by Daniel Ausema

News of the Mad Juggler’s death shocked us all. Rumors of his immortality had passed from child to child in our neighborhood at least since we adults had been little children. We had always been sure that as long as the streets were still Pine, Kenessey and Sapser, the Mad Juggler would come by walking and whistling or riding his old, rusty bike. Now the streets have not changed, and even the houses look much the same as they had when I first moved here, but there will be no more juggling for our children.

I remember the first time I saw him, the same day we moved into our new house on Kenessey. At eight years old I was curious about the new neighborhood but also a bit afraid of the newness of everything. The Mad Juggler’s first appearance didn’t help me.

Several years earlier, when I had lived across town, my family had taken my cousin and me to the circus. They thought a young girl who laughed as much as I used to would love the tricks all the circus animals do; they were right. The clowns, though, scared me terribly. All that makeup on their face, the wild hair, and the crazy antics just weren’t natural. I could handle a trainer sticking his head in the mouth of the lion, but not a wildly painted clown. Always after that my cousin would torment me by claiming to have seen a clown sneaking around the corner of the house or hiding in the basement. Just before we moved she assured me that most clowns actually lived on the far side of town, especially in the neighborhood we were moving to.

When the Mad Juggler first appeared, I knew he had to be one of those clowns. He didn’t have makeup and his head was bald, but his raggedy clothes and bag full of balls convinced me that the clowns had found me. I was about to run behind our moving van, but then I noticed the neighbor kids all come running, as if drawn by his off-key whistling. I could whistle better than that, even at eight years old. That fact gave me the confidence to come a little closer; I stayed behind a small bush at the front corner of our yard, whistling softly.

The Mad Juggler’s smile spread wrinkles across his deeply tanned face. He passed around a few of his balls to the other children and then took three bright yellow balls and started to juggle. I had never seen anyone juggle up close, even at the circus. I was amazed. Coming around the bush, I walked closer until I stood just behind a tall boy who was playing with a red ball.

“Hello, young lady.” He continued juggling while he looked past the boy and straight at me. I didn’t answer and moved just enough so the Mad Juggler couldn’t see me. I watched the other children pass their balls from one hand to the other, not really paying much attention to their own motions. “Would you like one of these green balls to play with while you watch?” He had moved a bit so he could look at me again.

I shook my head. The Mad Juggler’s juggling fascinated me—the bright yellow balls became in my mind little suns flashing through his hands. But I had no desire to hold just one ball; that looked boring. He was still looking at me, so I decided to give up the silence. “No,” I said, “I like the yellow ones.” The following years in this neighborhood would teach me not to have my own opinions, but I hadn’t learned that lesson yet. I still knew what I liked.

The Mad Juggler smiled a bit and tossed me a yellow ball then picked the other two up and juggled them in one hand.

“I want all three.” A few of the other children gave me a look I would learn well in the next years, a frown and rolled eyes that were meant to mean I had stepped out of line. But they kept fidgeting with the balls silently. “Teach me to juggle.”

The Mad Juggler bit his lower lip and narrowed one brown eye in a half comical gesture then handed me the other two balls. They were so yellow they seemed to burn into my eyes. I stood there looking at them, forgetting all about trying to throw them in the air. My hands could barely hold all three, but I held my hands flat so the balls made a perfect triangle. I could already imagine myself passing hours just throwing the bright balls into the air, watching in amazement as they would come back into my hands.

“So when you gonna juggle?” The tall boy whom I had first hidden behind broke my concentration. I looked around and saw all the other kids watching me. The juggler still had his lower lip between his teeth and a questioning expression on his face, as if wondering what I would do.

I realized that I had no idea what to do with the shiny balls and that a whole bunch of people I had never met were watching me. That may have been my first moment of what this neighborhood still considers growing up: I started to feel terribly unimportant and thought maybe I really had stepped out of line. I could feel the tears getting ready to fall.

I was about to drop the balls and run when the Mad Juggler spoke. “I can teach you, but you may have to be patient.”

I didn’t dare speak, still shaken by this new feeling inspired by my neighbors, so I nodded and looked him in the eyes, almost begging.

“It’s all about the rhythm.” Aric, as I soon learned to call him, began the first of what would become many lessons in juggling.

Over the following years I made him help me learn to juggle whenever I could. When he was around I would remember to be myself, even as I learned to be just like everyone else in school and elsewhere. Some days I wouldn’t feel much like practicing so I would just gather with the other kids to watch.

I remember one neighbor boy whose name, I think, was Jay; he always seemed to have a runny nose. Every time Aric began to juggle Jay would beg him to juggle pins until he gave in. Aric, I would find out years later, was really not a great juggler, and the pins he had were just sawed-off table legs with stripes of colorful tape around them—difficult things to control. Aric would make everyone step well back just in case a pin dropped, but Jay would always edge closer for a better view until Aric made him step back again.

Most days I wanted to try juggling, and I always demanded the three yellow balls. Aric was patient, giving me tips to get the rhythm of different types of juggling. The other kids hated it though. They just wanted the Mad Juggler to juggle for them, to entertain them.

I never knew what the parents thought about Aric. I heard the other kids call him the Mad Juggler and whisper secrets about how many centuries he had lived. The most common story tied him with the gypsies who were said to steal babies and eight-year-old girls. The story that became my favorite was the one I heard from Jay, the boy with the runny nose: