Post by juturna on Nov 24, 2008 20:11:06 GMT -5
» name Luca Deckard
» nickname(s) Luke, Lukey-Bear, Sasha’s boy, Deck
» age Nineteen and a half
» birthday May 8, 3128
» gender Male
» clique Gypsy
» clique status Machinist, tinkerer, old school Gypsy (before it was cool. Wait, since when was being a gypsy cool? … I’ll get back to you on that, ASAP)
» play-by Adrien Brody
» picture
» appearance I am not handsome by any stretch of the imagination.
Whenever someone thinks of gypsies, said person thinks of one of two options: one, the tall, dark, mysterious man in nomadic wear, keen on hunting, archery, thievery, and scamming the unfortunate and gullible out of their money with ease; he is rugged, he is humorless, and, most importantly, he is the ultimate “bad boy,” the kind of man you will never take home to Mother – and not just because he’s a Gypsy, the ultimate scum in these recent days. He wears leather and fur pelt, or woven fabrics made or purchased or stolen from warmth-giving textiles. His intensity is astounding; the mere sight of him makes you swoon, knees buckled, and heart skip a beat. Maybe two, if he’s just that damn attractive. This particular stereotypical Gypsy is every woman’s dream – or at least to those who imbibe bad romances like the lushes do their choice liquors.
The second type is the clown, the court jester, in all of his glory. This kind of Gypsy never stops talking – not once – and instead of finding it particularly annoying to be unable to get a word in edgewise, he is hilarious, a riot. True, he’s just as bad as that tall glass of water described above, as the nomad is just as good, if not better, at parting dupes from their money with ease, but at least the romantic silences from before wouldn’t ebb away into awkward, irritated nonsense. You get nonsense, all right, but in the form of crude jokes, puppet shows, an array of instrumentation (especially flutes and hand-made woodwinds), and the kind of “head back, eyes streaming, stomach aching” laughter only a true clown can provide. He makes you smile, and in the upcoming days of fear and anxiety, even the slightest dose of giggling and good humor is enough to keep the doctor (or Healer) out for work for a good week or so. He doesn’t look funny, this fool, but he sure is funny.
And then you come me, Luca Deckard, the nineteen-year-old gypsy (I declare that it’s lowercase) currently squatting in the very nicely landscaped front lawn of some fancy academy for the fine young lads and lassies of today’s tomorrow or something. No, I don’t find hunting particularly enjoyable, other than to be by myself for a little while, but it’s a necessity to keep from starving to death. My clothes, true, were sewn together by myself and others at the camp since we don’t see much purpose in paying someone else to make them for us when we are capable ourselves, but I appear as normal as those teenagers currently residing in the regal halls across the green, if not moreso.
I’m tall, around six foot one, and of an average build. As a youngster, I used to be tall and wiry – gangly, even, but I grew out of it during puberty, as well as after I discovered just how much fun it was to play sports with the other children. My hair? Dark. Black. Medium length of which I keep trimmed and washed. My eyes? Fluctuate from hazel to brown, little flecks of green and gold showing through those two orbs whenever the sunlight shines through the foliage to blind me for an instant. My face is average shaped and sized, sans any sort of facial hair. I look older than nineteen (and a half) and to have some kind of “scruff” would only add to the illusion. This discovery was brilliant when I was underage, but now, I’d prefer to keep to my age. There’s less responsibility that way, less trouble. My nose, since we’re on the issue of faces, is large and beak-like, as it is tradition in my family, the Deckards, to have the nose of a hawk rather than the senses, cunning, and agility of one. I’m no Adonis. In fact, the people in town can tell I’m a gypsy solely by looking at me, it seems. So I guess I am a stereotype after all. How about that?
And one last detail before I bore you to absolute pieces: my hands. Trivial, yes, but my hands are scarred and are never as clean as they ought to be. Now, now; don’t go accusing me of being a dirty, dirty hippie or something of the sort. I’m a tinker, a machinist, if you will. Ring any bells? No, not Quasimodo. Focus. I’m a repairman. You give me a machine of any kind and after three to four days (depending on my incredibly busy schedule and/or the difficulty of the object), it’ll be as good as new. Thus, my hands have some kind of grease splotch, wax burn, etc. etc., regardless of whether or not I wiped them off or washed my hands prior to whatever it was I had been doing beforehand.
