Circus Sam

By Luke Beling

I moved to a new school in the eighth grade. Dad thought we needed a fresh start after mom died. It took my classmates one week to devise a nickname for me—one week of observing my zinc-painted face. 

“You’re just missing the green hair and juggling balls, Circus Sam!” 

The first day Dad put the sunscreen on my face, I tried to wash it off before the morning bell, but the stuff was so thick I only made it worse, smearing it all down my neck. And then, when Dad picked me up after school, he quickly applied another coat, saying, “Looks like we didn’t use enough this morning!” 

Making it through the school day wasn’t half as bad as the after-school pick-up. There weren’t teachers on the curb, and I’d have to wait for Dad never less than forty-five minutes, and sometimes until dark.

Everybody stared, pointed, and laughed at me. Even the kids too shy to speak would look at me like I was some other thing, making sure they were at least ten feet away from me. Dad was always drunk or close to drunk when he picked me up, always with the same excuse, “Sorry, Sam, that business meeting ran later than I thought.”

We moved to a new town a week after Mom’s funeral. The doctors found what they first called a “sunspot” on her shoulder. Six months later, that spot had grown into melanoma and spread to other parts of her body. She didn’t have long after that. 

Dad’s initial response was heavy drinking, and then he stopped shaving, making his bed, doing the laundry, and washing the dishes. Some nights, maybe five a month, he’d ask me to sit down and have dinner with him. He’d try to cook something special, like steaks on the grill or the chicken and mushroom dish Mom used to make. But inevitably, something would burn, and I’d have to throw a frozen pizza in the microwave. 

The dinners we’d eat together almost always ended with Dad in tears, slurring, but then managing, “How’s that bottle of sunscreen looking? Do we need more? I hope you’re wearing a hat and sitting away from the window, right?”

I’d nod, “I’m okay. I promise.”

“You’ve got your mother’s skin, Sam. And she wasn’t damn well okay!”

He’d proceed to inspect my body. “What the hell’s that?” 

“What?” I’d say, tracking his eyes. 

“Is that a sunspot?” 

I’d flick off a piece of food or show him it was just an innocent freckle. 

At the end of my first week of school, a ninth-grade teacher, Mr. Stone, announced during our assembly that he’d be starting after-school tennis lessons—an easy escape from the dreaded after-school wait for Dad, I thought. 

I rushed to the stage once Mr. Stone had finished giving the announcement.

“I’d like to sign up, please.” 

He scratched his black stubbled chin, examining my clown-white face. Tilting my shoulders back and straightening my neck, I tried to make myself look athletic.

“You ever played before?” 

“Yes.” I lied. 

“Get a signature from your parent, and bring a water bottle, non-marking shoes, and sun…” He paused, moving his eyes between my cheeks, and then he handed me a piece of paper, which I folded and placed in my shirt pocket. 

Dad was supposed to make BBQ ribs that night. But he stayed in his room with the door locked. I tried knocking but couldn’t bang my fist hard enough to make a sound louder than his TV. I smiled when I opened the filing cabinet, remembering Mom’s meticulous and organized manner. I grabbed an insurance form and scanned it for Dad’s signature. It was relatively easy to copy, more or less a heart-shaped squiggle. I saw a photo when I returned the document to the folder. It was their wedding day. They were kissing, heads turned away from the camera. I stared at the photo, noting every detail: mom’s white flower-laced dress, dad’s black tuxedo with a blue bow tie, and their eyes open and looking at each other as though they were the last two people in the world. 

After school the next day, a few other kids and I sat waiting for Mr. Stone under an umbrella on white plastic chairs. When he arrived, he asked for our consent forms. I felt a little nervous when I handed the form to him, but he didn’t look twice at it, stuffing it into his tan briefcase. 

“Everybody needs to put a little sunscreen on before we head out there. And don’t be shy. You can never apply too much on a day like this.” I felt the stares, but nobody laughed. 

We followed Mr. Stone onto the court.

“Alright, two easy laps around the outside of the lines. No cheating!”

There were five of us—two boys I recognized from my grade and two girls a little older. When we’d finished our laps, we formed a semi-circle in front of Mr. Stone and followed his instructions in a stretching routine. 

“I want each of you to tell me your name and one thing you want to get from these classes.” 

One of the boys stopped touching his toes, standing straight.

“Now, I didn’t say to stop stretching, though, you hear.” Mr. Stone said, his palms flat on the cement. 

“I’m John, and I’m not that good at anything, so I decided to try tennis.”

Mr. Stone immediately stood up, approached John, and shook his hand. “I’m glad you’re here, John.” 

“My name’s Nicole. My grandma was an excellent tennis player. She died last year.” 

I felt my heart beating faster as each kid shared their name and reason for attending. We were on our backs stretching our hamstrings when it came to my turn, “My name’s Sam. I’m new, and I, uh, I really love tennis.” 

