"The show was just beginning when I arrived. Zloty stood in the center of the ring, his arms outstretched, tracing circles in the air to indicate the boundlessness of the wonders we were soon to witness. He used words like intrepid and spellbound and liability waiver. He said we were privileged to witness such feats. Had I ever really witnessed anything before? I searched my memories, but mostly it was just a whole bunch of ordinary seeing. On the farm, there was only the work and how the work got done. You looked at the dirt mounds, you looked at your hands, splinter-rich from the dirt-prod, and then you went to bed. But to witness something--to become an accomplice just by watching--that was something else. 

...By the grand finale the bleachers were almost empty. But I hardly noticed--I was entranced. I stayed until the end, when had the troupe came out to take a bow to scattered, anemic applause. And I stayed to watch Rueben push a wide broom across the dirt floor and into a pile in the corner. And while they dismantled the ring and packed up the lights, I curled into a wooden crate filled with novelty wigs and buried myself deep inside. If I wasn't chosen, I would choose. I'm a performer now, I thought, and I felt the netting of a wig settle into place just above my ears. I thought about my dirt-pod still lying next to those three mounds, and then I fell asleep."  

The Pickle Index, Eli Horowitz