Beforehand. Get it?
Worst. Joke. Ever.
» personality I suppose I’m sort of interesting, if I can be so bold as to say. Sure, my sense of humor leaves a lot to be desired, but I’m a good listener. My advice is decent at best, although not very many people at camp want advice from the young adult a few purple, gold, and red tents and wooden caravans away.
I don’t find every little inconsequential bit of nature to be the best, the most illuminating, the most amazing thing on the face of the planet. It takes something actually special to impress me. The people in camp who are like that, those who can find beauty in everything, are not the kind of people I admire. Call me strange, but I feel that seeing something wonderful in everything cheapens the things that are actually wonderful. There’s nothing special about that stick on the ground by that piece of deer dung, but there’s everything perfect with that single branch of sapling a few yards away, with its leaves glowing in blood reds and fiery oranges on the branches, the dead brown leaves offsetting this version of a tree’s heaven-and-hell in its wake by the thin, delicate trunk barely as wide as my littlest finger. That is ten thousand times more beautiful than that silly stick.
That makes me a cynic. I’m a pessimist, but not entirely negative. I’m just average. Lucas Deckard: painfully average. There’s nothing too interesting about my personality other than I live up to my Earth-based astrology to a tee. Tauruses (Taurii?) are strong, stubborn, hard-headed people with an independent streak. You cannot win arguments with them, for they think they are always, always right. Yes, they can see your side, but it’ll take a few days after the “blow up” for them to come around and say, “Well, about that fight… Apologies.” They’re intensely passionate people on either side of the spectrum. When pleased and joyous, a Taurus is a great person to be around. Their good mood is contagious. But when irritated, all bets are off. Jealousy is a huge factor with these bulls, as they are easily incensed into this Deadly Sin. Rage is a problem, too, sometimes coupled with Jealousy, and it’s best to let the Taurus alone for an hour or two in the woods, so he can cool off before literally biting someone’s head off for release. Dangerous when irritated, it is quite rare to get a Taurus to completely lose control, as they are rather slow to anger.
Adding onto these adjectives, as I don’t really wish to bore you, Dear Reader, quite as badly as I did earlier with the epic description of myself, are the following: stubborn, patient, firm, sensible, resistant to change (being a nomad myself, I disagree with this one), disciplined, methodical, tenacious, loyal, faithful, relaxed, stable, traditional, etc. etc.
» history If you thought simply being raised a gypsy was strange, just wait until you hear my life’s story. There aren’t as many tips and turns as other dramatic lifestyles, but if you aren’t at rapt attention, Dear Reader, you might get lost, and seeing as how I rarely ever bring up my “sordid past,” it’s unlikely I’ll stop and repeat myself. I’m not crippled under the weight of some horrible, tragic, angsty history; I just dislike repeating myself. Immensely. And everything you need to know about me is on a strictly need-to-know basis anyway, so be thankful you’re getting what you’ve got. I could just say: “Gypsy. Travels around a lot. Lived with grandfather” and call it a night; however, I’m a nice lad, or so I’m told. Plus, this whole character sheet would seem rather lopsided, for I wrote quite the novel for my appearance and personality, and one expects the same treatment for a history section.
So here we go!
On both sides of the family, Deckard and Kalinin, we are gypsies. As far back as our oldest, most precious, and probably largely inaccurate stories go, we have lived with fellow gypsies (or Roma) and traveled extensively the world: no goal, no true focus, other than to live and let be. My father’s father – my grandfather – his name was Sasha Deckard, and yes, I assure you that “Sasha” is a man’s name, at least where I’m from. It’s a gypsy thing; you’ll get used to it by the time I’m finished. He and my grandmother, Katarzina, had three sons: the eldest, my uncle Marko; my father, Ion; and my younger uncle, Elek. The five lived in relative harmony since my grandfather was a stern, but lovable oaf who preferred verbally teaching lessons than physically. Whereas other families in the camp preferred to keep their children with them until death, never allowing them to spread their wings and move on to bigger and better things, my grandfather encouraged his sons to leave, much to my grandmother’s dismay. And, of course, they did.
