Risk-The word's definition is largely dependant on what or whom it's being applied to. If it defines something that you as an individual are contemplating, it creates the uneasy feeling that you could be embarking on something really stupid. On the other hand, when you're in the abstract safety zone of the observer, it has a titillating quality. Take, for example, the guy at the crap table who bets his night's winnings on one more roll. If he loses, he's just another sucker who didn't know when to quit. But what if he wins? Ahah! If he wins, he's an exciting guy, an adventurer who beat the odds and has a pile of money to prove it! Much the same with the guy who jumps his motorcycle ramp to ramp over thirty cars. If he makes it, cameras flash, girls flock around, and Harley Davidson gives him a hundred grand to endorse their product. If he crashes, he's either a very dumb crippled guy or an even dumber dead guy. In either case, the voyeuristic side of humankind is prepared to accept the outcome with some giddy degree of relish. Contact sports and live ente11ainment are glowing examples of their audience's ability to shift gears in milliseconds to extract vicarious pleasure. Both purport wholesome elements like skill, training, and durability, but both contain the possibility of physical injury and devastating failure. Those who attend these events do so with the expectation of either conclusion. Nothing could be more well documented as the Susan Boyle epic. A plump, frowzy woman whose very appearance provoked hoots, snickers, and head shaking from the show's judges, who, of course, promoted the same reaction from the audience. History now shows that Susan, the risk taker, was amazingly good and the audience cheered. But let's say she'd been pathetically awful and croaked out an off-key rendition with the audience going into an uncontrollable laughing jag. They still would have gone home thinking they'd got

RISK

No Eulogy for Tin SoldiersBy JOHNNY MEAH

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2012 Johnny Meah
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4685-4923-2

Chapter One

Michelle closed the door of her living quarters and slipped on her clogs. She descended the three steps to the narrow carpet that separated her feet from the blistering hot pavement and slowly walked to the rear entryway of the main attraction tent. Chicago was an unpleasantly humid place, Michelle thought as she briefly glanced toward the downtown area and caught a glimpse of the early evening silhouette of the Sears Tower.

Another performer hailed her as she walked toward the mammoth, vinyl covered enclosure. "Want to finish this?" the girl asked, proffering a half full bottle of the health drink that Cirque insisted they have. Michelle declined with a polite smile as she thought about how much she'd rather be drinking a cold ale in a nice trendy bar down in the Loop.

Nadine, the girl who offered her the obnoxious tasting elixir, was one of the other eleven young women who'd trained with her in Montreal. Drafted from college gymnastic teams from the U.S. and Canada, they'd all spent a grueling year training to do various, acrobatic, circus acts under the tutelage of Cirque's militaristic coaches. After five months of Olympic level rigor, it was determined that her strongest suit was balance, so she then trained for the Celestial Circle, which was one of the most difficult and dangerous acts in the program.

As she stood in the darkness just inside the performer's entrance and scanned the seating area, Michelle noted that the audience was light, only a third of the cavernous tent's capacity. It was the third day of sparse attendance, and although the lowest priced tickets cost $80, rumors of the Chicago run being cut down still circulated.

The music changed, and the lights now illuminated the huge steel circle that hung over the stage.

Michelle calmly walked to an area barely out of the spotlight and kicked off her clogs. She took a resin bag from a grotesque looking, costumed caricature and applied two poufs of the chalky powder inside of it to the soles of her wire walking shoes. And despite the highly effective efforts of the management to distance the company from the image of a circus, Michelle was still a wire walker at the end of it all. In a traditional circus, the overly stylized man who handed her the resin bag would be a clown. But at Cirque, he was referred to as a "comique." There would be no grand announcement by a top-hatted ringmaster nor a whistle blast to signal the start of her act, she simply strolled in total anonymity into the spotlight.

