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A squirrel wearing a tiny fez ran up to me outside the library with a ticket in his mouth.

uring the hot and hazy, euphoric and confused summer of 1973, on a day when birds of unusual color sang strangely from rooftops … the circus came to Allentown.

I was a pre-med, turned English, turned music major at Muhlenberg College. On that particular morning, I was lying flat on my back in the middle of the quad with arms spread wide as if knocked down by an overwhelming lack of direction.

From the corner of my eye I watched my roommate, Denis, make his way across the lawn. He was almost running, the camera around his neck swinging from side-to-side like a pendulum as he moved.

“Passport, mein Herr,” I demanded once he’d come to an abrupt halt within inches of my head. He laughed and then pulled a blue glass bottle from his camera bag. After taking an impressive swig, he passed it down to me.

“Where are you heading?” I asked. The blue bottle looked like it was filled with liquid sky as I reached up for it.

“There’s a circus in town today,” he answered. “I’m not sure exactly where or what time it opens, but I’m going.”

“To spectate, photograph or join?”

“Unclear,” he smiled.

The bottle smelled faintly of electricity before a thunderstorm, but tasted as familiar and sweet as a favorite childhood candy. Suddenly, “unclear” sounded like a very good plan.

I peeled myself off the lawn. “Where should we start?”

he morning had turned slightly cloudy with scattered young women in summer dresses swinging overhead. I thought about going back to our room for an umbrella, just in case it started raining red shoes later in the day.

“Never mind the umbrella, check this out,” said Denis as he pulled something from his pocket. It was a ticket.

squirrel wearing a tiny fez ran up to me outside the library with this in his mouth,” he explained, holding out the ticket for inspection.

There was no date to be found on it, no hours and no location. It was an extremely tightlipped ticket.

“I gave the little dude a dollar,” Denis added. “He stuffed it in his fez and then split.”

“You didn’t find that strange? I asked.

“Not really. Squirrels don’t have pockets.”

hile we puzzled over the ticket, faint music reached us from an open window in the science building. We followed the sound inside, to a lecture hall where 200 empty seats watched a woman sitting cross-legged on the podium.

“Excuse me,” I called from the back of the hall. “Do you know anything about a circus?” I held up the ticket.

“No need to find it” she answered. The floating spheres began to move and orbit her like moons. “It will find you.”

“

id that strike you as slightly ominous?”

I asked Denis after we left the building.

“She definitely isn’t on the faculty,” he observed.

We decided to continue our search off-campus and hailed a waiting cab to take us downtown. As we headed south on Chew Street, Denis leaned over. “Dude,” he whispered. “You do realize this cab is a zebra, right?”

long the way, we saw a young man standing in front of the West Park band shell and stopped for a moment to talk.

“What kind of horn is that?” I asked him while Denis snapped a couple photos.

He looked at the instrument with suspicion. “I don’t know,” he responded. “It was a trumpet this morning.”

e galloped on, past steeples and shops, row homes and railroad tracks. It was all there, as it had always been … but small patches of the unexpected were beginning to appear, growing like strange seedlings planted in familiar earth.

y the time our zebra dropped us off on Hamilton Street, people were jaywalking on the water while tightrope artists danced across telephone lines overhead.

ust when we thought things couldn’t get any stranger, but probably would, we caught our own reflection in a storefront window.

“This is completely unacceptable,” said Denis, and then took a photo anyway.

Since we were only a block away from city hall, we decided to see if someone there could shed any light on the growing mayhem.

uch to our surprise, the Mayor himself greeted us … but wasn’t very helpful.

y 3 pm, Allentown was shifting and changing in every direction.

We watched a tiger run a red light at 8th Street and noticed that the monkey to human ratio around us was much higher than normal … for a weekday.

In the middle of the colorful confusion, Denis pointed up the block. “Is that a big top rising over there?”

We waddled toward it, our shoes suddenly eight sizes too big.

t the corner of what used to be 10th and Hamilton Street , we found the owner and general manager of the circus calmly surveying his domain.

“You’re late,” he growled and tilted his massive head, toward a small tent. “In there.”

Lions aren’t terribly talkative.

it down, sit down,” said the head of human resources peevishly as Denis and I entered the tent. “Quickly, please.”

As we took our seats, the chimp fanned a deck of cards and held it out to us. “The past you were, the present you are, the future you will be,” he chanted flatly as if for the hundredth time today. “Now hurry up and pick a card.”

I looked at mine: “You will run away to join the circus.” Denis’s said the same thing.

“They all do,” said the chimp. “Congratulations. You are now employees of The Moxy Midnight Circus & Urban Renewal Company.”

He handed us a couple big red clown noses. “Showtime!” he said.

ears have passed since that day in 1973 and we’re still here. Two shows a night in the big top at 10th and Hamilton Street. If you happen to be coming to Allentown, let us know. We’ll send you a squirrel. If not, don’t worry. We’ll catch you when we’re on tour.

See You Soon,

In the summer of 2023, a rusty metal box was unearthed in the construction site of Moxy Allentown Downtown at the corner of 10th and Hamilton Street. It contained this water stained journal and dozens of clown noses. Further investigation revealed that the photographs were taken by Denis Aumiller and the entries written by Mark Golin, both students at Muhlenberg College who disappeared suddenly in the summer of 1973.

For print and framing options of the Moxy Carnival photography collection or copies of this book please contact Denis Aumiller at denisaumiller@gmail.com