Marko left in his late twenties to become a trader and an astonishing con-artist. He could sell you a star in the sky – and I’m certain he has. I’ve only met him twice in my nineteen years and those two events are quite possibly the strongest recollections I have in this old trap box I call a mind. My other uncle, Elek, became a proficient violinist and soon left with a band of minstrels in his late teens. I have never met him, although my grandfather had vivid tales of Elek waking everyone up in the middle of the night with his atrociously amateur violin playing. A camp meeting had been called solely to discuss the matter of this incontrollable boy who admitted his skills were nonexistent, but was determined nonetheless to learn as there was “fire in his soul,” according to old Sasha. He was banished to at least ten yards from the camp when the night had fallen and inspiration struck the boy. Once a child crippled by his fear of the dark, he overcame it, in addition to learning the violin back and front, therefore removing the ban permanently.
My father, on the other hand, was a lean, athletic man. His flexibility and sheer strength was astounding, and one day, when they were squatting near a traveling circus, he became fascinated with the lifestyle. The exotic animals roaming about with neither heed nor caution, the men who could stomach fire and swords, the Siamese twins, the belly dancers, and acrobatics. It was a whole ’nother world a person as culturally diverse and alienated as Ion Deckard had never witnessed before – and he adored it. But more importantly, he adored a woman he saw, the dark-haired, dark-eyed, olive-skinned Věra Kalinin on the flying trapeze. Věra’s history was somewhat similar to my father’s: born and raised in a gypsy community, but took one look at the circus as a child, roughly nine or ten, and became a permanent stowaway. With the help of some friendly trapezists, she developed an act and a look, and the rest was history, her history. One look and he was finished, that twenty-three year-old Ion. My father joined the circus. It was hard, laborious job going from a working man to a performer, but within ten years, he finally made it as both Věra’s trapeze partner as well as husband. They were married and another five years later a boy was born, Luca Deckard. Me.
The first four years of my life are a blur. I remember the swatches of colors and the smell of the animals on the train, the hard times when there was no pay, as well as when we were richer than kings. I remember the nameless, faceless cities on their occupants as we rattled on down the railways. I remember the feeling of moving forward, by far the most important thing in my entire life, which implies we were going somewhere, that there was a destination. My parents and I would set up in this new town, only to break camp four days later to another place, where I stood outside their tent, their Big Top, and hyped up the spectacle of the Deckard Trapeze in the way only a cute, floppy-haired little boy could. Life was perfect, from what I can remember. But then all Hell broke loose.
I was five and we were in yet another generic town. The trapeze had developed quite a following, for we were almost as popular as the man and his lion, as well as the adults’ only female dancer, which was quite a surprise, indeed, since those two acts were the poor circus’ biggest draws since before anyone could remember. The Big Top was packed, and I was counting ticket sales just outside; I didn’t need to see my parents’ act for the thousandth time. I knew it by heart already, plus the owner of the circus was more interested in just how successful these flying gypsies were after all. The terrified and amazed screams and catcalls meant little to me as I counted. I was at almost two hundred, I think, when I realized that the pitch and tone of these screams were all wrong: these people weren’t astonished by the mere feat of quick thinking, years of practice and training, and mere skill. They were horrified as the ropes of the trapeze broke as my father held my mother upside down by her hands, swinging in the air, and then they plummeted below to the cold, hard dirt ground – to their death.
Where was the trampoline, you ask? Normally it would’ve been there, except these ancient ropes – coupled with a few new trainees at the circus who tied the pulley system all wrong, I later learned – snapped under the strain and stress during the final part of the act, where the trampoline was removed for a few tricks before exiting the ring in thunderous applause. There was no chance of survival, at least not from that height. In a matter of seconds, I was just another orphan boy working at the circus.
