Live Free and Juggle

Please note that if you are unable to see the illustrations on this page, you can download the pdf at the bottom of this page.

Live free and Juggle

written and illustrated by Django Grace

Dedicated to Tom Yahner, who taught me to juggle

Maple leaf writing project

Brattleboro VT

Copyright 2018

One

The sun warms my eyes in an annoying “time to get up” kind of way. Wind howls outside my window, busting into the cracks and giving me shivers. Winter, 1905. Great. Another day of being stared at, getting whispered about behind my back, and talked to like I was three years old. Thanks a lot, world.

I roll my way to the edge of the bed like a reluctant worm. In a series of flops and rolls, I end up crashing to the floor. Now I start to army crawl my way to the door.

Across the dirty carpet, onto the floor that I know oh so well. I move a juggling ball that some idiot left in the middle of the floor, and finally I’m at my wheelchair. I don’t need any help here. This piece of metal wood and fabric is my element, my domain. I hoist myself up onto the blue, denim padded seat and pat the wooden arms. From up here, I can see the room better. The rug that was probably once some shade of blue has faded to a grayish brown, The mattress and blankets, all a disgusting shade of purple, are wrinkled and patched. My juggling equipment lays all around the floor, and the whole room smells like mothballs. Temporary home, sweet temporary home. I should probably go find my older brother Jonas. He’s in the room across the hall. Time for the long journey.

Two

I was diagnosed with paralytic polio at 5. So was my Mum. They said I wouldn’t live, but she would. I was lucky. She wasn’t. Looking back, I wish it had gone the way the doctors said it would. I wish Momma could have lived to raise Jonas, and live a happy life. I almost blame myself for Mommas’ death, like I could have given my life to save hers, but I was too selfish.

One of the only things I remember of mum before she died was her juggling. People said she had a way with those balls and clubs like nobody else. She would throw them up into the air and catch them in a mesmerizing dance, turning all the flying objects in the air into a sort of illusion, all of them flowing together and mixing before being gently caught, only to be tossed up and become fluid again. It all mixed together into a sort of aurora borealis, the colors of the clubs and balls forming cryptic pictures in the air.

Momma used to be a juggler for the circus, before she met my father and moved here to Boston. But they got into a fight when Momma was pregnant with me, and he left us. So there was Momma, with a three year old, an infant on the way, no money and no job. The only thing she had was her juggling. So she made due with what she had. She would spend hours on the streets, juggling in front of our apartment in the harsh weather of Boston. The most money we ever had was 25¢, barely enough to pay for the basements we lived in. And the only brightness we had in our lives was Mommas juggling. When Jonas and I watched her, I can remember a feeling of calm, a feeling that everything was going to be alright.

But then the polio came. And everything wasn’t alright.

Momma was gone. But one thing wasn’t gone. so I juggled. Only having the upper half of my body to work with, it seemed the right thing to do.

And I practiced and practiced. It’s the only thing I’ve had to do for four years, besides sleeping and eating. It's really tough sometimes, and every time I drop a ball or club, I spend ages trying to pick it up.

But whenever I start feeling sorry for myself, There’s this little voice in the back of my head that always tells me “suck it up, buttercup. You’re better than this.” And It’s right. I should suck it up. If there’s someone up there who decided to give me a hard time, let them see me persist and fend for myself. In a way, I thank whatever made me this way, Because they made me strong. And I’m not going to give them the satisfaction of seeing me suffer.

Three

From behind joneses door, I hear wheezing and smell cigarette smoke. “Caution: Bad Habits!” might as well be written across the door in big red writing. Jonas has some problems. I don’t really know if it’s the mean, weasley kids he hangs out with, or being a teenager, or just our life, but Jonas is never a good influence.

He says that tons of teenagers smoke and drink, and that I should keep my pinocchio sized nose out of his business. I don't really blame him for it, because I think all these bad habits are just his way of relieving all the pain in his life, like my juggling. I knock on the door.

“What is it you little brat?”

“Jonas, time to get up!”

“Shut up! I’m asleep!”

“No you aren’t. You’re talking to me now.”

“Alright. ‘Snore snore snore’. Ya’ happy?”

“Jonas! Cut it out!”

“All right all right! I’m coming!”

Jonas opens the door. He looks like a really big, shaggy ferret. Brown hair is flopped over his eyes, and his long, slinky body towers over me at six feet two inches. There's only one problem.

“Jonas, put some pants on! No one here wants to see your ugly underwear!”

“They’re prettier than your face” is his nasty reply. “You should probably get into something nicer yourself, big boy. Big day today.”

Big day? How could I have forgotten! The audition! This is probably going to be the biggest day my life.

Four

A few days ago while he was walking down the street, Jonas spotted a poster. It was titled “le jongleur”, a youth troupe. It would travel all around new england, playing in high end theatres, and paying ten dollars a night. With that money, Jonas and I could live luxuriously. Jonas can quit his job at the mechanics, and buy all the cigarettes he wants. I have a feeling that thats the real reason he told me about it.

