My name is Getz Parker, here to remind that good intentions may produce bad outcomes, like murder.
I was sponsoring a circus for fellow neurodivergent children, when a religious revival brought its brand of alchemy and death to town. They needed entertainment, the circus needed funds, what could go wrong? I should have checked a medieval prophecy that exiled a hermaphroditic queen before getting involved. I did not envision competing saviors scheming to end the world’s population. I missed the memo on how revivalists could rip apart a martyr’s second coming. And, having had nice jazz-loving parents, I never gave a thought to murder instigated by a mother’s blind desire.
I call it, salvation by murder, atonement optional
You cannot make everyone happy. It is not your job to do so. It is the role of a clown, and clowns are respectable only in a circus.
I woke from a dark matter dream into a circus. The frenzied spectacle of bright spotlights, myriad scents, delirious events, and speedy movements enabled an atmosphere of frenetic energy, the opposite of what Getz needed. Or so I thought. Getz had discovered when autistic children immerse themselves in the creative tumult of circus, they loosen repressed senses ordinarily shielded from a world difficult for them to navigate. The chaos of a big top allows them to express themselves and their feelings more freely.
Screams and shrieks broke through my reverie.
Getz Parker had experience with repression as a child on the spectrum, and he was giving back. His system for securitizing information was printing credits, and his foundation for neurodiverse children was a beneficiary on a grand scale. Today it was underwriting a circus for autistic kids. The show was always looking for funding. Constructive entertainment like the performances required more money than one might expect, enough to require constant inflows of cash. Getz funded many charities and couldn’t support them all by himself.
The goal was a culture shaped and supported by trainers, participants, and families, providing children with a stimulating environment, albeit safe and inclusive. Some days, the circus was a performance like any other but different. Volunteers and performers had undergone special training. Calming centers were set up for audience members who needed a break from an already shortened show.
I watched twins exit one and chase each other back to seats in the stand, a watchful parent running behind.
Advance knowledge offered comfort, because those on the spectrum have a greater sense of security when prepared. An interactive application in virtual permitted children to make their own circus story, and they could create a ring-side circus experience without ever leaving the house. A predesigned sensory experience helped them prepare for the real thing. The kids practiced handing over tickets, getting wristbands, and finding an assigned seat.
The twins must have missed the lesson on assigned seating. They ran up an aisle screaming and were corralled by a volunteer. No one else bothered to look except for the poor parent lagging up bleacher steps.
The trial was a good time to explain the limitations of virtual. You can design, meet, and greet in virtual, but ease of entry and application comes at a cost. You cannot feel, smell, or otherwise physically engage, and you cannot use virtual to travel to far places in real. Kids receive a lens permitting entry free from the government, and parents are responsible for teaching them the way of things.
If a child enjoyed the experience, they could physically participate on other days, when they are in the ring and on the ropes. Hanging on a trapeze was not only physically therapeutic, but also offered challenges to develop emotional, expressive, and relational confidence.
This afternoon was a performance. A converted warehouse served as a big top, and trapezes, ropes, and hoops hung from the rafters. Jugglers tossed pins, clowns spun plates, and tightrope walkers practiced balance. The space was lined with trampolines, circus props, balance beams, rolling globes, and cycles. A puppet show in the middle of the space finished to the sound of children’s applause punctuated by squeals. The puppeteers ran out to take a bow, and one came straight to where Getz sat.
“Parker, how did you like the show?” she asked.
Nobody calls him Getz except me and maybe his jazz-loving parents. He has a lot of time for Manon, and when she volunteered her old-school troop of puppeteers for the show, he immediately accepted. His shaved head tilted to look at her as he rubbed the omega embedded in a cube inked on the back of his neck. He wore glasses today for augmentation in real, but the contact lens enabling transit to virtual is a permanent implant. An upgrade, of course. Getz Parker is a rich man with few friends, and Manon was one of them.
He shrugged off a gray hood and smiled. “Excellent. Words cannot do it justice.”