“We’re glad you’re here, Sam. Aren’t we?” 

I couldn’t see Mr. Stone’s face as he spoke because my eyes were closed, blinded by the sun. But I felt something warm in his voice. 

“Aren’t we?” He said again a little more sternly. 

And then the other kids all responded, “Yes, welcome. Welcome, Sam.” 

It was the first time I’d heard my new peers call me by my name without putting circus before it. 

None of us had rackets. After stretching and introducing ourselves, we picked a racket from the pile next to the net post. 

“Not that one, Sam. That’s an inch or two too small for you.” 

“Oh yeah, of course,” I said, not looking at Mr. Stone. 

I then suspected he realized I’d never played before, but that didn’t seem to matter to him. 

“Here, this one’s perfect for you.” Mr. Stone handed me a green racket with a soft, brown leather grip. 

We formed a line at what Mr. Stone called the baseline. He showed us how to hit a forehand and a backhand, then gave us two attempts at each shot before we circled to the back of the line. None of us got more than a quarter of our attempts within the lines that day. But whenever we did, Mr. Stone sprang to his feet, removing his sunglasses, and cheered with his two fists raised above his head. His energy and vigor quickly became contagious, and we started copying him whenever one of us succeeded.

During the last five minutes of practice, we collected all the balls we’d hit over the fence, which must have been at least half of Mr. Stone’s basket. I lingered behind the other kids as they left the court. Mr. Stone was zipping his bag and collecting his rackets when I squeezed some sunscreen out of his bottle, then quickly lathered it all over my face.

He must have seen me walking away when he shouted, “Goodbye, Sam. You did good today, kid.” 

I had my back turned to him. I raised my hand and began jogging towards the pick-up area. I waited fifteen minutes before Dad arrived.

When I got into the car, Dad’s eyes narrowed. “What have you been doing?” 

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been sweating? God, Sam, don’t tell me you’ve been out in the sun.” 

“You’ve been drinking.” I stared out the window. My heart began racing when I saw Mr. Stone approaching. I could tell he’d recognized me. 

“They’re about to close the gate. Drive!” I shouted, avoiding eye contact with Mr. Stone, tugging on the steering wheel in Dad’s hands. 

We started moving. “Relax! They’re not going to lock us in, you know?” 

In the rearview mirror, I saw Mr. Stone turn around. “I just want to get home.” 

“Now, don’t lie to me. What were you doing out in the sun?” 

“It was just a quick game of tag with some new friends, and most of it was under that big willow tree.” 

Dad grabbed my hand and glanced at my face. “Well, it looks like your face is still nicely covered.” 

We came to a stop at a red light. Dad leaned forward in his seat, turning his body towards me. “I’m glad you’re making friends, Sam. I know this hasn’t been easy for you. Once we get into the fall, we can ease back on the sunscreen.”

He put his hand on my knee. “I haven’t been there for you. I know. It’s just…”

The light turned green. “It’s okay, Dad,” I said. “I’m okay.” 

The next day at lunch, a boy tapped me on the shoulder. It was John. “You coming to tennis?” 

I smiled, “Yes, you?” 

“Of course! Mind if I sit with you for lunch?”

“Please.” I said. 

I liked that John didn’t ask me about the sunscreen on my face. We shared a packet of chips. Moments before the bell rang, a few boys started heckling us. “Look! It’s Circus Sam and Jackass John! You boys need a little privacy to make out?!” 

“Don’t pay them any attention.” John stood up and began walking away. 

I didn’t move at first.

“C’mon, Sam.” John stopped, waiting for me. 

I packed my lunch box into my backpack and then walked with him back to the classroom. 

When I exited my classroom at the end of the day, John was waiting for me in the hallway. We walked to the tennis court together, guessing how many shots we’d make, admitting that we hoped to see Mr. Stone as animated as the day before. 

Stepping down the long flight of stairs, I paid attention to how the court lay in relation to the road surrounding it. There was no way that Dad would see me if he drove by. The court was sunken, almost shielded by the school grounds. 

We hit a few less balls over the fence by the end of the second day’s practice. Mr. Stone stopped us early and sat us down in the shady, grassy area outside the court. “Tennis is a lot like life. You can’t win every point. You’re not going to make every shot. The best players know how to lose. They know how to respond and get back up again.” 

I pretended to look for something in my backpack while the other kids left, including John, who offered to wait for me multiple times. Then, just as Mr. Stone began to wrap the chain-lock around the tennis court entrance door, I dabbed a big clunk of sunscreen into my hand. I didn’t look back or hear him say goodbye as I hurried from the court to the after-school pick-up spot. Within only a few yards, I felt a hand on my shoulder. 

“Was that your dad who picked you up yesterday, Sam?” 

Mr. Stone lifted his hand and began walking a little ahead of me, craning his neck slightly to look me in the eyes. 

“Yes,” I said, meeting his gaze. 

“Is he normally that late to pick you up?” 

