"I see." Her mouth tightening into a decidedly Swiss shape of disapproval." You deal with money" She said the word money as if it's real meaning was - cupcake filled with moose turd.
"Well I help people make music."
"Why don't you play the French Horn? The French Horn is nice and you get to sit in the part of the orchestra where you can see all of the young ladies legs."
This bizarre statement was based on the unspoken but understood assumption that she was referring to the circus orchestra. Ya see, the French horn player sits over against the bleachers, hence the covert view of the patron's gams.
"Oh Bertie don't be silly. He's so tall and handsome" corrected Aunt Toot. "You could be a ringmaster! Women would love you. They would admire your hat! You could wear your great uncle Charles' hat."
Now in the company of Aunts, Bertie, Bit and Toot anyone over five foot three is tall. Handsome? They often called my troll-like cousin Scott handsome.
"I don't want to be in the circus. Besides managing a band is enough of a circus already."
My mother promptly smacked me while everyone looked sour. My infraction, of course, was using the term "circus" in a demeaning manner. This immediately triggered the "lecture". You know about the lecture. It is standard operating procedure in every family.
"Your Great grandfather was the greatest strongman in Europe. Your grandfather bless his soul would have been ringmaster in the Basil circus if he hadn't been gassed in the Ardenne by those evil Huns." Aunt Bertie was warming up.
"Look at Uncle Max." interrupted Aunt Bit." His mustache is glorious. Max come over here Max. Show Brad your mustache!" My Uncle was sitting in the shade nursing a beer. He had a handlebar mustache that you could mount on the hood of a Texas cattleman's Cadillac. My family kept the market in mustache wax bullish.
"Leave him alone." rumbled Uncle Max. He had outgrown The Lecture but he didn't care enough to get involved. Besides he had recently started to collect (and live with) wild owls and he would much rather be home playing with his owls.
"Don't be silly Bit." said Toot," He knows what his Uncle's mustache looks like."
"Well, I think he should do something normal. Why don't you paint? For heaven's sake what's wrong with being a painter?" Everyone nodded in approval. "Your mother paints, your uncle paints, your grandfather painted because he couldn't be Ringmaster with his lungs and all. We all paint. Why do you have to do something crazy?"
"He's not crazy." Said my mom defensively.
"I don't want to paint. I'm a lousy painter."
"Nonsense. Why, Grandpa George will teach you. Won't you George?"
"Of course. Happy to." Rumbled Crazy Grandpa George. My mother turned a steely gaze at Aunt Bit. Grandpa George was one of the best painters in the family but he had the noticeable drawback of being crazy. In his youth he had been a leading member of some kooky movement of painters. He painted these dark, nightmarish scenes of old ladies carrying crushing loads of faggoted sticks through haunted forests. He painted crippled dwarfs being hounded by villagers. He painted the suicides of clowns. Cheerful enlightened stuff. Unfortunately he had lost his way. He had made his living as a commercial artist and continued to paint real art on the side. In recent years he had become less stable. He became obsessed with bowling and watched the bowling championships on ABC's Wild World of Sports. He started to go to bowling events and then to paint famous bowlers. He saw them as heroic. Heroic bowlers, imagine that.
Then he started to make presents of these paintings to the bowlers. He very rapidly became a celebrity amongst A league bowlers and his paintings hung in places of honor in the classiest bowling alleys. Then his inner child started to betray him.
He had always had a taste for large canvasses. I remember his attic studio filled with eight foot high paintings of bowlers in action in various forms of completion. Once his "art" had gained acceptance he started to step out a little and take some risks. His old obsession with cripples and freaks came back. He went to some big PBA event to present a famous bowler with one of his paintings. I think it was Dick Weber.
When they unveiled his monstrous canvas the crowd gasped. Here was Dick Weber, at the line as the ball rocketed from his hand. The painting was a masterpiece of action and time frozen. Unfortunately Dick Weber now had a shrunken left arm, club foot and dead eye. Grandpa George's bowling painting career was ruined.
"Bah! They don't understand art" had been his only comment.
"There in no way Grandpa George is going to teach him to paint." My mother said closing off that particularly mad career choice.
Aunt Bertie gave me the once over." It just seems so sordid and dirty. Dealing with money and people's money." She started to sniffle.
"It's not that way Aunt Bertie. I like doing it."
"It just seems so straight. Next you'll be telling us you want to be a business man or lawyer or God forbid pickpocket." In circus terms this is the lowest of the low.
They all set about murmuring in Swiss.
"You could be ringmaster. I want you to remember that!" huffed Aunt Bertie.
Ah there is no place like home and nothing like growing up in a family where being the manager of Rock n Roll bands is considered too straight.
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