STEP RIGHT UP, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!

In the early 1970s, there was still a pretty vibrant sideshow at the Bloomsburg State Fair.  Not like today, where the most you get is a chance to see some awful smelling South American wild pig that would kind of look like a really big rat if you didn't actually know what a real rat looks like.  My philosophy has always been that if you are going to pay a buck and a half to see a rat, it ought to be a real one.  But then, I guess finding a three foot rat to put in your side show these days is pretty hard.  You can also usually still find some kind of big snake to gawk at so the kids can say “Why ain’t it movin’?” while they try to get it interested in the two dollars’ worth of caramel corn you just bought them and that they are now throwing into the cage.  But there sure isn't anything like the sideshows they had when we were kids.  (You don’t get the hoochie kootchie shows anymore, either.  I guess the internet put a dent into that.)

The travelling sideshows of the sixties and seventies still got away with being completely and unequivocally incorrect by any modern day social or political criteria.  Filing into a tent to stare at and make rude comments about a grossly overweight woman, laugh at a midget, and openly shudder at the sight of a guy who was born with some deformity was still okay.  The big, crude, but brightly painted banners outside the tent along the midway said it all:  what your dollar would buy was a chance to be glad, deep down, that you were probably as normal as everybody else.  And if that wasn't enough, you could always count on there being some sort of entertainment inside:  A man swallowing a sword or hammering a three-inch nail up his nose; a woman who could twist her way around a dozen knives as they were thrust into a Plexiglas-covered plywood box; the Magician with his disappearing card tricks and other feats of prestidigitation; the Amazing Electric Man – marvel of modern science who was able to harmlessly channel enough electricity through his body to kill a hundred convicted murderers.   If the banners didn't draw you in, the barker – that mixture of travelling salesman, vaudevillian actor and conman - made sure that you did not walk by without hearing about all the marvels waiting just through the curtain entrance – his hypnotic voice rolling out onto the midway to rise above the chaotic mix of the rattling roller coasters, pirate ships and spinning cups that were kept in almost constant motion just across the way.

And, in case you were wondering where this story might be going, the above build up was to introduce you to the fact that I (yes I!) was the Amazing Electric Man during one show of the 1970 Fair.

I was drawn inside the tent by a sense of the theatricality of it all.  It was early afternoon on a weekday, so the crowd was not big – maybe 15 or 20 of us when the door closed and the show began.  Directly inside the tent was a small, canvass-skirted and cloth-curtained stage.  After being led through a curtained maze to the sides of the stage where we could view the Midget and the Fat, Bearded, and Contortionist ladies, we were positioned in front of the stage.  The “Master of Ceremonies” was the same barker that had drawn us all inside.  He turned out to also be (yes, a low-budget production):  Blockhead (“Watch closely now [look away if you must, ladies!] while I insert these blunt objects into the various orifices of my face and head);  the Sword Swallower (I guess the same skills apply); and the Rubber Man (“Be amazed as I draw my stomach up into my chest cavity and pull my legs up over my head!”.  It might have been disappointing to have all three acts be done by the same man if he hadn’t been such a very good showman.

Nearing the end of our 30 minute incursion into the strange and unique world of the sideshow carnival, the MC dramatically wheeled a wooden penitentiary-style electric chair from the wings.  I don’t remember exactly, but I seem to think that he spun some story about the Amazing Electric Man having the flu, but if he could get a brave volunteer from the audience, the show could go on; pure fun with a wink and a smile.  I raised my hand, and was invited onto the stage to sit upon the battered wooden chair, a series of impressive looking electrical cables leading to a switch box to the side of the stage.  He bustled around the chair, making a big show of strapping my wrists and ankles with heavy, metal buckled leather straps.  He pulled a headpiece down over my hair (you’ve seen the movies, you have the picture).  The audience tittered.  He looked at me and asked “Are you ready?  In just a second, I am going to go over there and throw that switch and thousands of volts of electricity are going to course through your body.  “ARE YOU READY?”  I smiled at his dramatic presentation and said “Sure, go ahead.”  He reached over, threw the switch and………nothing happened.

“Do you feel it?” he asked as he turned to stand by my side.  “Do you feel the electricity flowing through your body?!?”  I felt nothing, not a tingle, and told him as much.  He glanced nervously back to the switch and said “There must be something wrong - perhaps a loose wire!  “Here, hold this while I check!”

He swiftly handed me a light bulb as he turned away.  It lit up in my hand.  “Ahhhhh,” he said.  “It appears that it IS working,  Let’s just make sure.”

He hand me a small florescent tube and asked me to hold both poles between my right and left hands.

It lit up.

He handed to a woman who was standing in the front row of the audience a small wire torch with wadding that smelled of kerosene.  He asked me to please reach out to touch it.

A small sparked jumped from my index finger and set the tiny torch on fire.

Yes, I was as amazed as the other members of the audience.

The block-headed/deep-throated/rubber-bodied Master of Ceremonies and Sideshow Barker released me from the chair, had me take a bow, and led me off the stage, announcing the end of our buck fifty show and inviting us to come back soon, bringing our boyfriends, girlfriends, wives, husband, sister, brothers, children, grandpa and grandma, uncles, cousins, friends,  neighbors and other members of the public with us.

On a couple of occasions over the years, depending on what I was applying for, I have included my one-time stint as the Amazing Electric Man on job applications.  I don’t know if it helped or hurt.  I have also tried to research just what the principle was behind my successful performance, and have best determined that it had to do with static electricity – like one of those balls you get to touch in the museum and your hair stands up.  Maybe I looked like the Bride of Frankenstein’s monster while I was up there on the stage, but no one thought it necessary to point it out at the time.

But, after all, what does it matter?  I was the Amazing Electric Man at the Bloomsburg Fair.