The Day the Circus Folded

The petite lady’s sequined bustier flashed in the spotlight as she stood barefoot, knees flexed, astride two galloping white stallions. It was a stunning sight. The crowd murmured as the three beings, linked together by trust as much as gravity, circled the ring. Suddenly, the ringmaster cracked his whip. There was a flash, bang, cloud of smoke.

It had been an illusion. It was Secretary of the Treasury Paulson, on two jet-black bulls. He was nude, save for a thick belt with an enormous gold buckle on which was embossed, in Helvetica bold italic, the word “greed.” The frenzied romp of the animals caused the various parts of his manhood to swing wildly. The ringmaster, Alan Greenspan, was fully clothed—a black tailcoat and trousers with red, white and blue stripes. He cracked the whip again.

The bulls accelerated. Their eyes widened and saliva sloshed from their gaping mouths. The crowd chanted, “faster, faster,” the loudest cheering from the ringside seats, occupied by members of the House and Senate. Lobbyists had a standing order with Ticketmaster for every performance. There was also a section with a banner overhead: RESERVED FOR THE SUPREME COURT, and in small print Corporations are people, get used to it.

The President, from his box seat, jumped up and shouted “Bring them on. Go bulls. Go you beauties!” Then he turned to Laura and said “It’s a great show but would be a damn site better if they were Texas Longhorns.” There was another flash and more smoke which, when it cleared, revealed two brown bulls with horns, seven feet tip to tip. 

Suddenly, without warning—at least to most observers—the Longhorns veered sharply to the right, jumped the ring’s small curb, and headed for the open flap of the circus tent. A horn nicked a tent pole, bending it. This pulled on a support rope, which pulled on another pole. Soon the tent was, in slow motion, collapsing around the crowd, from whom emanated a forlorn “Nooooo,” except those in the cheap-seat top rows, who were slow to discern what was happening.

As the Longhorns tore through the exit, Paulson yelled “The economy is healthy and robust,” then he leaned to the side and puked. He was loosing his bearings as they galloped off the circus grounds and onto the streets of Manhattan, streets now renamed. They crossed the intersection of Lehman and Bankruptcy streets, ran down what was formerly Avenue of the Americas, now Avenue of Credit Default Swaps. But they finally reached a familiar one—Broadway. By now the beasts ran at a frenzied pace, passing cabs and city buses, careening left and right, upsetting sidewalk vendors and breaking storefront windows. It was a nightmare. At 42^nd Street the theatre marquees trumpeted the latest offerings: AIG, the Musical; Too Big to Fail; Morgan and Sterns, a Love Story; and the risqué Fannie and Freddie Go Down on America.

Finally, they jerked to the left at Wall Street, crashed through the doors of the Stock Exchange, and collapsed in a heap on the trading floor just as the closing bell rang. Then, like the slippers of the Bad Witch in the Wizard of Oz, their carcasses shriveled and disappeared, leaving Paulson standing, legs splayed, mouth agape but no sound emerging. The hall fell silent. A snow of shredded mortgage loans began gently falling from the ceiling. The room chilled. One of the floor brokers yelled “What the hell’s happening?” No one answered.