by Adam Resnick
The history teacher, Mr. Mueller, was a known boozehound, wife beater, and antique tractor buff. Two-thirds of that explained our field trip to see a nineteenth-century thresher demonstration. Had we been on point with our current studies, we’d be eating Quarter Pounders at the McDonald’s in Gettysburg. Mueller shooed us off the bus and gave us our directives: “Keep your asses moving and your traps shut!” It was just the Dewar’s talking, but still . . . poor Mrs. Mueller.
The heart of the fair and all its glories loomed beyond us as we were frog-marched to that ground zero of tedium: the exhibition and livestock buildings. Somewhere, not very far away, was a girlie show, but where we walked, there was only erection-dousing signage with come-ons like EMBROIDERY AND CROCHET and BLACKSMITH VS. COBBLER! And everywhere—everywhere—the smell of shit.
We entered the Tools and Agriculture Annex and rubbed elbows with the other hostages—dead-eyed 4-H’ers, confused nursing home captives, and the A-list from the state hospital. One of my classmates, Brenda Strode, recognized her uncle in the latter group and waved excitedly, but he was getting yelled at for breaking a cheese press.
“A testament to the ingenuity of modern man!” a John Deere salesman decreed as we stood before an evolving display of cutting implements that commenced with a sharp rock and climaxed with a riding mower. Mr. Mueller allowed us a few moments to gawk at the sickles before hustling everyone outside to the Main Event—the T. rex of the tour: the steam thresher. We gathered around an old Gomer who said something about wheat, the 1800s, and boilers, while occasionally hawking a chunk of his respiratory system into a paisley scarf. I made sure to raise my hand so my attendance would be noted.
“Uh . . . how big are those tires?” I queried, in a voice choked with fascination.
Mr. Mueller fielded that one: “They’re wheels, not tires, you idiot!”
“Oh, yeah, I meant ‘wheels.’”
“Resnick—shut up!”
Mission accomplished. Then the old man fired up the tractor, which made a god-awful racket in the predictable nineteenth-century manner, and the entire class was swallowed up in a cloud of steam. I saw my window. By the time the thresher lurched forward, I was running through the Swine and Poultry Building, out a side door, and into the heart of the midway, where my senses quickly engaged in a turf war over the bomb blast of stimuli: racing pigs, fried lard, the distant voice of Eddie Rabbitt singing “Two Dollars in the Jukebox” from the grandstand, competing with the furious growl of a preacher holding a microphone to his mechanical larynx . . . and hey, was that a tattoo of David Duke on that guy’s arm? Keep moving, don’t make eye contact. Yonder lies the temple.
The banners flapping outside the sideshow tent were worrisome, indicating more than a few “working acts” and animal fluff. I was there to see real human oddities, not a sword swallower, not the Human Blockhead, and certainly not that bovine snooze-fest Pixie the Mini Cow. Luckily, there was one banner that stood out from the rest and justified my reason for being there. I entered the tent as the Human Blockhead was going into his big closer—hammering a railroad spike up his left nostril. Those hoping to see a gush of blood and snot were to be sorely disappointed; this man was a professional. After some cornball patter about clearing his sinuses “the old-fashioned way,” he pried the spike from his nose and was warmly received by the crowd. My timing was fortuitous. The spectators were then invited to meet the performers, who were lined up on a long platform like monarchs whose kingdom was second only to Eddie Rabbitt’s trailer.
Sideshow folk were always happy to greet their public, but even happier to sell you a “pitch card”—a small photograph depicting their unique talents or unusual appearance. Over the course of a season, they could make some decent money selling these souvenirs, although I suspect Pixie the Mini Cow got fucked over by her manager. Being a purist, I knew there was only one card worth getting that day, and boy was it a peach.
Sealo the Seal Boy wasn’t hard to spot—he was sitting in a little chair toward the end of the platform, wearing a smile that lit up the entire tent (the cigar dangling precariously from his mouth threatened to do the same). Far from being a boy, he appeared to be a man in his sixties, pleasant-looking and utterly unremarkable in every regard, despite having no arms, and hands that protruded from his shoulders. He may not have lived on an ice floe or encountered the puzzled gapes of sea lions as depicted on the banner outside, but Sealo was a genuine, bona fide freak.
