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."