps after that, and once or twice wound up skating a stint in stoney lonesome by the skin of her teeth. She got a serious buzz being on the edge.

They were a drome hit for a couple of seasons and the newspapers and film outfits went nuts, since speed, thrills, and sexy women were their bread and butter. Hang on, that’s two sexy women and Bonnie. But like all new amusements, their shine wore off and the lust for money took over. From that point, fame meant nothing to them; outright greed replaced the showbiz kick and blotted out whatever remained of smarts.

I’m not setting up a parable here. God knows I just say what I’ve seen. Perhaps that’s where parables come from. Paying attention, keeping your nose clean, and learning the lingo. There are plenty of meathead boo-boos in my own tawdry tale. Some say the flubs are life lessons, others say they’re a result of not paying attention to past lessons. Bonnie’s haywire snap was a doozy, so you might never need to heed her lesson.

Cranna knew, upfront, that the girls were an “item” as they say. They were “in the life.” But some guys either miss that or figure out they can ‘turn them straight.” Not that it was hard to figure; on the street, Bonnie wore blue-collar duds or leisure suits, a big Seiko Diver watch, and she smoked cigarillos – little brown cigars. Damn things had ten times the nicotine of Luckies. Cranna hated the stink and eventually cracked that, “You’ll likely get lung cancer from them. Bonnie took a deep drag and blew the smoke in his face.

“Is that so?” she snarled, “If I do, I’ll cough up the tumors and spit `em out!” And with that, she spit on the ground next to his shoes.

A hard-edged woman; not the cuddle-bug type.

I know all this because I heard it described a dozen times by as many Show Folk. All Carny folk speak three languages: plain English, Ciazarney - Carny slang, and dirt gossip. Everybody knows everybody’s business and everybody’s dirty, wet wash. It’s how we stay neighborly.

The word on the lot? Bonnie was trouble.

Vena, on the other hand, was a slim, foxlike girl with the nails, the hair, push-up bra - you know - the works. Guys went daffy when she was around. She wore this musky perfume that left a vapor trail behind her that worked like catnip. Naturally, she could walk through a bally crowd and have men shoving each other to get a look or outright tag after her.

They had a racket and they worked it like there was no tomorrow and, my-my, how the money rolled in.     
Well, that’d be enough blow about them birds to earn my flask for tomorrow. No need to blabber on about what turned out to be a sad tale.

Look at the time. I've been talking for near 40 minutes. That can be part one, I guess.

(Pause in tape)

A sad tale.

(Pause in tape)

Aw Hell, I’ll go on, second bottle notwithstanding. Ordinarily, that’d be a one-bottle story, but these two birds were a whole `nother something. So, whether there’s another pint or what, it’s not even midnight. I’ll lay it out.

I call this part “trouble in paradise.”

Back when there were doo-wop groups, leather jackets, and guys conking their pompadour with grease, there was a hit song everybody got stuck in their ear; Trouble in Paradise.” Love songs about joy or pain or loss, anger, or lust are just songwriters covering all the bases. But this song, added a twist; it was about worry. Everybody got to know the words and sang along with the radio since it had a bouncy, happy tune… but there was a sniff of doom in it.

I’m sure some sad sacks recognized what the words described and listened in silence, maybe while nursing their wounds.

"There's trouble in paradise, my turtledove's changing wings. There's trouble in paradise, the birds no longer sing."

For Bonnie Compton, trouble hit her paradise like a sledgehammer.
Again, during their glory days, money rolled in and there were new clothes, a fancy, done-up bunk wagon, and vino with their steaks. I don't know if people still call that kind of take “easy street,” but seems like easy street has been torn up and replaced with low-rent apartments, fast-food grabs, and motels. Evolution in the wrong direction or just plain rot. You figure.

No matter, they had it damn good. Then everything changed pronto.

Roland was dealing with the cough that never goes away and winding down a bit. Naturally, everybody had
his ear – lot temps, roughnecks, grab joint cooks, veterans, the whole show - and he knew every detail about every damn thing that needed handling. We kept each other in the know. Forewarned is forearmed. 

Midway into the season, Vena missed a week of shows claiming girl problems, cramps, puking, and what have you. Bonnie carried on with Dot doing a two-girl act — should say, a two-woman act. Same cycle, same pitch at the drome, but a lot less thrilling for the crowd. How they worked things out after-hours I have no idea. Minus Vena, the act was half-baked but, for a spell, they still packed them in and Cranna said the box was great. So, he got his skim, and the gals had no complaints from him. So far, workable.

