Early 1985, I am 4 years old: I'm outside my house, on the right side of it if you were looking from the street. There's an outhouse there, which shouldn't be there, and my 7 year old brother is sitting on the toilet. I know this because the outhouse is built out of screen doors. My dad holds my left hand as we wait for my brother, but a clown interrupts. I don't like clowns, and I really don't like this one. He grabs my right hand and reaches into the outhouse and grabs my brother's left pulling us away from my house and my dad, pulling us to the circus. My brother's pants are around his ankles, but his shirt is long.
We're at the circus, which is a gray, cement-block-walled auditorium, much longer than it is wide. We're on a stage which takes up most of one short wall. Folding metal chairs provide audience seating, but for now it's just clowns milling about. I'm in a gray jumpsuit and being forced to ride a large men's bicycle and my brother is in a gray leotard and pink tutu and has been pushed out onto the tightrope. A crowd arrives and fills the seats. My parents are in the front row, center seats, and I call out to them to save us, but they don't recognize me.