So all the pressure now rests on my shoulders. If I make it in, my life will be so much better. And If I don’t, I won’t ever hear the end of it from Jonas.

Five

The Boston Theatre is big imposing, and packed to the brim. As Jonas wheels me into the big, echoey room, the usual amount of heads turn, the usual amount of murmurs flitt across the crowd, but I’m too nervous to acknowledge them. The theatre is so packed, I feel as if I’m swimming through a sea of legs.

Jonas pushes my wheelchair through the masses until we finally break into a clearing with a table in the middle of it. And sitting at that table are three of the strangest looking men I’ve ever seen, who must be the judges.

The one on the left is so amazingly fat, he could pass as on of those sumo wrestlers from japan. He has too many chins to count, and not a hair on his head except for one, lonely, greasy curl.

The one on the left is so short, he could be mistaken for a child if it weren’t for the excessive amount of grey facial hair he has. If he had any more curly salt and pepper hair, you could probably use him for a mop. Massive bushy eyebrows that look like obese caterpillars completely cover his eyes, and a third perches right under his nose. He looks like an old dwarf.

The man in the middle looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. He is so thin and wiry, you could probably conduct electricity with him. His face permanently looks like he ate something so sour. He’s probably the kind of person who would make a beggar pay taxes on the piece of street he’s begging on.

They are all sitting at a table with pencils and pads filled with notes. Jonas gives them my name, and dwarf guy scribbles my name down and hollers “Next!”.

I really couldn't tell you what happens up until my name is called. All I remember is a blur of colors and feeling my adrenaline go haywire.suddenly, through the fog I hear to words. “Miles O'brien”.

This is it. The moment of truth. I hurriedly wheel my way up to the stage, staying as camouflaged as possible. Finally, I reach the stage, and then realize that I have no way to get onto it. The stage is five feet higher than the aisle, and the only way up to it are the stairs leading up from the side aisles. How am I going to get up the stairs without making a total embarrassment of myself? I’m stuck.

Then, out of the blue, some nasty Sott in the audience yells “look at him! He’s stuck!”

Raucous laughter breaks out in the audience, and my face burns. I want to wallop whoever said that with one of Momma’s wooden juggling clubs, right between the eyes. I grip the wheelchair handles, my knuckles turning white, and tears sting my eyes. “is this a joke? Get this kid out of here!” fat judge says. “He can't be a jug-” “wait.” says another voice. I look over to the judges. Sour face is smirking at me in a cold way. “I want to see what he’s got. If he gets up those stairs.”

The laughter rushes in my ears, burning up my skull from inside. “Suck it up, Buttercup”.

But through the laughter, I hear a voice in my ear. It says “Don’t listen to them.” I look over to that calm, reassuring voice, and see that Jonas's’ face is smiling back, full of faith and confidence. Then all my confidence comes back. If my older brother believes in me, I can do it.

He somehow carries me and the wheelchair onto the stage and puts me down. The last thing I hear from Jonas before he puts me down and walks back to his seat is a whispered “blow ‘em out of the water, big boy” Maybe he really does care. But if he does, I have to make this count.

I can do this. I reach down to my bag and grab four bean bags in one hand, and three in the other. Mumbling breaks out in the crowd. Sour face is still smirking, but he looks worried, like if I actually pull off juggling seven balls, something about his reputation is going to be broken. Well, good riddance reputation.

As the beanbags fly into the air, silence breaks out over the usually rowdy crowd. Its as if the heavens dropped a blanket on the theatre, smothering all the sound and only letting astonished gasps through the silence. I start to throw the balls first over, then under my arms. They fly, so close to each other they almost create a static in the air. I juggle faster and faster, until the seven balls seem to multiply in the air. Then I start to slow down the pattern, so the audience thinks I’m going to stop, only to be deceived when I speed up gain.the audience doesn't make a sound. Finally, I bring the juggle to an end, dropping each ball into the bag as I catch it.

For a while, there is only stunned silence. But then, the blanket is lifted and clapping and cheering breaks out. I’ve done it.

As the clapping fades, people start to look toward the judges. As dwarf guy and fat judge notice, they immediately look toward sour face. He turns to look at someone, but realizes there is no one there, and the decision is up to him.

With a nasal, raspy voice he says “well, I do suppose that was some “impressive” juggling. And I suppose you want me to let this little crippled child into a professional juggling troupe. Well, I say no! because I can’t let a little retard into “a jongleur!”

I can’t breathe. I can’t even think. I cant register all the horrified gasps, the outraged yelling, the laughing, or sour face saying that the winner was one of the bad four ball jugglers. All I can hear are those words echoing in my head over and over again.

Little. Retard. Little. Retard. Little. Retard. Retard.

