"One peanut never did all this, kid," Ben said, cracking the shell in his teeth. "Hey, thank you all for
stopping by," he called to the people who'd finished their look around. "Come again soon."
They smiled back at him. In the next booth, Fatima the snake charmer, real name Ellen Miller, played
with six soporific pythons and a boa constrictor. Act One naturally gave way to Act Two, but Ben hated
to see his audience go. He waved as they left.
Ben Barber couldn't remember a time when he didn't want to be on the stage. He loved the attention and
the applause. Ever since he was a little boy, he had dreamed of fame and fortune, of seeing his name
above the title on a marquee: "Ben Barber, starring in The Great American Movie." Or below the title. Or
even somewhere in the credit crawl at the end of any picture whatsoever. He didn't care. He wanted to be
someone that people gawked at in admiration, and went away wishing they were him.
The circus had seemed like a good starting place for a career. Ben had taken the spot in the freak show of
a ten-man fleabag circus that came through his upstate New York town one summer day. It'd do for him
until he got his big break. And then reality landed on him like the guy for whom the boxer shorts had
originally been made. There weren't any leading roles for a twenty-something man who weighed three-
hundred-something, no matter how good-looking he was.
Undaunted, he continued to go to every audition for plays advertised by community groups in the towns
where the circus stopped. He wanted a role—any role—so badly he could taste the lines in his mouth.
They tasted sweet.
The local directors turned him down, with varying excuses. His strong jaw, fine, thick, black hair, and
blue eyes with long eyelashes would have been honest-to-God box office under other circumstances, but
more, in this case, was not better. Ben didn't stop auditioning, but he began to lose hope.
Once in a while, the Ringman Circus rolled into a town where a film was shooting on location. In
between setups, the crews came in to see the show. Ben was thrilled beyond words when the first live
movie cast and crew visited him. He made a lot of friends in the industry, most of whom were
sympathetic to his dream. But though he tried desperately to interest them in hiring him, even as an extra,
so far no one had given him a shot.
"If you want the truth," one location manager told him privately over a drink after the sideshow had
closed for the night, "no one will ever cast from a carnival. Everything looks too shopworn. People in the
film biz like everything brand-new—fresh coat of paint, something they've never seen before. Blame
Hollywood. They have the idea nothing's good that wasn't thought up just yesterday, if not today,
especially if it was their own idea. A circus that's been traveling for fifty years—that's too old, too tired.
Sure, big guys have made it in the industry, but you're here, in the show, so you're associated with it. It's
too bad."
After the man left, Ben felt depressed, and polished off most of a half-gallon of ice cream. The circus
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