Did it hit me hard, knowing I was all alone in the world? Yes. The first two years were difficult. The road was hard and unforgiving, and there was talk of just redlighting me (circus code for leaving me behind – well, that’s a lie; it’s more along the lines of simply throwing me out of the moving locomotive during the night) since I was too small to do grunt work, but not nearly as skilled as my parents to take over the trapeze act as “The Spectacular Luca: Orphan Boy Extraordinaire” for sympathy money, among other things. The owner of the circus was not a stupid man and marketing was his prowess. I stayed with one of the animal trainers for these few years, running little errands for him in order to earn my keep, before we stopped in yet another nowhere town for a show. As luck would have it, my grandfather was camped only a little ways away and upon hearing his son was dead and left a son behind at the circus with no one to care for, he immediately swooped in and took me back to the camp, where I would learn how to be a proper boy instead of a “soulless performer.”
(Apparently Sasha had seen how working the circus year after year took its toll on even the most goodhearted of men and did not wish to see what he presumed to be his only grandson to fall in the same pit of despair and alcoholism.)
Gypsy life was easy to fall into, actually. It’s a lot like the circus, minus some key things (trains, popcorn stands, and the dividing line between workers and performers). I loved my grandfather and my grandmother, for what short time I knew her. The others welcomed me with open arms and the children, begging for stories of life on the fast-paced circus trail. I don’t miss the circus, even though when I go to bed, sometimes I think I hear the powerful, reassuring purr of the lion only two carts down the line. It was here, on the road again, that I realized my true interests in fiddling with broken things (presumably a psychological need to fix broken things, as if that could somehow protect myself and others from the same fate as my parents), which turned into quite the money-maker. Grandfather was proud.
He passed on when I was seventeen, leaving me everything he owned, which turned out to be quite a bit once I went through everything in his caravan. This time, though, instead of being concerned about whether or not I’d be chucked out of the camp, I took solace in knowing I had somewhere I belonged, somewhere safe where people actually cared about me as a human being rather than a leech on profit, food and room.
» fears
- Stagnancy
- Heights
- Death of loved ones/self
- Prejudice
- Discovery of certain secrets
- Fear itself
» likes
- Tinkering/scavenging for new machines to play with
- Camp get-togethers that last all night and late into the morning
- Homemade orange juice at any hour of the day
- The color purple (but don’t tell anyone)
- When you laugh so hard, it hurts
- Sunrises & sunsets
- Holidays where people decorate their homes (Christmas, Halloween, etc.)
- Strangers/foreigners
» dislikes
- Staying in one place for too long
- Presumption/presumptuous people
- Snap judgments
- True chaos
- The fear in society today
- Being rushed
- The lack of music in every day life
- Strangers/foreigners
» dreams Erm… Peace on Earth and goodwill to man? I don’t know.
I have dreams sometimes, the kind where my parents are alive and well and I somehow managed to go to a school, a proper one, like the Academy within a stone’s throw away, and got a “proper” job, but those things made me who I am today. And they aren’t going to change anyway. It’s not like I can throw a coin in a well and if I just wish hard enough, life will turn out the way “it should have been” or whatever. That’s a pipe dream, as my grandfather used to say.
I suppose my biggest dream is to keep on moving forever with the rest of the camp, we band of brothers (and sisters). We’re a real family and without these connections, I have no idea where I’d end up now. Probably the circus. (Which now serves as both a punch line to an overused joke in addition to a darkly humorous look on my past. Oh, irony.)
But in all seriousness, my biggest dream is to get an education, a real one. I want to be able to read and understand every single word of these tech manuals in this caravan, not just a handful that I’ve figured out using common sense and diagrams. I want to actually read one of the novels my grandfather left behind… instead of eagerly flipping through the pages in search of words I know, like a man deprived of water staring longingly at the mirage in the hottest of the Mojave. That’s right. I’m illiterate. That’s the big secret I’m so scared everyone will find out: I can barely read. I can write my name just fine, a lion tamer showed me, but when it comes to reading… It’s just not going to happen. It’s a good thing this character sheet has been largely verbal for me, a dictation, otherwise it would’ve been a right trainwreck. Alas.
Oh, and another dream of mine: Learn where the Mojave is. I love that word so deeply and I know it’s a desert, but where exactly is it? I’m deeply intrigued.
