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mallorys_cameraIn other news, last week the USDA finally served its complaint. Allegations against Chance harken back to last year. Some of the accusations are true, some provisionally true. (I know, I know, “yes, but -- “ has yet to be recognized as a legitimate legal defense.)
Among the latter: Delilah the White Tiger didn’t get proper medical care last year while she was pregnant and when she had her cubs.
Well, yeah But… Thing is nobody on the circus knew Delilah was pregnant. Nor did the various vets she visited at half a grand per pop whenever it was time for her to be transported across state lines. Delilah and Solomon exercise without restraints in the same space at the same time two hours a day. Unless she’s in heat, she makes him keep his distance. But apparently she went into heat that winter, her keepers didn’t notice, and Solomon jumped her.
And one morning [insert tiger gestational length] months later three tiny cubs appeared as if by magic in her cage.
Chance did the best he could. Took them away from Delilah, rushed them to a vet. Stayed awake nights hand feeding them at two-hour intervals round the clock. Two of the cubs died anyway; the third was confiscated by the USDA in a routine inspection during the Iowa State Fair.
One of the other accusations fueled news stories around the world: one night last summer in Kansas two elephants got loose and wandered into a nearby field. You’d think the farmer who discovered them would be grateful for an experience like this. Look upon it as an opportunity for scientific research! Say to himself, Finally, the world will discover whether corn really is as high as an elephant’s eye by July 4th! But, no-o-o-o. The farmer freaked.
Most damning thing in the USDA complaint had nothing to do with animals: In 2002 Chance let his Fellini and Pendergrass corporation status expire though every year since he’s gone right on filing government paperwork (licenses, registrations, insurance claims et al) in the name of the lapsed corporation. In addition to being fraud (thus an opportunity for the feds toextort fine him the Big Buck$) this also shifts huge liability on to him personally and renders every relationship he’s entered into contractually under the name of the umbrella institution null and void.
Fellini and Pendergrass home office in Bumfuck, Okalahoma were served with the paperwork a week ago. They overnighted it immediately. UPS guy demanded a signature before handing it over to Chance.
After that it just sat there. All momentum ceased. Chance couldn’t bring himself to open it. Couldn’t bear to read it. Couldn’t even look at it except to check every now and then whether maybe the papers had spontaneously combusted. His whole fucking future was in that brown manila envelope with the ominous looking government frank. But only if he let it be.
Hey, the strategy had worked before! Reason he let the corporation expire in the first place was because he’d put The Bitch From Hell a/k/a his ex-girlfriend on its Board of Directors. After they broke up for the last time, he swore he’d never talk to her again. And by God he’d kept his word. Hasn't updated the website in six years either because she designed it.
Finally, yesterday he shoved the envelope at Ben. “Read this. Then tell me what to do.”
“You want me to write up a summary for you?” Ben asked.
“Nah. Just read it. Come up with a course of action.”
Of course this was a trick request. Ben knew perfectly well that Chance didn’t want to do anything.
Chance, see, is a gambler. A compulsive gambler, actually. Who knows how many tens of thousands of dollars he’s kissed away over the years. The circus tent is riddled with holes; the generator is dying; four of the show trucks are unregistered, thus uninsured, and the pony-ride ponies that were supposed to materialize as soon as the show hit the Midwest have yet to appear.
In prior years Chance could always plead poverty. But this year he’s made money. Minnesota stint has been unusually profitable, circus has played consistently to sold out houses. (I guess Depression 2.0 has made folk nostalgic for entertainment the way it used to be when it wasn’t that entertaining.) Show has grossed $150,000 easily on ticket sales alone. True, concessions have been wa-a-ay down – nobody seems to want to blow two bucks for a bottle of water we buy at the local grocery store for eighty-nine cents; nobody is lining up to drop nine bucks on a Simba the Lion blow up doll either. The only reason the Fellini and Pendergrass teeshirts have earned out is that Chance has been forcing his employees to buy them. But overall the circus has made money.
And Chance has plans for that money! And those plans do not include siphoning off money either to the Feds or buying necessary new equipment or paying off creditors, no – they involve college football point spreads and long distance phone calls to Chance’s favorite sports bookie in Vegas.
I’m sure intellectually Chance knows he stands a reasonable chance of losing his business. But he doesn’t care – or rather, he’s betting against it. Magical thinking: if he loses the business it won’t be his fault, it will be the fault of his bad luck.
Among the latter: Delilah the White Tiger didn’t get proper medical care last year while she was pregnant and when she had her cubs.
Well, yeah But… Thing is nobody on the circus knew Delilah was pregnant. Nor did the various vets she visited at half a grand per pop whenever it was time for her to be transported across state lines. Delilah and Solomon exercise without restraints in the same space at the same time two hours a day. Unless she’s in heat, she makes him keep his distance. But apparently she went into heat that winter, her keepers didn’t notice, and Solomon jumped her.
And one morning [insert tiger gestational length] months later three tiny cubs appeared as if by magic in her cage.
Chance did the best he could. Took them away from Delilah, rushed them to a vet. Stayed awake nights hand feeding them at two-hour intervals round the clock. Two of the cubs died anyway; the third was confiscated by the USDA in a routine inspection during the Iowa State Fair.
One of the other accusations fueled news stories around the world: one night last summer in Kansas two elephants got loose and wandered into a nearby field. You’d think the farmer who discovered them would be grateful for an experience like this. Look upon it as an opportunity for scientific research! Say to himself, Finally, the world will discover whether corn really is as high as an elephant’s eye by July 4th! But, no-o-o-o. The farmer freaked.
Most damning thing in the USDA complaint had nothing to do with animals: In 2002 Chance let his Fellini and Pendergrass corporation status expire though every year since he’s gone right on filing government paperwork (licenses, registrations, insurance claims et al) in the name of the lapsed corporation. In addition to being fraud (thus an opportunity for the feds to
Fellini and Pendergrass home office in Bumfuck, Okalahoma were served with the paperwork a week ago. They overnighted it immediately. UPS guy demanded a signature before handing it over to Chance.
After that it just sat there. All momentum ceased. Chance couldn’t bring himself to open it. Couldn’t bear to read it. Couldn’t even look at it except to check every now and then whether maybe the papers had spontaneously combusted. His whole fucking future was in that brown manila envelope with the ominous looking government frank. But only if he let it be.
Hey, the strategy had worked before! Reason he let the corporation expire in the first place was because he’d put The Bitch From Hell a/k/a his ex-girlfriend on its Board of Directors. After they broke up for the last time, he swore he’d never talk to her again. And by God he’d kept his word. Hasn't updated the website in six years either because she designed it.
Finally, yesterday he shoved the envelope at Ben. “Read this. Then tell me what to do.”
“You want me to write up a summary for you?” Ben asked.
“Nah. Just read it. Come up with a course of action.”
Of course this was a trick request. Ben knew perfectly well that Chance didn’t want to do anything.
Chance, see, is a gambler. A compulsive gambler, actually. Who knows how many tens of thousands of dollars he’s kissed away over the years. The circus tent is riddled with holes; the generator is dying; four of the show trucks are unregistered, thus uninsured, and the pony-ride ponies that were supposed to materialize as soon as the show hit the Midwest have yet to appear.
In prior years Chance could always plead poverty. But this year he’s made money. Minnesota stint has been unusually profitable, circus has played consistently to sold out houses. (I guess Depression 2.0 has made folk nostalgic for entertainment the way it used to be when it wasn’t that entertaining.) Show has grossed $150,000 easily on ticket sales alone. True, concessions have been wa-a-ay down – nobody seems to want to blow two bucks for a bottle of water we buy at the local grocery store for eighty-nine cents; nobody is lining up to drop nine bucks on a Simba the Lion blow up doll either. The only reason the Fellini and Pendergrass teeshirts have earned out is that Chance has been forcing his employees to buy them. But overall the circus has made money.
And Chance has plans for that money! And those plans do not include siphoning off money either to the Feds or buying necessary new equipment or paying off creditors, no – they involve college football point spreads and long distance phone calls to Chance’s favorite sports bookie in Vegas.
I’m sure intellectually Chance knows he stands a reasonable chance of losing his business. But he doesn’t care – or rather, he’s betting against it. Magical thinking: if he loses the business it won’t be his fault, it will be the fault of his bad luck.
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no subject
Date: 2009-08-03 05:40 pm (UTC)Dunno what to say about the guy being a gambler. Sounds like a bit of a train wreck to me.
no subject
Date: 2009-08-04 03:27 pm (UTC)Vets should have picked up the pregnancy for what they were being paid.