“Hi, there! What’s your name?” he said as I approached the platform.
“Adam Resnick,” I replied with starstruck formality.
“Nice to meet you, Adam!” he beamed. Sealo offered his hand and I reached up and shook it. It was a little disconcerting, but still more pleasant than kissing a few of my aunts. Somehow his physical characteristics weren’t as jarring as I expected, and quite frankly, he kind of pulled it off. Certainly better than I could have. Sealo was a cool guy.
“Where ya from, Adam?”
“Harrisburg.”
“Oh, I’ve been through there. You’re right by Chocolate Town. I went through the factory, you know. That was years ago. They had those big tanks full of chocolate . . . man, I wanted to jump right in!”
He laughed and the cigar danced around on his lips. I felt lousy about it, but the image of Sealo swimming in chocolate did take some of the fun out of Hershey bars for a while.
“Do you do good in school, Adam?” he asked, turning serious.
“No, not really,” I replied, unable to lie to him.
“Well, I understand,” he said, “school might not seem like such a hot deal right now, but you’ll be amazed where it’ll take you in life. Learning is probably the most important thing a fellow can do for himself. What do you want to be?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “I never really thought about it.”
“That’s all right, you’ll sort it out. I’m not worried about you at all. I know my customers!”
It was the first time in my life that someone had expressed anything remotely like hope for me. In that sense, Sealo really was a freak. He saw me differently than I saw myself.
People were starting to push in now, waiting to meet the Seal Boy, but I didn’t want to leave; I wanted to exchange phone numbers, make plans to hang out, get to know his family. I needed this guy in my life. I could imagine Sealo in a Santa Claus suit, soothing the minds of neurotic children everywhere, dispensing insight and encouragement—providing hope. Then I envisioned the horrified faces of those same children trying to squirm out of his lap, their outraged parents, and the angry mall manager screaming at the guy who’d hired Sealo in the first place: “He’s got no fucking arms! Broom him!”
Block it out, I told myself. Be positive. Have faith in people. Wasn’t that ultimately Sealo’s message?
I bought several of his pitch cards: Sealo shaving, Sealo holding a hunting rifle, Sealo sawing a piece of lumber—Sealo doing, doing, doing. Sans arms. What did that make me? What would my pitch cards depict? Adam complaining, Adam making excuses, Adam raging and bitter.
I respectfully asked him to sign one of the cards, and he did so with great care and deliberation.
“Adam, it was a real pleasure to meet you,” he said, passing the card back to me. “I’ll be keeping an eye out for you.”
I bid my new friend farewell and moved onward. The world seemed twice as big now, awash with possibility, if only I allowed myself to see it. And then, suddenly, there I was: standing below Big Ben, a 650-pound man packed into a redwood lawn chair with a doomed vinyl pillow lodged beneath him. His head was tilted back and his eyes were closed. His lips, pressed into fierce lines, echoed the creases in his forehead. A handwritten sign, crafted from a piece of cardboard that still retained a portion of the Birds Eye logo, was propped up next to him. Its message was direct and unceremonious: DON’T ASK ME QUESTIONS—I HAVE A SORE THROAT.
My outrage came quickly. Just a few yards away sat Sealo—a real freak—giving his all, while
this fat piece of shit clocked out due to a scratchy throat. How dare he even breathe the same sawdust! What happened to “the show must go on”? I immediately sized up Big Ben for what he was: an interloper, a charlatan, a pox on the Congress of Living Curiosities. He was the anti-Sealo. Yet it was so much more than that. Big Ben, ladies and gentlemen, was a testament to the worthlessness of modern man.
A little farm boy wandered over, perhaps eight or nine years old, so nondescript he looked familiar. He squinted at the uncommunicative fat turd on the patio chair and then looked at me, as if seeking confirmation. I gestured toward the sign, and he read it, lips moving silently. A scowl came across his face. He stepped closer to the platform and grunted.
“Hey! Fat Ben!” he called out.
I flinched.
