Fuse’s Final Flare
Barnabas “Fuse” Calloway lived for bringing wide-eyed spectacle to sleepy rural gatherings across the Midwest seeking fleeting escape from mundane daily drudgeries. As inheritor to generations of itinerant showmen, Fuse felt kinship with flashing fireworks that similarly drew ooohs, sparkled brilliantly, then evaporated as ephemeral beacons of light against life’s enveloping shadows.
From the storied Calloway Brothers Carnival troupe’s mustard-hued train cars and ramshackle midway tents, the smell of powder mixed intoxicatingly with sawdust and sugar always signaled a brief glimpse of magic for ordinary folk who showed. Though just a flyspeck stopover between sprawling cities with grand amusement parks and theaters, Fuse ensured his pyrotechnic art conjured real marvel in miniature.
Most thrilling were the traveling company’s finales when all circus performers flooded the muddy field to dance ‘round Fuse with wild abandon as every barnstorming pilot, hot rod daredevil, clown and contortionist reveling under exploding vortexes of rainbow-hued blazes igniting the midnight country skies as audiences roared. Heartbearding kamikaze explosions marked when the spell must close again. Till next season’s faded posters fluttered announcing temporary return from realms unknown.
But 1957 brought worrying cogitations from veteran physicians after Fuse’s decades dancing ever closer to lethal sparks and handled volatile chemicals daily concocting flash powder contents risking heavy metal exposures over such tenure. They warned therapies for accumulating neurological disorders from occupational overexposure loomed necessary lest Fuse’s essential motor skills desert him permanently, effectively stifling performance mastery gained through such long sacrifice. But apprehensive Fuse couldn’t abandon the crowds gasping out there nightly beyond the footlights, not while strength persisted providing fleeting fantastical refuges he himself savored since youth. The spiritual costs outweighed all else.
Alas the professional medical consultations proved prescient after mere months more touring the summer circuit when, during spectacular Saturday night finale bombarding skies behind Fahrenheit Fairgrounds, right as crescendoing concussions reached pow and Fuse prepared jubilantly scurrying clear of the dazzling chaos...paralysis gripped briefly but critically long enough for wayward five-inch camels and whistling were-heads to spiral catastrophically earthward instead of blossoming properly overhead. Fuse’s incandescent cloak immediately ignited as deadly sparks engulfed the motionless man from neck downward faster than shouts could warn. Flaming tendrils lapped hungrily in mere moments despite urgent application of counteractive powders, robbing Fuse of chance voicing parting words ere the seething inferno consumed flesh and bone bodily in crumbling cinders within the scarlet pyre.
The unspeakable disaster spotted newspapers nationwide clamoring whether public pyrotechnics posed intolerable dangers regarding impulsive environmental factors and medical liability. transitioned from folksy staple heralding communal merriment transfiguring sleepy rural nights behind bold strobe bursts evoking stars glimpsed only by Child’s fantasia. Fatefully Fuse himself radically personified critics’ worst indictment against casual safety violations running rife amongst aging sideshow explosives handlers. Whether from his own longterm poisoning or failing safeguards, the horrific spontaneous raging blaze cemented corrective regulations and cultural opinions most thought a long time coming.
Yet wispy rumors endure ‘round the post-war carnival curcuit of ethereal presences glimpsed when twilight fades at shuttered fairgrounds containing secrets only tetanus and black widows know nowadays. Ghosthunters with amplifiers attempt capturing unexplained crackling whispers equating to a voice. And blurry super 8 footage recently emerged from one condemned corndog concession seeming to show fiery humanoid shape perpetually reliving outward explosions frozen in time besides collapsing big top tent silhouette. Can it be Fuse's Kazaa lit spirit still striving to kindle fleeting flicker magic ‘cross dingy childhood midways lingering beyond unsparing mortality’s exits when curtain falls on dazzlingly transient lives lived spotlight between infinities? If so may his cosmic spark dance on forevermore lighting way for awestruck new generations briefly dally between tedium and eternity only present moments allow.
