Adventures of a Dwergish Girl

by Daniel Pinkwater

  I know about Professor Knows Everything because Arnold Babatunji has WKIN playing on the radio in his pizzeria all the time. He says that he learned English by listening to the radio, and also, if you listen to Billy Backus enough, it is the same as getting a university education. Billy Backus was the smartest child ever born in Kingston, and had the highest IQ ever recorded. Before he was five he could speak nine languages, had written a book about astronomy, could play the piano and the xylophone, and gave a concert at Carnegie Hall in New York City in which he played both instruments at once. When he was eleven he was a full professor at the State University in Albany, New York. He taught ancient history, Greek, Latin, and Home Economics. Then he got tired of the whole business of being a boy genius, and he got a job cleaning out furnaces. Later, he married Isabel, bought the little brick building, and took over the radio station, which was already in it. Isabel, as I mentioned earlier, was interested in frogs and cows.

  Typical questions on Ask the Professor might go something like this: A listener calls in and asks, “How do you make krupnik?” and Billy Backus says, “Krupnik is a thick Polish soup, with a base of vegetable or meat broth, and it has potatoes and barley groats. Krupnik can also contain wloszczyzna, a combination of diced vegetables, and also meat, onions, and mushrooms.” Another caller might ask, “How high is up?”—to which the professor could reply, “If something is high up, it is a long way above the ground, or sea level, or possibly you.” Some of the questions are meant to stump or confuse Billy, such as, “What do you sit on, sleep on, and use to brush your teeth?” The answer he gave to that one was, “A chair, a bed, and a toothbrush.”

  Besides answering questions from the audience, Billy Backus sometimes gives a little lecture or history lesson, or explains something at length. On one particular day during the time I was living under and in the trees behind Arnold Babatunji’s pizzeria, the topic was famous gangsters who had visited or lived in Kingston. I found this program fascinating, and as it turned out, useful.

  “Today, Professor Knows Everything will tell you of the blood-stained, bullet-riddled, and bathtub gin–drenched days of our fair city’s gangster past. Yes, Kingston had more than its fair share of malefactors, evildoers, thugs, bullyboys, and cardsharpers. I will tell you tales of violence and horror, but first . . . Our program is brought to you through the courtesy of the good people at Lonesome Cowboy Hot Wieners . . . five locations in Kingston . . . Remember friends, it’s one dollar for two dogs and a cup of generic cola . . . Ask for yours with chili, or wloszczyzna . . . yumm.

  “Now back to tales of the Roaring Twenties and the Gasping Thirties, when men in hats traded potshots and machine-gun bursts on the historic streets of old Kingston. First, it’s easy to see why the criminal element found a home here. They were all New Yorkers, from Manhattan, and Albanians, from Albany, and the Catskills and Kingston are in between those cities. These were the days before air-conditioning, when anybody who could afford it would head this way in the summer to breathe, and also eat blueberries. So they knew how to get here. And besides climate, lovely scenery, and fresh produce, the neighborhood has lakes and ponds, and especially the beautiful Ashokan Reservoir, from which New York City gets its water, all ideal for sinking the remains of business competitors.

  “And of course, our local police department, while second to none, simply didn’t have resources to deal with large numbers of heavily armed, experienced meanies.

  “Old timers can still remember some of the more colorful criminals, such as Legs Rhinestone, a stone-hearted killer with the most beautiful limbs in the underworld, Jilly Two-vests, cold-blooded, and hot-headed, he was feared by friends and enemies alike. Also seen on our streets were Freddie the Frog, Daffy the Duck, and Goofy the Schnook, the aristocrats of crime.”

  Every afternoon at one, Billy Backus would do a short commercial for Babatunji’s Authentic Neapolitan Pizza before closing down the radio station for lunch. He would then appear at our pizzeria. Arnold Babatunji would have the professor’s pizza ready, pepperoni with olives. Of course, Arnold did not charge for the pizza, and Billy Backus did not charge for the radio commercial. He said this is what is called a quid pro quo.

  I would be the one to serve the former boy genius his pizza, and also an ice-cold bottle of Dr. Pedwee’s Grape Soda, a popular health beverage made with mostly natural grapes.

  “I enjoyed the program about the old-time gangsters, Professor Knows Everything,” I said.

  “Call me Billy.”

  “Thanks, Billy, I will. Anyway, I thought it was interesting, the tough guys way back in history.”

  “There are still a few around, beside the ghost of Legs Rhinestone,” Billy said.

  “Gangsters, or ghosts?”

  “Both. Ghosts and gangsters, and at least one gangster ghost.”

  “So you know about the ghost activity here in the neighborhood . . . What am I saying? Of course you know about it. You know about everything.”

  “So it is said. You know the old saying, ‘Once a boy genius, always a boy genius.’”

  “No, I never heard that one.”

  “Well, it’s an old saying, and yes, I know about the nightly spook walk, and I know you wander around late at night, and visit with the honored former citizens of the town. Dwergs tend to be active at odd hours.”

  “You know I’m a Dwerg.”