» nickname(s) Luke, Lukey-Bear, Sasha’s boy, Deck
» age Nineteen and a half
» birthday May 8, 3128
» gender Male
» clique Gypsy
» clique status Machinist, tinkerer, old school Gypsy (before it was cool. Wait, since when was being a gypsy cool? … I’ll get back to you on that, ASAP)
» play-by Adrien Brody
» picture
» appearance I am not handsome by any stretch of the imagination.
Whenever someone thinks of gypsies, said person thinks of one of two options: one, the tall, dark, mysterious man in nomadic wear, keen on hunting, archery, thievery, and scamming the unfortunate and gullible out of their money with ease; he is rugged, he is humorless, and, most importantly, he is the ultimate “bad boy,” the kind of man you will never take home to Mother – and not just because he’s a Gypsy, the ultimate scum in these recent days. He wears leather and fur pelt, or woven fabrics made or purchased or stolen from warmth-giving textiles. His intensity is astounding; the mere sight of him makes you swoon, knees buckled, and heart skip a beat. Maybe two, if he’s just that damn attractive. This particular stereotypical Gypsy is every woman’s dream – or at least to those who imbibe bad romances like the lushes do their choice liquors.
The second type is the clown, the court jester, in all of his glory. This kind of Gypsy never stops talking – not once – and instead of finding it particularly annoying to be unable to get a word in edgewise, he is hilarious, a riot. True, he’s just as bad as that tall glass of water described above, as the nomad is just as good, if not better, at parting dupes from their money with ease, but at least the romantic silences from before wouldn’t ebb away into awkward, irritated nonsense. You get nonsense, all right, but in the form of crude jokes, puppet shows, an array of instrumentation (especially flutes and hand-made woodwinds), and the kind of “head back, eyes streaming, stomach aching” laughter only a true clown can provide. He makes you smile, and in the upcoming days of fear and anxiety, even the slightest dose of giggling and good humor is enough to keep the doctor (or Healer) out for work for a good week or so. He doesn’t look funny, this fool, but he sure is funny.
And then you come me, Luca Deckard, the nineteen-year-old gypsy (I declare that it’s lowercase) currently squatting in the very nicely landscaped front lawn of some fancy academy for the fine young lads and lassies of today’s tomorrow or something. No, I don’t find hunting particularly enjoyable, other than to be by myself for a little while, but it’s a necessity to keep from starving to death. My clothes, true, were sewn together by myself and others at the camp since we don’t see much purpose in paying someone else to make them for us when we are capable ourselves, but I appear as normal as those teenagers currently residing in the regal halls across the green, if not moreso.
I’m tall, around six foot one, and of an average build. As a youngster, I used to be tall and wiry – gangly, even, but I grew out of it during puberty, as well as after I discovered just how much fun it was to play sports with the other children. My hair? Dark. Black. Medium length of which I keep trimmed and washed. My eyes? Fluctuate from hazel to brown, little flecks of green and gold showing through those two orbs whenever the sunlight shines through the foliage to blind me for an instant. My face is average shaped and sized, sans any sort of facial hair. I look older than nineteen (and a half) and to have some kind of “scruff” would only add to the illusion. This discovery was brilliant when I was underage, but now, I’d prefer to keep to my age. There’s less responsibility that way, less trouble. My nose, since we’re on the issue of faces, is large and beak-like, as it is tradition in my family, the Deckards, to have the nose of a hawk rather than the senses, cunning, and agility of one. I’m no Adonis. In fact, the people in town can tell I’m a gypsy solely by looking at me, it seems. So I guess I am a stereotype after all. How about that?
And one last detail before I bore you to absolute pieces: my hands. Trivial, yes, but my hands are scarred and are never as clean as they ought to be. Now, now; don’t go accusing me of being a dirty, dirty hippie or something of the sort. I’m a tinker, a machinist, if you will. Ring any bells? No, not Quasimodo. Focus. I’m a repairman. You give me a machine of any kind and after three to four days (depending on my incredibly busy schedule and/or the difficulty of the object), it’ll be as good as new. Thus, my hands have some kind of grease splotch, wax burn, etc. etc., regardless of whether or not I wiped them off or washed my hands prior to whatever it was I had been doing beforehand.