“Hey, fatso, how come you don’t talk?”
In direct noncompliance of the cardboard sign, he had asked Big Ben a question! But Ben did not stir, save for a small twitch in his left pinky, which I may have imagined. The boy muttered to himself, “He ain’t really sleepin’.”
He kicked the platform, producing a loud hollow thud. I almost ran out of the tent.
“You know you ain’t really sleepin’!” he cried out. “Why’d you take my money if you ain’t gonna talk?”
The kid showed no signs of wrapping up his interrogation. But it wasn’t my business. I was merely a bystander.
“How big are your underpants, fatty?” he continued. “I bet your mother was a cow. Is that why you’re so damn fat? Do you moo like a cow? Do you shit in the yard like a cow?” The boy deserved a lot of credit, but to suggest that Big Ben was anything like a cow was an insult to the diminutive Pixie, who was corralled nearby eating grain from a teacup.
I decided to help the kid refine his line of questioning. He was missing the whole point.
“Ask him if he understands the word ‘obligation,’” I whispered. “Explain that real freaks abide by a code of principles. Ask him if he’s ever danced in the street for chestnuts or inspired a single human being in his entire—”
A loud crack suddenly reverberated through the tent; it sounded like a branch snapping off a tree during a storm.
Big Ben’s chair had shifted.
Like a great, horrible creature in a Ray Harryhausen film, the fat man slowly came to life. One eye sluggishly opened, followed by the other. An expulsion of air passed through his dead lips, which swiftly filled with color. There were creaks and groans as the chair shuddered beneath him. He then slowly rose, like a bloated Neptune ascending from the sea. Up, up he went, as curtains of flab jiggled and unfurled from every extremity. Big Ben towered above us now, gazing down at the boy from the edge of the platform. His chest heaved and a drop of perspiration formed in the cleft of his chin.
Thank God my hands are clean on this one, I thought.
That’s when his ruddy tomato-shaped face swiveled in my direction, where it would remain. With the arrogance of a peacock presenting its tail, Ben extended his meaty arm, revealing a constellation of psoriasis plaques. A sausage-like finger pointed at my forehead.
“There’s a man knocking at your front door!” he thundered in a rich, full voice without the slightest hint of throat irritation. “And that man’s name is Jesus Christ!” My skin suddenly felt prickly. I glanced over, ready to blame the kid, but he was gone.
A small crowd began to gather.
“This prideful, selfish boy,” he boomed, finger still jabbing at my face, “is lost. Failed by his minister, failed by his parents . . . failed by each and every one of us!”
A few folks murmured in agreement and I suddenly longed to be at the threshing demonstration.
“He lives by his own set of rules. He cares for no one but himself. The whole of human civilization is his to laugh at. But his foot will slide in due time!”
Big Ben brought his gaze back to me where I remained frozen, fixated on that huge flabby arm—an arm with enough flesh for ten limbs, an embarrassment of riches.
“The choice is yours, boy—two paths! Sin or God! Sin or God! Sin or God!” Each pronouncement went up an octave; the final one was so cracked and high-pitched it was barely audible. I could feel every syllable in my throat, as if I’d swallowed a nest of tangled wires.
And with that, the fattest man in York, Pennsylvania, collapsed back in his chair. The vinyl pillow hissed, getting in the last word.
When I rejoined my classmates, they were sitting in a field by the exhibition buildings, enjoying apple cider and cake donuts. Mr. Mueller was still inspecting the thresher, driving the farmer nuts with redundant questions about a throttle valve. I sat on the ground by a small shed, away from the others, leaning against a discarded sign that simply said BOILED! in red milk paint.
Roy Hatcher wandered over.
“Well, did you see your freaks?” he asked, looking down at me.
“No. I didn’t go.”
“Then where were you?”
“I didn’t go anywhere.”
He gave me an odd look and walked back to his place among the donut eaters.
I was watching a pair of resigned-looking mules being loaded into a trailer when a shadow fell over me. I looked up and saw Mr. Mueller.
“You think I’m an idiot, Resnick?” he demanded.
“No.”
“You think I’m too dumb to do a head count?”
“No.”