  “Well, obviously.”

  “So, let me ask you this, would there be any reason for a lot of ghostly British troops, or maybe they’re Hessian mercenaries, anyway redcoats of the Revolutionary period, to show up on the streets around here?”

  “You’re talking about that crowd that was on Frog Alley the other night, gnawing on frankfurters. They’re not ghosts.”

  “Not? They’re alive?”

  “I didn’t say that, just that they aren’t ghosts.”

  “If they’re not ghosts, and thus not dead, they’re alive, aren’t they? What other categories exist?”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “So what are they, these soldiers?”

  “Don’t let this get around, but that is something I do not know.”

  15.

  LENI TOOMAY AND I were sitting on a low wall, drinking bottles of Dr. Pedwee’s Grape. “You know, the common belief is that Dwergs have huge hoards of gold,” she said. “But people say that sort of thing about any group they know nothing about, not to mention groups they think are nonexistent. I hope you won’t think I listen to rumors or anything like that, but I have to ask you. Are you rich? I mean with money, I know that kind of story gets exaggerated.”

  “No, it’s true, we have tons of the stuff. Why do you ask?”

  “Bus tickets to New York City and back would come to about ninety bucks, and then there’s the papaya juice and at least a couple of hot dogs, which are completely different from what you might think. Is that something you can handle?”

  “Apart from the fact that I have access to more or less unlimited quantities of gold, I have no rent to pay, get my meals for nothing, and hardly buy anything, so even though Arnold Babatunji pays me a disgraceful wage, I could afford it even if I wasn’t a Dwerg zillionaire. When do you want to go?”

  “Understand, if I had any money I’d be happy to kick in my share, but I don’t. However I will make myself useful by guiding you around the city, and also I have some information to impart that you will find interesting.”

  “You think I will need a guide in New York City? I had no problem adjusting to Kingston, and as a Dwerg, I can navigate the whole of the Catskill Mountains, no trouble at all.”

  “As a Native American, I have inherited woodland skills that may be the match for yours, but the Apple is a little different?”

  “The Apple? What’s that?”

  “The Big Apple; Gotham; the City That Never Sleeps; New York, New York; the City So Nice They Named It Twice.”

  “So you know your way around.”

  “I modestly say yes.”

&
nbsp; “Been down there a lot?”

  “This will be my third trip.”

  16.

  THE BUS TERMINAL was just past the diner. I asked Leni about it as we passed. “What goes on in there? You ever been inside?”

  “You’ve never been in the diner?”

  “I wouldn’t be asking if I had.”

  “It’s a diner. Lots of items on the menu. All diners are good for breakfasts, eggs cooked several ways, and diner home fries are good, but the special thing is the tapioca pudding. They do it right.”

  “I’ve never had it.”

  “So, you more or less survive exclusively on Babatunji’s pizza?”

  “There’s no more or less about it. I live on Babatunji’s pizza, and nothing else. So does Babatunji.”

  “Not what I’d call a balanced diet.”

  “It’s plenty balanced. I get something from the wheat group, something from the sauce group, and something from the cheese group every day. Plus occasionally something from the pepperoni group. Babatunji says it’s nature’s most perfect food.”

  “I’ll be interested to hear what you have to say after you have some papaya juice.”

  “The object of our trip to the city.”

  “One of the objects. And here’s our bus.”

  The only bus I had been on was the school bus that used to pick up Dwerg girls and take us to Kingston. This bus was a lot bigger, and fancier. The outside was shiny metal, and there were big, comfy seats inside. It was slightly dark, the windows were tinted like sunglasses, the interior of the bus smelled of air-conditioned air, and we could feel a cool rush coming out of little vents and nozzles.

  We settled into seats, the doors closed with a whoosh and a clunk, and the bus moved forward, smooth and silent. I liked it. It was worth twenty-two dollars and fifty cents just to ride in the thing, much less be taken to New York City.

  There were just a few passengers on the bus. People got on and off at various towns we stopped at on the way. It was fun looking out the window, and as we rode, we talked.

  “I want you to know that I have never breathed a word to anyone about you being a Dwerg,” Leni said.

  “I wouldn’t mind if you had,” I said. “Not that I mean to advertise it, but at the same time, it’s not some big dark secret.”

  “Just the same, you’re a friend of mine, and it should be up to you whether you want anybody to know you’re Dwergish. I just wouldn’t want you to think it was me spreading private stuff around.”

  “OK, I get it,” I said. “You have not outed me as a Dwerg, which anybody who knew anything about anything would have guessed just looking at me.” Even though Dwerg means dwarf, very few Dwergs would qualify as one, still we are on the diminutive side, definitely shorter than average, and only a bit taller than an official dwarf. Add to this, we tend to have hands and feet just a little big for our height, and it is said we have a kind of look in our eyes that other folks don’t have. What I’m getting at is, if you know what a Dwerg looks like, then you’ll know when you’re looking at one.

