In northwestern Wisconsin, not too far from shore; in the icy, oily, ashen-skin waters of Lake Superior, there is a small patch of
dirt and grass and trees known as Barker's Island. There are few people in the nearby towns that have any idea why it has that
name.
After the heyday of the great American traveling circuses passed, there were many misplaced showmen and roustabouts left
wandering from place to place, looking for work. It wasn't so hard for the superstars of the flying trapeze, or the lion-tamers, or
the magicians. They made the transition okay. They got jobs with the one or two remaining circuses, or started doing shows in
Las Vegas. And the roustabouts, they knew about manual labor; their muscled arms could haul hammers and steel. Most of
them became construction workers or bricklayers.
The talkers (it is only civilians who refer to them as barkers, they hate the term) were not so lucky. Sure, the could have gotten
jobs as salesmen – but who wants to hawk umbrellas or boots when they're used to introducing painted ladies on white horses
leaping through hoops of fire, or sparking people's interest in two-headed boys and girls that are half-girl, half-cheetah? Most of
the talkers went a bit mad. You'd find them stumbling across the dirt roads and grimy city streets of America, in tattered red
coats and caved-in top hats; giving the bally for acts that ended decades before.
A group of concerned citizens said: "We can't have a bunch of loony old barkers running free in this country, making the children
wonder where the circus has gone. We've got this nice little island up here in northern Wisconsin, and we could set up a
retirement community for them."
They built houses. Nice little cabins furnished with high-quality wood furniture. They herded up all of the talkers, and they
sent them there, to Barker's Island. Once a week, a boat comes, to bring them supplies and mail. They never get any mail,
because people have long since forgotten that they even exist.
They eat and sleep in the cabins; and during the day, they compete to see who can come up with the best bally of them all. If you
stand on the shore and listen close, you can hear them, their voices amplified through megaphones: "Ladies and gentlemen, boys
and girls, children of all ages. Come and see the most death-defying acts your eyes will ever witness. A beautiful woman will be
sawed in half, and then put back together again. A man will stick his head inside a tiger's mouth, and come out unscathed. You
won't believe it possible."
Yes, they're out there, talking up a grand big top performance that they lost somewhere near the traintracks, on the outskirts of
some small Pennsylvania town. You can hear them, if you listen close. Most people think it's just the wind, or a foghorn. But
foghorns don't say "step right up."