“See me first thing tomorrow or I’ll have your ass wrapped in cellophane. This shit won’t fly, you know that, right?”
So many questions. How do people deal with so many questions?
When it comes to guilt, I’m an easy lay. I have a habit of believing only the bad things that are said about me. And Big Ben obviously knew me inside out. He had my number all right, that listless fat fuck. Or did I have his? Could truthful words be spoken in a voice that was itself a lie? Did Big Ben really have a sore throat? In considering the notion that the world was divided between the Sealos and the Big Bens, where did I fit in?
My head was starting to pound, and I wondered, as I often did, if I had mental problems.
I reached into my pocket for Sealo’s pitch card and read the inscription:
To Adam—a swell fellow. Always remember your visit to the York Fair.
Boy Refuses to Hold Frozen Turkey
Ever since I was a toddler, I’ve had a distaste for self-promotion. I would no sooner tell some jackass “what a doggie says” than specify where my belly button was—or any other body part for that matter. Some of this stemmed from a congenital low threshold for embarrassment, and the rest can be chalked up to my basic revulsion for human interaction. By the time I was seven or so, my mother decided this behavior was no longer cute. The turning point, I believe, came during a trip to the grocery store, when I was offered the opportunity to appear on the front page of the Patriot-News, holding a frozen turkey with cash stuffed in my mouth.
The exact concept behind the picture remains unclear to this day. It obviously had something to do with Thanksgiving—that much the principals agree on—but there’s still some debate whether the man worked for the newspaper or the supermarket. And I’ve yet to find a satisfying connection between holding a turkey and biting down on money. In the end, all that mattered was that he found me. I was standing alone at the magazine rack, minding my own business, leafing through a copy of Famous Monsters of Filmland.
The photographer wore round Harold Lloyd glasses and was holding one of those old-fashioned press cameras with the big flash reflector. He looked like just about every guy my father knew: skinny tie, wingtips, and a head full of Wildroot. There was a little bounce in his eyebrows that he probably used to greater effect with pretty waitresses.
“Hey, son, is your mother around?”
Everything seemed to move at the speed of light. Joyce dashed over with her shopping cart like a community theater player whose entrance screamed OVEREAGER! There was a brightness in her eyes, as if she knew something extraordinary was about to happen, m
aybe the greatest thing to happen in the history of the Resnick family.
The photographer laid it out for her: “I want to put this monkey in the Patriot, whaddaya think, Mom? He’s gonna hold a frozen turkey, we’ll put some cash in his mouth, it’s gonna be beautiful.”
“In the Patriot?” she responded, coaxing him to repeat it.
“Right on the front page—the boy, the bird, the dough . . . it’ll be gorgeous.”
“But he’s got such a dirty face.” She giggled, sounding like a freshman sneaking her first smoke in the lavatory.
“I love the dirty face! He’s all boy! Give me the messy hair too!” He locked my head in his arm like a TV wrestler and mussed up my hair. I wanted to kill him.
They both laughed. I unconsciously rolled the magazine into a tube, tightening my fist around Peter Cushing’s throat. Had I been asked, I would’ve let it be known that I couldn’t think of anything more repulsive than having my picture in the newspaper. Beyond the props, beyond the notion of putting filthy, grimy money in my mouth for reasons that had yet to be explained, how absurd to think I’d agree to put myself on display, to allow people to see my face and read my name. Forget the embarrassment of it all; what if someone recognized me in public and said “Hi”? Christ, I didn’t want to meet anyone new. Between school and other activities beyond my control, I had enough fucking people in my life.
“So here’s what we’ll do,” the photographer plowed ahead, “we’ll set him up over there, below the manager’s booth and we’ll hang a flag behind him. It’ll be tremendous!”
What the hell is he talking about?
“And we’ll get a stack of tens and twenties and he’ll clamp down on ’em. You know, really chomp down and show the cabbage.”
Joyce shrugged as if she had no choice in the matter, chirping, “Oh well, I guess you’re the boss!” No questions, no “Let me think it through”—just run with it. Sure, the kid’ll look like an asshole, but hey—it’s going on the front page!