This arrangement went on until, after a couple weeks, it stopped feeling temporary and Vena didn't seem to be getting any better. Only when Bonnie and Dot were the blow-off act at the end of the show, did the crowd start walking out. They got moved to middle-act and bannered as “BonDot – Speed Sisters!”.

The opener slot was Kit Jareau, a semi-pro football jock who was cut for packing his nose with daffy dust and bird-dogging all the dollies. His drome stage banner on the read, “Justin Zane – Two-Wheel Daredevil!” This show handle set up the talker to say, “How DOES he ride on the walls?” as Kit stepped  onstage and yelled, “I’M JUSTIN ZANE!” The bastard was nuttier than a fruitcake and rode the big barrel like a lunatic. Cranna’s power-opener, golden boy.

“BonDot? That’s a laugh!” Jareau said, teasing the women, “In Quebec we say bonne dot, but it means small dowry like a gift for marriage or someone having  a God-given talent. So tell me, girls, since we are not talking about talent here, when do you two plan to marry?”

And with that, he made two enemies at once.

Despite her aches and nausea and vomiting, Vena continued to refuse seeing doctors or geting checked out at a hospital. She pushed a bit too hard on her “wait-and-see” or “it’ll-pass” gripe. But it didn't jell, and being stubborn became her all-purpose excuse to lay around, goldbrick, and whine about everything.
Roland filled me in with all the details about their blooming discontent and advised me to expect bitter fruit.

By week three, Bonnie was getting sick too, sick of the bull. Pressure took a toll, and she took to having a pop or two in the morning… and a few more after wrapping up after the last show. Not so much sauce that she couldn't skate or drive, but enough to lay aside her aches and lighten up her daily headache a bit. At the same time, it was turning her heart colder than a snake sleeping in the shade. Her anger at Vena’s shirking came on strong and she started ragging everyone else’s ass instead. She carried a hip flask and, with a couple swigs or a couple cans of malt liquor under her belt, she ditched all pretense of being congenial and her nasty – I say, damned vengeful - side came on strong. She was not a happy drunk.

There was one knock-down fistfight at the drome where, I was told, she gave as good as she got.
Realizing that could get her bounced, the big woman punched herself in the face until she drew blood from her nose and claimed the throwdown was self-defense; jealous guys and all that, but Penn never believed her.

Things got lots messier from there.

One of the other riders told Roland that Bonnie had tagged Vena a couple times, once leaving a fist hickey on her cheekbone that she hid with makeup. The black and blue bruise was ringed with purple `round the edges, a sign that the blow must have been a stiff one. 

The bickering and fighting went on for a few more days before Bonnie bet it all and spun the big wheel.
Monday morning, with no show that day and no need to be sober, Bonnie got half a bag on and decided she was sick to death of Vena’s waiting-to-get-better bullshit. She shoved Vena into the sidecar of a Drome display bike, and they took off. Roughies, up early to rake the midway, said you could hear them screaming at each other as they drove off to God knows where. They had no map, were in a strange town, and weren’t paying attention to where they were headed…  wherever they thought they were headed.

I’ve heard some say that God sends special angels to watch over fools and drunks. In this case, he had both hands full. Maybe that’s why they drove almost straight to the only clinic in that Cowtown; one clinic and one doctor who also handled veterinarian calls. What you’d call rustic.

In the clinic’s waiting room, the birds stopped singing and the heartbreak began. Vena demanded a nurse rather than a doctor to examine her and Bonnie thought nothing of it, preferring to have no truck with MDs.

They had a different riff about male and female business and that was their way, so be it. But when Vena was led to the clinic's tiny exam room, Bonnie was told to wait where she was.

After a while, the nurse returned but refused to tell Bonnie the diagnosis.

“We can’t make a releasable diagnosis until the doctor arrives. Policy.”

Bonnie got up in her face, “No good. We’re leaving.”

“I’m sorry, who are you to the patient?” the woman said, "Family?"

"You're fucking-a I am!" Bonnie shouted and shoved the woman aside to step around the exam room’s privacy curtain.

Vena was a sight; propped up against pillows in the bed, arms spread wide, head tilted back staring at the ceiling, open-mouthed, moaning out loud.

None of this made sense to Bonnie and she set her face in a fierce scowl at being out in the cold, no doctor, no discussion of the symptoms, no guess at the cause, no advice for treatment.

"What the fuck is going on? What's wrong with you?"

Days later, those words were the repeated gossip joke on the lot. "What the fuck is going on? What's with you?" All the joint operators and grab joint cooks had had it with both the girls. “Not show folk.” They grumbled, “Friggin’ townies.”

Vena raised her head and stared at Bonnie glassy-eyed and unfocused. "I don’t know what I have. They don't know. It might be something I ate at the greasy grab. Bad meat that turned? Spoiled?"

"Don’t even start that shit! I eat the grab food too! That's bullshit.”

She stepped back around the curtain and turned on the nurse who was motioning to a janitor.

“Where's your fucking croaker? You stupid skag! He better know what's up with her!”

The woman smiled and spoke as if she was addressing a six-year-old, “My name is Geelan. Clinic Manager Geelan. The doctor is not scheduled to be here at the clinic until tomorrow.” then sharply, “He’s predisposed." She paused watching Bonnie's eyes, then added, "We can't do anything until then. And you’ll need to wait in the waiting room. You are getting in the way."

Pissed off, Bonnie looked around, then railed at the janitor, “YOU! This whore is a pain in my ass.! I want her out of here!" The old man nodded eagerly, shrugged, and spoke in a singsong to his mop as he dunked it in the wash bucket.

“Good morning, I’m the mop doctor. How are we feeling today?” he looked back at Bonnie and pointed to the bucket, “Hmm. Looks a little pale.”

Bonnie growled and turned back to the nurse who was waving at the janitor to get his attention. “Go to my office and call Doctor Blue. Tell him to hurry and bring his little black bag. It’s an emergency case.”
The man set the mop aside and left to make the call. “Doctor Blue. On the double.”  

Bonnie took a deep breath and whispered, "Was that so hard, Missy? Your head out of your ass now?” Then shook her fist in the woman’s face, “If you didn’t have that silly little hat on your head, I’d fix your mood, but good.”

“Noted.” Geelan said, looking at her aide who was watching intently. “Hear that?” The girl nodded, then looked away.

Vena heard Bonnie’s drunken rage and knew she was headed toward getting physical as she had during the past weeks, so she blurted out. "I think I may need an operation; do you understand? They must look for what's wrong, okay? Bon! You need to go back to the lot and hold down the fort!”

The big gal growled and stormed into the clinic's reception area. She pulled at a chair but didn’t notice it was connected to the chair next to it. “SHIT!” she bellowed, picking them both up and smashing a table lamp and  vase next to them.  "Who the fuck can get their head out of their ass and tell me what the FUCK is going on here? You call this a hospital?"

The receptionist grabbed her purse and exited into the rear of the clinic, muttering, “Mayday. Mayday...”
Geelan raised her voice, “It’s not a hospital. The hospital is thirty miles away. Maybe that’s where you wanted to be.” said the nurse. “I am asking you to leave our clinic.”

Bonnie flung another chair and swept all the brochures and clipboards from the reception counter with her arm. Stomping around the room, she smashed everything that wasn’t nailed down. The nurse’s aide panicked until Geelan took her by the arm and whispered, “Midazolam, stat.” The aide squinted, “Dose?”

The nurse sized up Bonnie, “Ten mil.” The aide hurried off, “Ten. Gotcha’.”

The chaos subsided when the front door opened, and two policemen stepped in. One was an older, gray-haired, husky sergeant with a thick, white mustache, the other was a young patrolman with a military-style crew cut. They stood silently, taking in the damage.

The older cop fixed his eyes on Bonnie who was clutching a shattered flowerpot.

“Re-decorating, are we? Why don’t you set that down and we can talk about what’s going on?”

Bonnie dropped the clay shard and shot a fierce look at the nurse. “You made this happen. You are unprofessional. You!” she screamed.

Geelan ignored her and nodded to the gray-haired cop. “Doctor Blue. So glad you could make it. We need a consult here. This woman wants to know what’s wrong with a woman she brought in before she is willing to leave. Which should be right now.”

“I’m Sergeant Harding, Ma’am. Just need a minute of your time.”

He looked around at the wreckage and acted surprised. “Hmm… someone’s been busy. Well, who did this?” he said, pointing to Bonnie, “You? Or… the other woman… who is… where?”

The aide pointed to the exam room.

“Okay…” he said, “Which one is Compton? Bonnie Compton?”

The janitor pointed to Bonnie, then pointed to the exam room, adding, “I don’t know what her name is.” which baffled the nurse.

“I see. And who owns the motorcycle?”

Bonnie, still pumped up from her rampage, snapped, “I didn’t steal it. I borrowed it from where I work. It was an emergency. My woman is very sick and said she probably needs an operation.” turning to the nurse,

“Right? When the doctor gets here? It’s an emergency, right? Tell them!”