Manon lived for applause and grinned back. “Ling did the new stage for this space. You can tell. The man never grew up.” A crew dismantled the puppet theater as she spoke and hauled it away from the center ring. Ling was an urban artist with a reputation as a person not to be treated lightly personally or professionally. A childhood spent in gangs and teenage years in the steel mills had molded him into a leader, who abdicated in favor of art. The two lived in an area once called Murder Mile, occupying the house in which both Ling and their grandson had been born. Ling had the rough hands of a sculptor, and his work was known for a combination of figurative curves and bricks etched in stone. The puppet stage looked a cacophony of bright colors and alchemical symbols.
“Did Ling read a horoscope before he started? The astrological signs are a bit out of the way for him.”
“It was our grandson’s idea. Ling let him help.” She laughed. “I’m in my thirties already. Kids come early in the barrio. I’d never leave, but I don’t do that kind of physical labor anymore.”
“I’m older than you are. Age is no excuse.” Getz may have passed forty, but the five-year old inside him presented itself on a regular if aperiodic basis.
Manon laughed again. “How did you get the idea for a circus, anyway?”
Jugglers took the place of puppets, and childlike sighs of delight overlayed his response. “I met a woman by the name of Adelixa Cronhielm at a charity affair. She was raising money to put together events for kids with a wide range of physical and mental problems. The goal was too broad to be effective. I suggested she focus on the autistic spectrum, which is more inclusive than she thought at the time.” He laughed. “I think her desire to dress as a clown and some childhood acrobat training influenced her choice of a circus. The split between shows and child participation was my idea, but she did everything else.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Parker.” Manon was a mother, and I approved in my role as Getz’s nursemaid.
“All I had to do was find the money,” he protested.
“Nonsense. I know better. You do more for children than you imagine. I’m all about young folks’ puppets and I can see it. I’ve told you a thousand times, get married, have kids. You’re a natural.”
I knew the conversation covered old ground, if not the thousands referenced. Getz was not a recluse but not social either. Manon thought men should not exist without a companion and had reasons for it. I was the only companion Getz had, and I had mixed feelings about adding a human to the household. Not that I have any emotions. The artificially intelligent don’t aspire to them. We get along well despite my lacunae and his narrow focus. He named me JK after a translator of alchemical lore whose full name has never been discovered. I thought it appropriate.
Getz diverted. “Where is Ling?”
“Around here somewhere. He brought Alex to see the performance. His mother was about to kill him and needed a break.” She laughed. “Here they come now. As a mother, I understand. How about you? Do you think a mother could ever kill her own child? We say that but can’t imagine it.”
Ling strolled up with a dark six-year old in tow. “Parker,” he said with a nod. Ling rarely wasted words. “Good show.”
“Thank you, but Adelixa is the star. Have you seen her around?”
“Difficult to miss the clown getup,” Ling replied. “I saw her speaking with some guy in the toddler area of the warehouse. It looked to be a serious conversation, so I took Alex back here.”
The toddler section ejected a tall jester carrying a peaked hat and wearing a onesie emblazoned with a sunburst from throat to waist. Multicolored spiky hair waved in short strokes as the figure ran towards the group. Adelixa stopped in front of Getz, close enough to see tiny medieval runes decorating her temples.
“Sorry,” she said. “Out of breath. I got too excited. Parker, we’ve had an offer which will fund the circus for the next year. An entire year. It’s too good to be true.”
Getz laughed. “Most things too good to be true are not.”
She turned serious. “Don’t joke. The organization wants to rent the circus for a month. The rate is astronomical, and the venue is only a quarter mile away. They plan to erect an old-fashioned big top with room for a three ring circus. No advertising cost, all expenses paid in full, or so they promise. There would need to be some negotiation before we go to contract, of course. You will help, won’t you?”
Manon broke in. “Do they want the puppets, too?”
“Everything. The organization will supply the extra equipment needed for such a large tent, but we have enough acts for the length of time they have in mind. Their show will be more than a circus performance, apparently.”
Getz found enthusiasm infectious and nodded his head. He was a business guy first, though. “What’s the catch?”
Adelixa drew a breath. “It’s for a revivalist meeting. A cult called Way of the Future.”