Beforehand. Get it?
Worst. Joke. Ever.
» personality I suppose I’m sort of interesting, if I can be so bold as to say. Sure, my sense of humor leaves a lot to be desired, but I’m a good listener. My advice is decent at best, although not very many people at camp want advice from the young adult a few purple, gold, and red tents and wooden caravans away.
I don’t find every little inconsequential bit of nature to be the best, the most illuminating, the most amazing thing on the face of the planet. It takes something actually special to impress me. The people in camp who are like that, those who can find beauty in everything, are not the kind of people I admire. Call me strange, but I feel that seeing something wonderful in everything cheapens the things that are actually wonderful. There’s nothing special about that stick on the ground by that piece of deer dung, but there’s everything perfect with that single branch of sapling a few yards away, with its leaves glowing in blood reds and fiery oranges on the branches, the dead brown leaves offsetting this version of a tree’s heaven-and-hell in its wake by the thin, delicate trunk barely as wide as my littlest finger. That is ten thousand times more beautiful than that silly stick.
That makes me a cynic. I’m a pessimist, but not entirely negative. I’m just average. Lucas Deckard: painfully average. There’s nothing too interesting about my personality other than I live up to my Earth-based astrology to a tee. Tauruses (Taurii?) are strong, stubborn, hard-headed people with an independent streak. You cannot win arguments with them, for they think they are always, always right. Yes, they can see your side, but it’ll take a few days after the “blow up” for them to come around and say, “Well, about that fight… Apologies.” They’re intensely passionate people on either side of the spectrum. When pleased and joyous, a Taurus is a great person to be around. Their good mood is contagious. But when irritated, all bets are off. Jealousy is a huge factor with these bulls, as they are easily incensed into this Deadly Sin. Rage is a problem, too, sometimes coupled with Jealousy, and it’s best to let the Taurus alone for an hour or two in the woods, so he can cool off before literally biting someone’s head off for release. Dangerous when irritated, it is quite rare to get a Taurus to completely lose control, as they are rather slow to anger.
Adding onto these adjectives, as I don’t really wish to bore you, Dear Reader, quite as badly as I did earlier with the epic description of myself, are the following: stubborn, patient, firm, sensible, resistant to change (being a nomad myself, I disagree with this one), disciplined, methodical, tenacious, loyal, faithful, relaxed, stable, traditional, etc. etc.
» history If you thought simply being raised a gypsy was strange, just wait until you hear my life’s story. There aren’t as many tips and turns as other dramatic lifestyles, but if you aren’t at rapt attention, Dear Reader, you might get lost, and seeing as how I rarely ever bring up my “sordid past,” it’s unlikely I’ll stop and repeat myself. I’m not crippled under the weight of some horrible, tragic, angsty history; I just dislike repeating myself. Immensely. And everything you need to know about me is on a strictly need-to-know basis anyway, so be thankful you’re getting what you’ve got. I could just say: “Gypsy. Travels around a lot. Lived with grandfather” and call it a night; however, I’m a nice lad, or so I’m told. Plus, this whole character sheet would seem rather lopsided, for I wrote quite the novel for my appearance and personality, and one expects the same treatment for a history section.
So here we go!
On both sides of the family, Deckard and Kalinin, we are gypsies. As far back as our oldest, most precious, and probably largely inaccurate stories go, we have lived with fellow gypsies (or Roma) and traveled extensively the world: no goal, no true focus, other than to live and let be. My father’s father – my grandfather – his name was Sasha Deckard, and yes, I assure you that “Sasha” is a man’s name, at least where I’m from. It’s a gypsy thing; you’ll get used to it by the time I’m finished. He and my grandmother, Katarzina, had three sons: the eldest, my uncle Marko; my father, Ion; and my younger uncle, Elek. The five lived in relative harmony since my grandfather was a stern, but lovable oaf who preferred verbally teaching lessons than physically. Whereas other families in the camp preferred to keep their children with them until death, never allowing them to spread their wings and move on to bigger and better things, my grandfather encouraged his sons to leave, much to my grandmother’s dismay. And, of course, they did.