From then on it's all a haze of hurt and hate. the only part of the ride home that sticks out is a small phrase that I catch being said to sour face from the kid that won. it’s the tiniest sentence: “thanks, dad” said in the same voice from earlier, the one that called me out when I was trying to get onto the stage.

Why me?

Six

Time passes so slowly here. Or maybe really fast. I can’t tell. It might be day. It could be night.

“retard.” suck it up, buttercup. Don't listen-

-can’t let this little retard… suck it up, buttercup. “retard”

Suck it up.

Don’t listen to them.

Suck it up.

But I don’t want to suck it up. I want to let it all out, all the tears, all my sadness. I Want to crack this hard, sarcastic shell and let my insides flow out. For the first time in God knows how long, tears start to roll out of my eyes. I need to get out of this town. It hates me too much. I need a new start. Even Jonas. All he really cares about is his dumb friends and smoking. I need a walk, a wheel, for that matter. I’m getting out of here. I’m not sure If I’ll come back.

Seven

It is cold. A blast of frigid air hits me in the face as soon as I open the door. Winter is in full swing, and it doesn't look like its about to stop. I wheel myself out of the door, seeing the fog of my breath come out of my mouth like steam from an engine. Is this a good Idea? It's so bitterly cold. But so what. My life really can't get any worse right now. How bad can it really be?

Cold. so cold. My hands start to lose feeling, and the metal on my wheelchair becomes so cold it hurts to touch it. But something drives me on. The cold seems to creep into my lungs now and squeeze the air out of them. My thoughts seem to speed up and slow down. It all starts to become a haze. Cold.

It’s almost been an hour. The trainyard comes into view, dismal and grey, but I realize one of those trains is my only ticket out of here. If I can only make it out of this cold, I’ll be okay. But the cold is starting to get dangerous. A freezing wind picks up, cutting through all of my clothing like a knife. I start to shiver. Now I need to make it to one of those train cars. I can’t go back now. I’m too far and too cold.

The closer I get to the trainyard, the colder I get. I lose all feeling in my toes. Everything now becomes a haze. Fog seems to creep into the edges of my vision, and my hands give out and barely are able to push the wheels forward. haze.

A godly light appears. Is it the gates to heaven? Don’t go toward the light, Miles. But I really, really want to. It looks so warm. I wheel myself further toward it, somewhere finding the strength inside my freezing gut. As it comes closer, I notice strange things. There aren't any heavenly gates, no angels or cherubs. In fact, the gaping face of a clown is painted in between...windows? Is that where the light is coming from? I need to get in there, before I freeze to death. A big, wooden wall appears before me. I reach out my numb hand and feebly knock twice. The last thing I see is the wall being slid aside and many strange faces peering at me. Then everything goes black.

Eight

The first thing I see are faces. So many, strange, strange faces. Some are painted, many are brown, some white while others are even painted. One is fascinatingly wrinkled, while another is overly fat. And one is even bright red.

“Where am I?”

“The icicle speaks! So CPR really does work!”

“Shut up, josiah, your scaring him!” says a small black girl who has just muscled her way to the front of the crowd. “Your in the train car for the barnum and bailey circus, the greatest show on earth. We just found you about as frozen as a arctic caterpillar in a damn iceberg! What’s going on?”

All the people mutter and say “yeah!” or “who are you?” or “what’s going on?”

All I can think of is how cold I am. I’m still shivering, And I can’t feel my fingers.

“I’m so cold” is all I can manage. So they drape me in blankets. One of them hands me cup of hot liquid that tastes like chocolate. It warms up my hand sand my chest like molten sunlight, giving me strength. The people crowd around me, telling me I’m going to be alright. They’re like twenty mothers, all taking care of me even though I’m a total stranger and they just found me half dead on the road. Eventually they all gather around me and ask me about my story.

“So” says one of the people with a beard. I realize it's a woman. “This is the spot where we grill you” They all laugh, and I find myself laughing along with them. And then I find myself telling them my story.

We sit there for hours, me telling them my story, them telling me thiers. When they hear how well I juggle, they want me to join the circus. I’ll fit right in with all of them. And the longer I stay, the more they feel like family, the more I want to stay. They are all so nice, and they see me for who I am, not the little crippled eleven year old most people see. But the whole time, something is teasing the back of my mind, Something I’ve overlooked. Then, suddenly it hits me. A picture of Jonas's smiling face, looking at me, with faith. I can't leave him behind. Then, I make my decision, right there.

“What's the next town you’re performing in?”

“Northampton. Why?”

“I’ll meet you there. I can't leave my brother behind.”

So I crawl over to my wheelchair, wearing the 4 sweaters they insisted I bring. I bid them farewell, climb into my wheelchair, and back into the cold I go. But now I’m warm with hope. I have a new life to start with these people, and i’m going to live it to the fullest. From now on, I wont just suck it up and juggle.

I’m going to live free and juggle.