Lydia began to dance. Joe began to juggle.   Time seemed to pause, the world ceased its rotation, and the other members of the circus fled in terror of what was to come. One-two-three-four-five, the balls went up, arcing, over, and everyone held their breath as each thwapped unerringly into his left palm.

 

It was as though the flawed night before had never happened. The balls flowed, like a waterfall of shining crystal fountaining between his arms and hands, blurring and jumping like dolphins in the the waves of his hands. He juggled in patterns that barely registered on the consciousness, patterns that flowed deep into your skull, patterns that spoke of continents forming and mountains falling, patterns that must have been involved in the forming of planets and the paths of the comets. Mill's Mess, Hovie's Nightmare, and even Priazzo's Perturbing Perambulation are interesting patterns, but all would seem clumsy next to "Joe's Juggle."

 

Lydia writhed and twisted and bumped and ground and stamped and wiggled, sending her skin in ripples of ink and muscle 'til it glistened with perspiration, trying to drive Joe mad with the lines and shadows. She performed in ways never seen before nor since, attacking Joe's senses with an intensity that made D-day look like a love-in.

 

Joe's shield was in the spheres he threw, though, and though he never stopped looking at her, his pattern never faltered. His hands moved around and through it, caressing the balls and not so much throwing as gently nudging them into their own orbits with a gravity of his own creation. Gradually, Lydia became aware of the offense hidden within his impregnable defense. Every move she made, every supple string and loop of lustful image was reflected by the crystals dancing themselves and mirroring her every move.                                                                               .

 

With a start she realized the rhythm she danced to was the rhythm set by the soft slap of Joe's hands catching and throwing. Trying to change it, to regain control, she stumbled, and that was all it took. Joe's pattern changed, doubled in intensity and intricacy as he began advancing on her form as it faltered in the dance that he now controlled. Lydia's breathing was ragged, and she was now moving in jerky, spastic movements like a marionette with half her strings cut. Still Joe moved closer, until the gleaming pattern filled her eyes, and she fi­nally was overcome by the intricate mystical diagrams reflected in the surfaces. She collapsed, defeated, lying on the ground and sobbing softly.

 

Joe's pattern softened then, becoming less a mighty torrent and more a gentle stream, still smooth and steady without a trace of effort. But Undroppable Joe wasn't about to leave her to victimize other men. Males are delicate creatures, more prone to distraction than their more sensible counterparts, and leaving Lydia the Tattooed Lady as she was was like putting a barracuda in a guppie tank.

 

He circled her fallen form, 'til the sun over his shoulder shone through the crystals sprinkling light over her in irridescent drops. Then he began the pattern handed down to him from his father's father's father, who had learned it from the man who made the crystals in a cave in the south of Wales . This 'pattern sent shafts of light flickering over her, tracing her skin and muscle in bright flowing streams.

 

Where the light struck, the ink that covered her skin faded and disappeared, leaving it pure, and you can be sure it was the first time that particular adjective had been used around Lydia! The pattern continued until she was as clean as a baby's belly button, and Joe slowly let the pattern shrink and simplify. You can't use power like that and just stop, as any physics student will tell you. The spheres were black and cloudy now, barely able to contain the malevolent images they'd scoured from Lydia. Finally Joe let the balls fall into his hands, gently rolling them around his fingers and over his arms, contact juggling with tiny stormclouds filled with angry, compressed energy.

 

Lydia slowly looked up, with the amazement and trepeidation that comes with every beginning, and let Joe help her to her feet. Gently he helped her into her dressing gown, after he'd carefully put the spheres in a leather pouch.

 

He handed her the pouch, whispering, "You can decide whether to use them or not."

 

She looked dazed, and all the meanness seemed to have gone out of her, leaving an intelligent, beautiful woman where before had dwelt a malevolent, cunning succubus. She looked with wonder at her skin, now clean and bright in the sunlight. Then she looked at Joe, who was suddenly the shy, love struck man again. With a clear, bubbling laugh she hugged him. "UHURU!" she shouted, Free at last!

 

The other circus people came out from where they'd sought cover from the kinetic battle of image and trajectory. Joe cleared his throat, turned Lydia so he was downwind, and said softly, "Lydia, I've been thinking it's time we.. .er, that is, would you, well, umm...! sorta...need...a, urn, partner."

 

Her eyes were twinkling at him. She was no longer the Tattooed Lady, but a lady she was, and like all ladies she enjoyed reminding him that no man would ever understand any woman, and would be much happier if he didn't try. So Joe just grinned happily and walked with her down the midway, hawkers setting up stalls with colorful toys, roustabouts tightening down ropes, animals snuffling up to feed buckets, stars resuming their cosmic paths and planets continuing their orbits.

 

Happily ever after? I suppose, but I wouldn't know. Marriage, kids, life on the road - I doubt it was easy. Especially with a mouth like Undroppable Joe's. His act was revamped by Lydia, who equaled the skill of his juggling with her eloquent, witty patter. She worked the audience slicker than Reagan in '84, and if her husband never smiled, well, she made up for it with the friendly grin and merry laughter that polished each performance. Why, they even added a verse to her song, you know:

 

Lydia was sleek as a rocket,

When she moved men's eyes burst from their socket,

But no joy did she know,

'til she married her Joe,

And she now keeps his balls in her pocket!

 

Rascal Valentine is the Resident Troubadour at the Countryside Montessori Preschool in Madison, Wis., and is occasionally mistaken for Jeff Miller, father of four. His current goals include learning to ski through a revolving door.