Geelan responded matter-of-factly “Doctor Deming may, if time permits, stop by later to determine her problem. If not today, then tomorrow. This woman,” pointing at Bonnie, “Miss Compton, is it? has decided that violence is the appropriate method for dealing with medical issues.”

Harding took another quick look around the room and looked Bonnie in the eye.

“Well, Ma’am, how’s all that working out for you?

Bonnie glared at him. “I am here with a sick woman. I don’t have to leave.”

“That’s admirable. We are here about the motorcycle. Registered to a Mr. Cranna?” then, checking a notepad, “Blue `51 Harley Davidson FL with sidecar…” he pulled the curtain back from the waiting room window and looked outside, then pulled the curtain back further to reveal the motorcycle and turned to Bonnie, “…as a decorator, what would you call that out there? A Robin’s Egg Blue? Faded Jade?” then added, “Wife says I’m terrible with colors.”

“I borrowed it.” Bonnie snapped, “It was an emergency.”

The young cop fished a pack of gum out of his pocket and offered Bonnie a piece. “Beeman’s?” he said,
“It’s got that fresh clove flavor.”

“No.”

“Borrowed? Uh-huh.” Harding repeated, scribbling in his notebook, “Check. And… how were you planning to return it?”

“Same way I got it here.”

Haddigan offered the gum again. Bonnie shut her eyes shook her head.

Harding watched them, closed the pad, put it in his shirt pocket, leaned close to her face, and sniffed.

“Haddigan?”

The patrolman stood at attention. “Sir?”

“I’m not smelling any fresh, clove scent over here. Smells like Rye. Wasn’t there an empty bottle in that sidsecar?”

“Yes, Sir. Old Overholt. Rye.” Haddigan stuck his tongue out, then added, “Old Overcoat.”

The patrolman smiled at Bonnie, waved the gum limply, shrugged, and stuck it back in his pocket.
“Alrighty then,” Harding said, counting off offenses on his fingers, “Felony theft vehicle, operating a motor vehicle while inebriated, destruction of private property… uh,” he shot a glance to the nurse who nodded solemnly. “…and threatening, assault, menacing? We’ll figure it out at the station.” He drew his handcuffs and nodded to Haddigan.

“Miss Compton, you are going to have to ask you to come with us.”

Haddigan cackled, “Say, maybe you can decorate our drunk tank!”

Bonnie raised her fist, “The Hell, you say.”

The policemen laughed and Haddigan drew his nightstick. “Easy now, Bertha. Wouldn’t want to put a part in that pretty hairdo.”

That set her off. She grunted like a bull and drove at the sergeant, who stepped aside to let the patrolman lay out a wicked backhand swing. Bonnie went down on the spot, blood flowing from a deep laceration in her scalp.

“Fuck,” she said, “FUCK! I’ll fucking kill you!”

Geelan took a hypodermic from her aide and plunged it into Bonnie’s arm and, though she struggled to get up, Haddigan was kneeling on her back. The wind went out of her, and she sunk to the floor.

“She’ll be out cold pretty quick.” Geelan said, “And out for a half hour or more.” She looked at the wound,
“Guess she will get to stay here – at least `til we suture that.”

Harding sucked at his teeth and grunted. “The owner didn’t want her hurt, said she was a performer at his carny show.” He looked to Haddigan.

“I don’t think that a few stitches will show under her gorilla costume.” Haddigan added, snorting and grinning.

Geelan smiled weakly. “We’ll get this sorted out and give you a call,” then, to the janitor, “Get Jerry to come help get this woman into Exam Two.”

After the cops came back to the Drome, we got an earful and decided to run out to check in and pick up the Harley. Around that time, Roland was dealing with what he assumed was a cough he’d had since being gassed at Passchendaele. Mustard gas; a slow killer. Later, when blood appeared, a doc let him know that it was cancer. I took over most of his day-to-day responsibilities and life became gray.

So, I rode out with Cranna and Jareau to pick up the bike. 

The car talk was all about second thoughts about hiring on those two wildcards and how they were fast becoming a pain in everybody’s ass.

“We are an odd lot, doing what we do, “

Cranna had a point. Jareau just hated them from the get-go. “Skate Girls” he called them, “Derby Dykes.” Cranna cleared his throat and shot him a look.

Jareau grinned like a possum, loving that he had put a bug up Cranna’s ass.

“Just speaking gospel, Pendleton, isn’t that so?” he said, earning a muttered, “Fuck you!” from Penn. That shut off all talk for the rest of the ride.