Marko left in his late twenties to become a trader and an astonishing con-artist. He could sell you a star in the sky – and I’m certain he has. I’ve only met him twice in my nineteen years and those two events are quite possibly the strongest recollections I have in this old trap box I call a mind. My other uncle, Elek, became a proficient violinist and soon left with a band of minstrels in his late teens. I have never met him, although my grandfather had vivid tales of Elek waking everyone up in the middle of the night with his atrociously amateur violin playing. A camp meeting had been called solely to discuss the matter of this incontrollable boy who admitted his skills were nonexistent, but was determined nonetheless to learn as there was “fire in his soul,” according to old Sasha. He was banished to at least ten yards from the camp when the night had fallen and inspiration struck the boy. Once a child crippled by his fear of the dark, he overcame it, in addition to learning the violin back and front, therefore removing the ban permanently.
My father, on the other hand, was a lean, athletic man. His flexibility and sheer strength was astounding, and one day, when they were squatting near a traveling circus, he became fascinated with the lifestyle. The exotic animals roaming about with neither heed nor caution, the men who could stomach fire and swords, the Siamese twins, the belly dancers, and acrobatics. It was a whole ’nother world a person as culturally diverse and alienated as Ion Deckard had never witnessed before – and he adored it. But more importantly, he adored a woman he saw, the dark-haired, dark-eyed, olive-skinned Věra Kalinin on the flying trapeze. Věra’s history was somewhat similar to my father’s: born and raised in a gypsy community, but took one look at the circus as a child, roughly nine or ten, and became a permanent stowaway. With the help of some friendly trapezists, she developed an act and a look, and the rest was history, her history. One look and he was finished, that twenty-three year-old Ion. My father joined the circus. It was hard, laborious job going from a working man to a performer, but within ten years, he finally made it as both Věra’s trapeze partner as well as husband. They were married and another five years later a boy was born, Luca Deckard. Me.
The first four years of my life are a blur. I remember the swatches of colors and the smell of the animals on the train, the hard times when there was no pay, as well as when we were richer than kings. I remember the nameless, faceless cities on their occupants as we rattled on down the railways. I remember the feeling of moving forward, by far the most important thing in my entire life, which implies we were going somewhere, that there was a destination. My parents and I would set up in this new town, only to break camp four days later to another place, where I stood outside their tent, their Big Top, and hyped up the spectacle of the Deckard Trapeze in the way only a cute, floppy-haired little boy could. Life was perfect, from what I can remember. But then all Hell broke loose.
I was five and we were in yet another generic town. The trapeze had developed quite a following, for we were almost as popular as the man and his lion, as well as the adults’ only female dancer, which was quite a surprise, indeed, since those two acts were the poor circus’ biggest draws since before anyone could remember. The Big Top was packed, and I was counting ticket sales just outside; I didn’t need to see my parents’ act for the thousandth time. I knew it by heart already, plus the owner of the circus was more interested in just how successful these flying gypsies were after all. The terrified and amazed screams and catcalls meant little to me as I counted. I was at almost two hundred, I think, when I realized that the pitch and tone of these screams were all wrong: these people weren’t astonished by the mere feat of quick thinking, years of practice and training, and mere skill. They were horrified as the ropes of the trapeze broke as my father held my mother upside down by her hands, swinging in the air, and then they plummeted below to the cold, hard dirt ground – to their death.
Where was the trampoline, you ask? Normally it would’ve been there, except these ancient ropes – coupled with a few new trainees at the circus who tied the pulley system all wrong, I later learned – snapped under the strain and stress during the final part of the act, where the trampoline was removed for a few tricks before exiting the ring in thunderous applause. There was no chance of survival, at least not from that height. In a matter of seconds, I was just another orphan boy working at the circus.
