Circus Act II: The Security Checkpoint

The day to attend the circus finally arrived, after I had done a little research online during one of the rare moments when my internet signal wasn’t being siphoned off to subsidize nearby rural towns.

I discovered this was the first time in recorded history the circus train had ever stopped in our town.

Usually, the train just barrels through at full speed, leaving behind nothing but environmental toxicity, shattered excitement, and the occasional hit-and-run accident everyone agrees was probably caused by the barista putting two espresso shots instead of three in the conductor’s coffee order.

Or, as the official report later clarified, “an unauthorized sleeping-position adjustment by a fully grown elephant, resulting in temporary weight instability and subsequent cart desynchronization.”

The security checkpoint was being operated by elves, which created certain logistical difficulties.

For one thing, I had to crouch during the search so the elf could reach my upper body. This seemed humiliating for both of us, but mostly for me.

Then I looked around and realized the tall people had become the main entrance attraction. There was more territory to cover, so each tall person had been assigned four elves. One elf was mounted on a small ladder while two others held it for safety reasons, each using one hand to hold the ladder and the other to scroll their phones. The fourth elf was assigned to the lower region, mirroring the search from below with such perfect synchronization that, for a moment, it looked less like security and more like a very underfunded circus act.

My assigned elf began with the standard questions.

“Any weapons?”

“Just my sharp tongue.”

“Any outside food?”

“Yes, but it’s inside me now, so it no longer qualifies as outside food. I binged everything in the parking lot to avoid taking out a loan to cover the historically overpriced food inside.”

That was when he pulled a long silk scarf from my bra.

Then another.

Then another.

Soon he was standing ankle-deep in colorful scarves, still pulling, his expression becoming more serious with every yard of fabric.

He reached behind my ear and produced a coin.

We stared at each other.

“I’m an undercover magician,” I said.

He nodded slowly, as if this confirmed several suspicions.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m going to have to confiscate all of this.”

“The scarves?”

“The scarves, the coin, and the bra, if it contains additional compartments.”

I told him that seemed excessive.

“Ma’am,” he said, “we can’t run the risk of anyone performing tricks inside. I already got in trouble this morning for letting a woman through the checkpoint with tamales hidden in a stroller.”

“She had a baby?”

“No. She was building an unauthorized food empire. The baby bottles were full of red and green salsa.”

I asked how I could get my things back.

He said, “eBay.”

“Excuse me?”

“We put all confiscated items on eBay. That way, guests have a fair opportunity to recover their belongings.”

“That sounds like theft.”

“No,” he said. “Theft is when you don’t give people a chance to bid.”

He handed me a small card with the circus logo on it.

“Search: ‘used magician scarves, suspicious origin.’ If you’re lucky, no one else will want them.”

Then he looked me up and down and added, “Although the coin may go fast. Collectors love ear money.”

“Where’s the rabbit?” he asked.

“He went down the first pothole he saw on the street.”

You know a small town is growing too fast when the roads start looking like honeycombs.

“That’s unfortunate,” the elf said. “At least you’re saving an extra admission fee by not bringing him.”

“Charge me extra? I was just going to carry him on my back.”

“Still counts.”

“The rabbit wasn’t even going to touch the ground.”

“Ma’am, we don’t price by foot contact. That’s what they do at local beaches. We price by head count. Like drive-in movie theaters. Even if someone falls asleep or spends the entire movie facing the wrong direction, they still count as a viewer.”

“So you go by head count here?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Even for rabbits?”

“Does your rabbit have a head?”

“Yes,” I said. “My rabbit has a head.”

He nodded and marked something on the clipboard.

“But he wasn’t going to touch the ground. I was going to carry him on my back, and if he got tired, I was going to hold him around my waist and let him ride on my lap.”

“We don’t go by lap arrangements. We go by head count.”

“So what you’re saying is, if I brought a headless chicken and it walked beside me, you wouldn’t charge me extra, even if he took a solo seat on the rides?”

“Correct.”

“That seems like a ridiculously dangerous policy.”

“Only for chickens.”

“That is the most disturbing thing I’ve ever heard at a circus entrance.”

“We hear that a lot.”

“No wonder PETA was protesting you people.”

At this point, I was too dehydrated to continue arguing. My eyelashes had abandoned my face and were now lying on the ground like centipedes.

After I took a selfie with the elf, with each of us giving the other bunny ears with our fingers, I approached the ticket booth.

“I’d like to buy a ticket for the show,” I said, “but I would also like to make a few suggestions.”

The woman at the ticket booth stared at me.

“I’m the suggestion box,” she said. “If any of what you say makes sense, or is interesting enough, I’ll make sure to share it during the water-jug break.”

I mentioned that the use of elves for security seemed inefficient given the volume of people entering.

“There are thousands of attendees,” I said. “And because your security staff has to inspect every adult in vertical installments, this process appears to be taking twice as long.”

The attendant nodded.

“We don’t discriminate against new hires based on height,” she said. “We do, however, evaluate accents.”

I accepted this as policy.

She continued.

“You would be surprised at how qualified they are. Employment at Santa’s workshop is seasonal, so they pursue additional work during the off-cycle. Many of them have formed independent search parties.”

“For what?” I asked.

“Recovery,” she said. “They are exceptionally skilled at locating items that are not meant to be found.”

She gestured toward the security line.

“This is not for the guests,” she added. “This is for our staff. Some of our sad clowns are in recovery. We cannot allow certain substances that can bring them temporary happiness past the gate. Those happy drugs keep them from performing their miserable acts.”

I nodded.

“This level of precision is necessary.”

She leaned in slightly.

“One of their most recent accomplishments,” she said, “was locating the needle in the haystack.”

I paused.

“That’s not supposed to be possible,” I said.

“It was,” she said. “Someone took them to the haystack, and they found the needle in a haystack without any leads, witness statements, or anyone telling them whether they were getting warmer or colder.

“That’s an amazing accomplishment,” I said. “Kudos to them. But now that they’ve solved that, what am I supposed to say when a task seems impossible?”

She thought about it.

“Try harder.”

To be continued in Act III.