Penn was Paul Cranna’s nickname, given to him by his fellow inmates at Pendleton Correctional Facility where he did a six year stretch for killing a man.  During a bar brawl; he hit guy with a beer mug and laid his head open. To look at him, you wouldn’t think he’d do something that drastic, but I’m sure Jareau’s poke rankled him enough to bring on a heap bad memories.

When we got to the clinic, Geelan, her aide, and the janitor talked our ears off about every detail of Bonnie’s rampage and the justification for sedating her. There was much more detail than we wanted but we listened politely.

Big event in a small tent, as that goes.

Bonnie was still knocked out, lying in a hospital bed, and Geelan planned on keeping her that way until the doctor arrived. He wasn’t due to be there until the next day, but the situation called for some attention since it had gotten out of hand. Jareau laughed.

“Ah, she looks so peaceful. Resting in peace?”

Cranna pointed at him and gave him a long, hard stare. “Can it, Kit. That’s not how my riders fly.”
Jareau clammed up and headed toward the receptionist, no doubt to flirt and brag. “Who’s Kit? I’m Justin Zane, Boss.”

Geelan’s aide brought the doctor’s veterinarian bag. They mixed a vial of clear liquid into glass of water, roused Bonnie and had her lean up to sip. A few uneasy swallows and she slumped back down on the pillow, looking raddled and talking muzzy,

“I have to get back… the 2 o’clock spin.”

“Doctor wants her sedated until he gets here.” The aide said.

I looked at Penn, who saw this incident turning into the kind of townie hot water that could spell trouble for the lot; chatter about violence or crime at the show, a sure pinch in the box. Probably thumbing through his memories of another split skull, given his thousand-yard stare.

“I’ve had it with this one. Not cut out for the life.’ he said.

The town’s Sheriff walked in, looking more than a bit annoyed.

“Mr. Fairbank? Mr. Cranna?”

We nodded, and he held up a piece of paper, “A Mr. Brimmer, out at the fairgrounds said either of you should read this and tell me how you’d like to proceed.”

I took the slip and read, “She walks if we square up the locals and hit the road. We stay, she’s in jail until arraignment.”

“What’s the charge?” I asked.

The sheriff took back the paper and stuffed it in his pocket.

“Gentlemen? I’m not the D.A. Just a simple stay or go is all I need to know. I have shit to handle and you people are nothing but trouble looking for a buck. Staying?”

Penn looked at me and shrugged. I thought how Roland would decide. We only had two days before pulling up and moving anyway. Midweek, light crowds, but enough to make a further dent on our operating nut. Gas money and grub.

“She’s all yours, Sheriff. She can find us on the road.” I said, looking to Penn, then added, “What about the other woman?”

The Sheriff handcuffed Bonnie to the bed rail, “Not my problem,” he said. “When this one is patched, tell her I don’t want to see her in my county. Got it?”

We got it loud and clear.

The next day, we heard that Geelan had been giving Bonnie chloral hydrate, which had her loopy enough to answer all sorts of personal questions. Call it blackmail, but the end result put the fear of God in Bonnie, which was all Geelan  wanted. And the gash? They sewed it up with three, rather than six or eight stitches, which left a prizewinner scar at the hairline. An eye-catcher for sure.

Must’ve changed the way people saw Bonnie from then on.

Vena was examined and found to be pregnant. She said she wouldn’t give it up, so Bonnie beat up several suspects. Last we heard; she was doing five to seven in Huron Valley up in Michigan. Lost touch after that except for Vena and the guy she married – an encyclopedia salesman who let her have her way with everything. No kid, though. No idea what happened there.

Crazy coincidence: the janitor, Johnny Blondell, was a flat track bike racer in his day and, after talking up Cranna, wound up joining the drome crew as a mechanic. Hell of a guy, even got up on the wall a few times to show up “the kids” as he called the other riders, “what’s what.” Eventually, he took over as exhibit manager and moved the whole kit and kaboodle to Sweden after Cranna gave up the ghost.

Looking at the big picture, the Bonnie and Vena whammy was a lesson in social choreography. Stay with the step and pay attention to the changes. Life serves up a new dance and we get the chance to trip the light fantastic or trip over our shoelaces. So, call it karma… but it was a just car crash.

Pure doo-wop; nonsense syllables to fill the holes in the song.

“There's trouble in paradise and heaven's not the same. The angels sit and cry. They say it's such a shame.”
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(c) 2024 Martin Higgins
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