Did it hit me hard, knowing I was all alone in the world? Yes. The first two years were difficult. The road was hard and unforgiving, and there was talk of just redlighting me (circus code for leaving me behind – well, that’s a lie; it’s more along the lines of simply throwing me out of the moving locomotive during the night) since I was too small to do grunt work, but not nearly as skilled as my parents to take over the trapeze act as “The Spectacular Luca: Orphan Boy Extraordinaire” for sympathy money, among other things. The owner of the circus was not a stupid man and marketing was his prowess. I stayed with one of the animal trainers for these few years, running little errands for him in order to earn my keep, before we stopped in yet another nowhere town for a show. As luck would have it, my grandfather was camped only a little ways away and upon hearing his son was dead and left a son behind at the circus with no one to care for, he immediately swooped in and took me back to the camp, where I would learn how to be a proper boy instead of a “soulless performer.”
(Apparently Sasha had seen how working the circus year after year took its toll on even the most goodhearted of men and did not wish to see what he presumed to be his only grandson to fall in the same pit of despair and alcoholism.)
Gypsy life was easy to fall into, actually. It’s a lot like the circus, minus some key things (trains, popcorn stands, and the dividing line between workers and performers). I loved my grandfather and my grandmother, for what short time I knew her. The others welcomed me with open arms and the children, begging for stories of life on the fast-paced circus trail. I don’t miss the circus, even though when I go to bed, sometimes I think I hear the powerful, reassuring purr of the lion only two carts down the line. It was here, on the road again, that I realized my true interests in fiddling with broken things (presumably a psychological need to fix broken things, as if that could somehow protect myself and others from the same fate as my parents), which turned into quite the money-maker. Grandfather was proud.
He passed on when I was seventeen, leaving me everything he owned, which turned out to be quite a bit once I went through everything in his caravan. This time, though, instead of being concerned about whether or not I’d be chucked out of the camp, I took solace in knowing I had somewhere I belonged, somewhere safe where people actually cared about me as a human being rather than a leech on profit, food and room.
» fears
- Stagnancy
- Heights
- Death of loved ones/self
- Prejudice
- Discovery of certain secrets
- Fear itself
» likes
- Tinkering/scavenging for new machines to play with
- Camp get-togethers that last all night and late into the morning
- Homemade orange juice at any hour of the day
- The color purple (but don’t tell anyone)
- When you laugh so hard, it hurts
- Sunrises & sunsets
- Holidays where people decorate their homes (Christmas, Halloween, etc.)
- Strangers/foreigners
» dislikes
- Staying in one place for too long
- Presumption/presumptuous people
- Snap judgments
- True chaos
- The fear in society today
- Being rushed
- The lack of music in every day life
- Strangers/foreigners
» dreams Erm… Peace on Earth and goodwill to man? I don’t know.
I have dreams sometimes, the kind where my parents are alive and well and I somehow managed to go to a school, a proper one, like the Academy within a stone’s throw away, and got a “proper” job, but those things made me who I am today. And they aren’t going to change anyway. It’s not like I can throw a coin in a well and if I just wish hard enough, life will turn out the way “it should have been” or whatever. That’s a pipe dream, as my grandfather used to say.
I suppose my biggest dream is to keep on moving forever with the rest of the camp, we band of brothers (and sisters). We’re a real family and without these connections, I have no idea where I’d end up now. Probably the circus. (Which now serves as both a punch line to an overused joke in addition to a darkly humorous look on my past. Oh, irony.)
But in all seriousness, my biggest dream is to get an education, a real one. I want to be able to read and understand every single word of these tech manuals in this caravan, not just a handful that I’ve figured out using common sense and diagrams. I want to actually read one of the novels my grandfather left behind… instead of eagerly flipping through the pages in search of words I know, like a man deprived of water staring longingly at the mirage in the hottest of the Mojave. That’s right. I’m illiterate. That’s the big secret I’m so scared everyone will find out: I can barely read. I can write my name just fine, a lion tamer showed me, but when it comes to reading… It’s just not going to happen. It’s a good thing this character sheet has been largely verbal for me, a dictation, otherwise it would’ve been a right trainwreck. Alas.
Oh, and another dream of mine: Learn where the Mojave is. I love that word so deeply and I know it’s a desert, but where exactly is it? I’m deeply intrigued.