“Not always,” I lied. 

I set my bag down and found a place to sit under the big willow tree. 

“I’ll wait with you until he comes.” Mr. Stone sat down next to me. 

“Oh no, that’s okay, Mr. Stone. I’m okay. Don’t worry about it, please.” I stood up and started looking out towards the road. “I bet he’ll be here any minute now.” 

Just then, I saw Dad’s blue station wagon pull up to the light. 

“Look, he’s here.” I started walking towards the curb. 

But instead of turning right, Dad went straight, passing my school. 

“Dad!” I yelled, but he couldn’t hear me. 

“Come!” Mr. Stone shouted, “We’ll catch up to him.” 

I hesitated, watching Mr. Stone get into his red truck. 

“C’mon, Sam! He probably just forgot. I’ll get you to him.” 

I jumped in the truck, and Mr. Stone sped out of the parking lot. We could see Dad in the distance, stopped at a red light. We needed to be faster to catch him. The light turned green. Dad went right, then a took a quick left into a plaza where he parked. 

“There he went in there,” I shouted. 

Mr. Stone’s face seemed to change. He looked as though he’d just heard something sad.  “Yes, I see that.” 

We parked next to Dad’s station wagon. Mr. Stone put his hand on my shoulder before unclipping his seatbelt. “You wait here. Let me go get him.” 

“No, I’m okay from here. Thanks for the ride, Mr. Stone!” I jumped out of the truck and sprinted toward the only building in the lot. 

“Sam, wait!” Mr. Stone shouted.

I ignored him, hoping he’d drive away. 

A big sign on the green-painted door read, “Jimmy’s Hideaway Bar.” I felt my heart speed up as I opened the door. 

The bar was empty, except for Dad, the barman, and a guy with tattoos playing pool in the corner. 

“Dad,” I whispered. 

Only the barman was looking at me. He tapped Dad on the shoulder. Dad lifted his head from his resting position on his hands, “What is it, Jim?” 

“Your son.” The barman pointed at me. 

As Dad turned around to see me, I heard the green door open.

“Sam, what are you doing here?” 

I noticed two empty shot glasses on the counter in front of him. 

“You were supposed to pick him up half an hour ago.” Mr. Stone stepped in front of me, blocking my view. 

“Who the hell are you?” 

“Sam’s tennis coach.” 

“Tennis?” Dad climbed off the stool. 

“Mr. Stone, wait.” I tried to shove ahead, but Dad was already in Mr. Stone’s face. 

“Your son’s showing a little promise out there.” 

As Dad edged past him, Mr. Stone bumped against an empty pool table. 

Dad looked at me with sharp threatening eyes. “Get in the car! Now!” 

I didn’t hesitate, sprinting out of the bar. I noticed the time on the dashboard when I entered the station wagon. Twenty minutes later, Dad walked out of the bar, crying. 

“He said they’ve been calling you Circus Sam.” His eyes were red, and a steady stream of tears flowed. 

“I just don’t know how to carry on without her, Sam. But I know this isn’t working, son.” 

I didn’t look up at Dad, but I could feel his eyes on me. 

“I miss her too.” I finally said, feeling a thickness in my throat. 

When I lifted my eyes to look at him, his head was flat against the steering wheel. 

I put my hand on his. 

“Give me another chance, Sam.” 

I leaned over and wrapped my arms around his back.

He lifted off the steering wheel. I began crying as he hugged me. 

“I love you, Sam.” 

“I love you too.” 

As we reversed out of the parking lot, I asked, “What did Mr. Stone say to you in there?” 

He shifted the gear into park. “That I’ll lose you before the 9th grade if I continue on like this.” 

I moved to the front of my seat. “So I can keep playing tennis?” 

“On one condition.” Dad pulled a white wide-brimmed bucket hat from under the seat and placed it on my head. I studied myself in the sun-visor mirror. I looked dorky, but anything beat a face full of sunscreen.

“Only at practice.” I said.

Dad nodded, extending his hand towards me.

When I shook Dad’s hand, he squeezed and pulled me into his chest. We stayed like that for a few minutes, more tears dropping on my head. And then I looked up at him, smiling. “I guess Cricket-Hat Sam’s a lot better than Circus Sam!”

South African-born author and singer-songwriter Luke Beling believes art should embody both the miracle and labor of life. Everyday tales borne from world wandering, Beling’s songs and stories hope to impart something honest. 

Luke has had several short stories published in journals and magazines, including: Academy of the Heart and Mind (2021), New Reader Magazine (2021), The Salt Weekly Magazine (2022), Esoterica Magazine (2023), Shallow Tales Review (2023), Pigeon Review (2023), and Garfield Lake Review (2024).

Luke’s debut novel, The Field of Plenty, was published by Vines Leaves Press in October 2024. 

Luke’s song, To Never See the Light, was recently featured on Grey’s Anatomy (Season 20 Episode 2).