Circus Act V: The Sideshow Mermaid

At the entrance to the mermaid tent, a sign read:

MANDATORY WHISKEY SHOT REQUIRED BEFORE ENTRY

I told the attendant I was a teetotaler.

“I don’t drink,” I said.

“You have to,” she replied. “It’s part of the safety protocol.”

“How is whiskey a safety protocol?”

“It calms the system.”

“Whose system?”

She hesitated.

“Yours first. Then the mermaid’s.”

I had to remain calm and let the universe figure this out for me.

Before entering the mermaid tent, every guest had to blow into a breathalyzer to confirm their alcohol level was high enough to safely perceive the mermaid.

I found this invasive.

Usually, these machines are used to keep drunk people out of vehicles.

Here, they were being used to keep sober people out of fraud.

As I waited in line, a man bumped into me and spilled both his whiskey and mine all over my clothes.

Why had I not thought of this before?

I stayed in line. To strengthen the illusion, I put on my dark shades and loudly complimented a below-average man standing nearby.

This was not flirtation.

This was forensic method acting.

When I reached the front, the woman holding the breathalyzer leaned toward me, sniffed once, and said to the other attendant, “I can smell the alcohol on this one.”

Then she yelled at the bartender to close my tab and waved me inside.

Inside, a man removed his jacket from the chair beside him and said he had been saving the seat for someone whose name he could no longer remember, though I was fairly certain she had his last name.

He insisted I sit down.

That was when the dim light appeared and revealed the alleged mermaid.

The specimen was not, in fact, a mermaid. It was a bald manatee wearing a remarkably high-quality, luscious wig made from real mermaid hair.

Management did not consider this false advertising, as each ticket included a mandatory complimentary whiskey shot designed to reduce biological inquiry.

The men whistled from the folding chairs, insisting she looked much better in person than on the flyers.

The manatee seemed happy. Out here, beneath the circus lights, he was a desirable mate. Back in his natural habitat, he was just another bald manatee.

I went backstage using an old VIP badge from a fashion show I had attended years ago. It said ALL ACCESS, and I chose to interpret that broadly. Security let me through without a second thought. Someone even whispered that I looked like the illegitimate daughter of the circus owner.

I waited for a wig-adjustment break, then approached the man pulling down the curtain.

“From the promotional photos, I can tell you did, at one point, have a real mermaid performing here,” I said. “So what happened? Did she drown?”

“No,” he said. “She ran off with the prince.”

Apparently, this had become a recurring problem. The prince had a habit of running away with the mermaids and dumping them into the Atlantic Ocean, once the newness wore off, or once they developed a voice △ △ △ whichever came first.

The worst part was that all the mermaids were nearly identical. Only the hair color changed. And still, the prince could not help himself.

After the most recent incident, management had been forced to ban him from the circus. This was not an easy decision, as donations from the royal crown were very generous. But the operation had become financially unsustainable.

“It costs a fortune to keep hiring Captain Ahab to recapture them,” the man explained.

They had tried warning the mermaids. They had shown them footage of previous mermaids being abandoned in the Atlantic Ocean, but there’s no changing someone’s mind during the infatuation period.

Still, the last mermaid refused to listen.

And now there she was, somewhere in the cold water, learning that happily ever after had expired after a few days.

I asked what would happen once the manatee started getting old.

The manatee had expressed some anxiety about aging out of the role, but Human Resources told him not to worry.

“We’ll double up on the makeup,” they said, “adjust the lighting, add a second complimentary whiskey shot for audience members in the front row, and move the audience farther back.”

Privately, however, the circus had begun scouting younger manatees.

I still wanted to talk to the manatee directly, just to make sure he was not being held captive.

“Of course,” the curtain man said. “He is new to fame, and this will be his first interview, so he will be excited.”

I finally met him.

“Are you happy?” I asked.

He looked surprised.

“No one has ever asked me that,” he said. “Men usually want a way to contact me, and women want to know my skincare routine. But yes. I am happy.”

He only had two requests: that I not disclose the location of the circus, and that I blur his face if I ever posted photographs of him.

I told him not to worry. My phone had forced itself into a software update during the incident, and I could not turn it back on.

That seemed to comfort him.

He gave me an autograph, a flower hair clip, and a very long hug because he said he liked the way my odorless perfume smelled.

He claimed it soothed him.

Then I went on my way.