Neville Pike: Negotiating Yourself Out of a Job

I’m terrified of lions. And actually highly allergic to them. I can’t even go to zoo. I’d need my EpiPen.

Ringmaster Bask slaps the desk with a hearty laugh, "A caution you are, showing up keen and quaking! Allergic, eh? No EpiPen in this wagon, just Duchess and me. But I admire your candor. Most men bluster, you confess terror—it's a fine method for a tamer, so I've heard. Doubt it'll soothe the mayor's daughter when the band starts, though." He taps your resume thoughtfully, 'What next, then?'

You don’t understand. Unless it magically turns into numbers I can’t deal with it. You see I have no skills other than accounting

Bask stops laughing and looks at you the way a man looks at a ledger that balances. "Numbers," he says. "You're telling me you'd rather count ticket stubs." He turns the resume over, finds the clean side, and starts writing. "Assistant ringmaster. Tent inventory weekly, gate share audited nightly, my own books on Saturdays. Twenty a week, and the wagon with the stove. You'd take the ring at the top, before the clowns." He stops. "That's the last tamer's wagon. He left Tuesday. Duchess has opinions about Tuesday."

Ok ok it’s been such a long time I haven’t trained any feline. How about I start with a kitty cat until I get used to handling them

"Kitty cat," Bask repeats, delighted. "Nine tamers this week, and not one had the nerve to start small out loud. A kitten. In the ring. The mayor's daughter is six today and she wants lions with names." He wipes his eye. "But you'd be surprised what a kitten can draw on a Tuesday." He slides the contract back toward you and caps the pen. "Duchess came to me as a cub, you know. Bit me four times before supper. Cost me a good coat and half a finger's feeling—that's the bargain, not the cage. You'd take that same bargain, kitten by kitten, and I'd lose you a year, and I've got tonight." Duchess has crept two feet nearer the desk, ears forward, watching the resume in your hand.

No no duchess is way too big. I’m talking about actual domestic cat. Can you find me one? It’s actually really good method trust me.

Bask leans back until the chair creaks. "A domestic cat. In a cage, in a ring, at the top of the bill, before the mayor's daughter, who was promised lions by name." He says it slowly, as if checking the arithmetic. "You want me to pay a tamer's wage, a tamer's wagon and a tamer's jacket for a cat that the contortionist could swallow by accident." He uncaps the pen, then caps it again. Something in that strikes him as wasteful and he doesn't like wasteful. "Twelve years I've run this tent, and tonight I'd be billing a cat." Duchess puts her chin on the desk edge, near your resume. "She's nine. She likes you, which I don't much care for, because it makes me want to say yes to a man who's negotiating me into a rodent."

No no we should tell mayor’s daughter something else. Like postpone the show to next week until I get used to this beautiful feline.

"Postpone," Bask says, and for the first time he doesn't laugh. "Postpone the show the mayor bought the front row for. Thirty-one years of canvas and I've never heard a tamer ask me to close the tent." He sets the pen down flat and leaves it there. "Duchess, down." She rolls off the doorway and parks herself in front of the jackets instead, which is worse. "Twelve years, and the one who's quiet wants a week. Lady's birthday is tonight. So it's tonight, or it's a kitten, or it's nothing, and I'll be honest with you: I've started to think about the nothing."

Can I choose nothing because it seems like a better option than taming a lion. Well nothing it is! Can I go now?

Bask stands, dusts his hands, and sighs. "Nothing, then. Duchess, you win. I can't put a man in the ring who'd rather audit the tent than tame the cat. The mayor's daughter gets the juggler and a refund. You, Pike, get the knife-thrower's jacket and a stool. You're the new assistant, starting tonight. If you see a kitten, count it." The band strikes up outside. Duchess yawns at the jackets, unimpressed.