  Of course, very few people know what a Dwerg looks like. The only live person to know for sure that I was one was Billy Backus, who knows everything, and is a professor of knowing everything. I thought of him as a nice guy with good manners, and I doubted he was who Leni was leading up to telling me about.

  “You know, you’re not the only one who talks to the ghosts around here. And they’re all such gossips. I’m pretty sure it was one of them who gave you away.”

  “Gave me away to whom, and what difference does it make?”

  “Well, my aunt’s boyfriend is Angus McMelvin, who runs the pawnshop.”

  “We’ve met.”

  “Well, he suspects you.”

  “Suspects me of what?”

  “Suspects you of being a Dwerg.”

  “That’s hardly surprising when you consider I cashed in a Dwerg coin at his shop. I have to ask you, so what?”

  “So, he has unsavory friends.”

  “Something else that doesn’t surprise me. He looks to be a pretty unsavory friend himself.”

  “Well some of his unsavory friends are gangsters.”

  “And he told them about the gold coin.”

  “Told and showed it to them.”

  “And being gangsters, they got all interested.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who exactly are these gangsters?”

  “Well the worst one is Leg Rhinestone.”

  “Isn’t that Legs Rhinestone?”

  “It used to be Legs. Now it’s Leg. The other one’s wooden.”

  “He lost one.”

  “He led a dangerous life.”

  “Which leads us to a point I was about to make. I believe he’s dead, is he not?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “So, a ghost.”

  “Of course.”

  “So, what does he want to do, sniff my remaining gold coins? I don’t see that this is a big deal.”

  “I just wanted to make you aware.”

  “I am aware.”

  17.

  LENI TOLD ME that the Port Authority Bus Terminal in Manhattan is officially designated as one of the ten ugliest buildings in the world, which I find easy to believe. It is huge, covers as much area as the whole Stockade District in uptown Kingston, and has 190,000 people moving through it every day. About six thousand bus trips begin and end there, and there are connections to various subways, local buses in Manhattan, and taxicabs, lined up outside the building waiting for fares. I would say the atmosphere in the terminal, which New Yorkers call the Port of New York Authority, or PONY, or the Port of Authority, is about fifty percent air and the rest diesel fumes, the smells of 190,000 people, and behind it all what Leni said was the signature aroma of New York City, urine and frying onions. The onion fragrance comes from various stands where sausage and peppers are prepared. I’m not even curious as to where the other smell comes from. Another statistic, it takes about three minutes for a Dwerg to lose her mind in this building. “Get me out of here!” I said to Leni. I more or less screamed it, and I was digging my fingers into her arm.

  “See? I told you that you needed an experienced guide,” she said, and guided me to a moving staircase that took us down to the street, and outside. The outside was very much like the inside, only it had daylight and slightly more oxygen, but also more fumes from cars and buses.

  “So this is hell,” I said.

  “No, this is Manhattan. Hell is in Brooklyn. Now we are going to walk across town, it’s not very far, and then we will hang a left, and walk forty-four blocks north to 86th Street. There we will find Papaya King, where we will be refreshed, and then as a special treat, we will take the subway back to Midtown, which is where we are now.”

  Walking on 42nd Street was complicated, there was an astonishing number of people, all walking fast, and not colliding with one another. It was a bit stressful, but not lifeand sanity-threatening like the bus terminal. Leni was fairly good at navigating among the other pedestrians, and I was picking up skills quickly. I soon even had time to take in some features of the street—displays, most of them pretty vulgar, outside movie theaters, shops with window displays, a smell of hot nuts coming from one shop, and of chocolate from another. I was also becoming able to view the various New Yorkers, who come in a vast range of shapes, colors, and sizes.

  I have mentioned that, as a Dwerg, I am a fantastic walker. I don’t know if her Native American background had anything to do with it, but Leni was very good for a normal human. It is not that we were hurrying, or trying to put on speed, but we kept up a brisk pace, skirting obstacles, timing our gait so we’d arrive at cross streets as the traffic lights turned green, observing people and things, and enjoying a conversation as we covered the forty-four blocks to 86th Street. I was getting to like walking in New York City.

  I was getting to like New York City itself. The buildings, big and small, had different textures and characteristics, the shop windo
w displays were interesting, and the other people on the street were moving along in much the same way we were. It was like a big, blocks-long dance, with everybody weaving in and out, joining in the procession and dropping out of it, turning in from corners, and turning out, and everybody with their own style, their own individual costumes and activities, some traveling in couples or groups, some with a child, some of them children on their own, some with a pet, some sauntering, some hurrying, and all to the background of noises from cars, buses, trucks, people talking and hollering, garbage cans being shifted, buildings under construction or beingtorn down, which goes on constantly, and the rumble of the subway under our feet. People didn’t make eye contact much, or speak or nod to each other. It must have looked like they were cold and distant, but I got the sense that they actually felt friendly to one another. I felt friendly to them. It wasn’t really so different from uptown Kingston, or the Dwerg village. We were all exercising the same skills, each in their own personal and different way. The answer came to me to the questions that must occur to every single person on first coming to Manhattan, “How can anybody live here? Why do they want to live here?”