As the suspended metal circle hung at floor height, Michelle stepped into it with ease and took a few steps to the front and back while the apparatus was slowly raised in the air. Next a motor that made the giant circle revolve was engaged, which drew some "oohs" and "ahhs" from the audience as Michelle slightly jogged to keep up with the ever revolving hoop.

In the initial development of the apparatus and subsequent training of the gymnasts to perform on it, the coaches had established that beyond a brisk walk the only feat that could be performed safely on it was a leaping split. Michelle always executed this daring act flawlessly, but something was wrong tonight. Her wire shoes felt gummy and seemed to be sticking to the metal. Because of this hindrance, her takeoff for the leap had been slow, and she nearly lost her balance upon landing. Fear, an emotion she seldom experienced, set in. Her common sense told her to signal for the lowering of the rigging.

She shrugged off her fear and replaced it with caution, a much more functional emotion that she'd been taught to use at the training center in Montreal. She wrapped her arms and legs around the metal hoop and rode it to the top. Ideally, the motor that turned the giant circle would be turned off long enough for her to swing her body over to the outside top of the rigging. Then the motor would be started again and she'd resume walking on the outside of the circle. It was certainly a breathtaking finale to the act as there was no balancing pole customarily seen in a conventional high wire act nor were there "safety zone" platforms at either end of the wire.

Michelle swung her body to the top of the circle and settled for a moment in a crouched position. She then re-established her balance and stood as the circle turned again. Normally, she would only take a few steps to finish the trick. Then, wrapping her body around the rigging, it would be lowered to the ground. That's the way the act always ended, except tonight. To the horror of the otherwise blasé audience, her first step proved to be her last. Her feet became hopelessly stuck to the metal. In a sudden panic, she tried to wrench herself free, causing her to lose her balance and sending her hurtling headlong to the stage fifty feet below.

In the case of nearly all daredevil feats gone awry, audiences never scream at first; the screaming comes shortly after. At the moment the mishap occurs, there's usually another sound; a very audible mass intake of breath, something akin to a room full of old people preparing to blow up a balloon. But tonight, this stunned audience, who sat helplessly in the world of Cirque, painfully exhaled as they viewed the twisted body of a dead girl.

Chapter Two

The two men stood motionless at the window and viewed the lighted skyline of Montreal from the plush, top floor, executive office. A phone rang, and the taller of the two retreated to his desk to answer it as he anxiously checked his watch. His end of the call was succinct and revealed nothing to his companion who remained at the window and carefully listened to the one-sided conversation.

"Uh huh.... I see ... Good. Uh huh. Let me know. Bye".

The man, who'd taken the call, returned to the window, but remained silent. He quietly knew that the second window gazer would inquire about his covert conversation.

"Do you really think these calls should be coming here?" the shorter man asked with a trace of apprehension in his voice. "Are you going paranoid on me, Gilles?" said the tall man as he turned toward his inquisitor, Gilles.

Concerned, Gilles silently looked out toward the misty sky. "It's way too early in the game to be concerned about anyone tracing calls. You watch too many cop shows. Besides, the phone company doesn't save that information beyond thirty days". "Good. So what happened then, Claude?"

The rumple-suited Gilles seated himself on the edge of the desk as though anticipating a detailed answer. He knew, however, that Claude's report on the evening's events in Chicago would be short, and no speculation on what had transpired would be forthcoming. Claude settled himself in the large leather chair at his desk, leaned back, and closed his eyes. To a casual observer this might have been construed as the prelude to a well thought out answer, but Gilles knew better. After a twenty year relationship, he knew that Claude had closed the door on today and was reviewing tomorrow's battle plan. He would, however, answer the question.

"The gross was lower than we expected, only a one-third house. The girl died, and we managed to get the stuff and dispose of it," Claude said with less emotion than contained in an opening financial report.

A quiet look of remorse fell upon Gilles's face as he stared at the darkening sky.

"I'm going to dinner now," Claude said as he rose from his chair and added, "1 don't expect there'll be anything...