Tales of Misery and Imagination
Page 3
"Is this just a Southern problem, or is it happenin’ everywhere, Lester?" Comet accepted a drink from the Colonel and took a dainty sip, smacking her lips. As the liquor seared her throat, she grinned at Tapeworm. "That’s fine, Colonel."
He returned the smile, adding a nod.
"It’s worse everywhere else, from what I hear," Masoncup said. "Like I told you, even the phony acts – the headless girl, girl-into-gorilla, all that crap – are being pushed out. All’s left is the hanky-panks and the rides."
"But the hanky-panks are blatantly rippin’ people off," Comet said. "Those damn games are all rigged, everybody knows it!"
Masoncup shrugged. "Plastic duck don’t upset nobody’s sensibilities."
Tapeworm finished handing out the drinks. Lifting his own to his lips, he knocked back a refined but manly slug. His eyes narrowed as he savored the rum; he sucked a deep breath through his nostrils and held it for a moment, then released it with a sigh.
"What we’re dealing with is the guilt the marks bring with ‘em, I’m afraid," the Colonel began. "Joe Citizen – who doesn’t weigh 600 pounds and do the high-dive into a tub full of liver –" he lifted his glass to Comet – "...Who doesn’t stand 36 inches high and fart the theme from Star Wars – " a nod to MacCorkindale, who bowed deeply – "...Who doesn’t bite the heads from poultry –" the Geek continued to stare at his shoes – "...And who certainly doesn’t wad himself up and hide in the bottom dresser drawer amongst the dainties of the wife of a City Councilman – " Screw Boy hoisted his glass high at the acknowledgement – "...Well, our Mr. Citizen, he just feels awful when he pays his buck or two and witnesses the plight of those of us who do those things."
Colonel Tapeworm settled into the child’s rocking chair Comet kept in the trailer just for his use – being that the Colonel’s narrow rump was the only one tiny enough to fit the seat. "Mr. Citizen, you see, is a conscientious fellow. He’ll sleep much better when Comet’s just a fat lady countin’ out food stamps in the grocery line, or MacCorkindale’s sweeping out the back room at a hardware store. It’s easier to look away then."
The performers stared blankly at each other or the floor, moved to silence by the glass-eater’s words.
Then Screw Boy spoke up, as he was known to do: "Okay, I got it. I fold myself up inside a suitcase, then one of you carries me into a store – some store with real money, like a Wal-Mart – right before closing. When the place is shut up for the night, I’ll unzip the suitcase from the inside, fill it with loot, and make my escape." Screw Boy’s eyes widened with excitement at the plan. "We’ll split everything, of course – but I get a bigger share ‘cause I’m the one whose ass is on the line."
The contortionist looked expectantly around the room, waiting for a response from the others. Finally, MacCorkindale raised one cheek a fraction of an inch and blurted a single unenthusiastic note.
"Aw, man – y’all wouldn’t know genius if it crawled up inside ya," Screw Boy grumbled.
"Where the hell is the Angel?" Masoncup asked, prompted by the thought that the strongman would probably be the only member of the group capable of lifting a suitcase full of Screw Boy, despite the contortionist’s scrawny size.
"He had a date with Vulnavia Butterlip," Comet said.
Masoncup frowned. "Dammit, I specifically said I wanted everyone here."
"He probably thought it was just another pep talk – the money’ll be better next county over, that sort of thing." Screw Boy held his empty glass out towards Colonel Tapeworm. The Colonel cocked his head in the direction of the kitchen. Deciding a refill was too much trouble, Screw Boy set the glass on the stained brown carpet next to the couch. "Don’t worry about the Angel, though – he can always get one’a them jobs playin’ the Incredible Hulk or something at Universal Studios."
"Speaking of Miss Butterlip," Tapeworm said, "Where does the kootch show fit into this beautiful new society being foisted upon us?"
Masoncup took another pull off his bottle. "We’ve had complaints."
Never one to let an opportunity pass by, Screw Boy quickly snatched up his glass again, thrusting it in Masoncup’s direction. Masoncup leaned forward and tipped a shot of Early Times into the glass.
"Exploitation of women," Masoncup continued. "Objectification."
Tapeworm drew a hissing breath, shaking his head sadly.
"But Miss Butterlip loves working the kootch show – she told me that just the other day," Comet said.
"Yeah, what else is a saggy middle-aged whore gonna do?" Screw Boy added.
"I told you about-a that mouth of yours." MacCorkindale held up a diminutive fist, shaking it threateningly. "Her occupation ees-a no measure of her virtue."
"Simmer down, little fella," Screw Boy sneered, lifting his drink to his mouth.
MacCorkindale leapt up, dropping a small elbow in the contortionist’s gut. Whiskey splattering his chest, Screw Boy grunted as the wind went out of him. MacCorkindale scampered out of reach.
"God damn it," Screw Boy wheezed.
"Knock it off, you two," Masoncup chided. "And keep that shit to yourself, Screw Boy. I won’t have no talk of whores – those kootch girls are dancers."
"Yet I fear that many of them might turn to the oldest profession if the kootch show were shut down," Tapeworm said, crossing his slender legs and rocking thoughtfully.
"I just don’t get it," Comet said, working hard to hold back the tears. "How can these people rob us of our livelihood? And they say they’re doing it for our own good? Why don’t they just mind their own business? I don’t make anybody watch me do my act – and I don’t wanna be countin’ food stamps in the grocery line!" Losing the battle, she sniffled as the first tears spilled over her plump cheeks. "I’m proud that I can pay my own way."
Hesitantly, the Geek shuffled over to the fat lady and put an arm around her.
"I stink some, I’m sorry," he said.
Unconcerned by the funky odor, Comet enfolded the Geek in her plentiful flesh and buried her face in his chest, weeping softly.
Masoncup felt sick. These people never hurt anyone – well, Screw Boy was a pain in the ass, but a relatively harmless one – and it griped his liver to think that some bunch of self-righteous Defenders of the Downtrodden had seen The Elephant Man a few too many times and felt it was up to them to take the performers away from the cruelty forced upon them by the sideshow life. With the exception of Colonel Tapeworm (who’d been in broadcasting), these folks had worked carnivals their whole lives; they didn’t know any other way. It was far more cruel to take them out of their little corner of show business and thrust them into the real world, where they’d only be fat, short, skinny, pathetic.
"We live decent enough," Comet sniffed, as if reading Masoncup’s mind. She released her hold on the Geek, who wobbled unsteadily as he was exposed to the air once again. "And there’s the travel – I never would’ve seen anyplace but my momma’s living room if it weren’t for the carnival."
"We ain’t exactly seein’ the world," Screw Boy spoke into what remained of his glass of whiskey.
"But we’re seein’ our part of it," Comet argued. "New Orleans, Memphis – hell, we even got to meet William Shatner that time in Lexington during the Kentucky Derby, remember?"
MacCorkindale smiled at the memory. "Even as a boy in-a Napoli, I was-a the fan of Captain Kirk and-a hees friend Spock. What a pleasure to shake-a hees hand."
"You big nerd," Screw Boy said.
MacCorkindale’s fist waved in the air again. "This ees-a your nerd," he snarled.
"Maestro’s threatenin’ me, Lester."
"Jesus Christ," Masoncup said, annoyed. "Am I gonna have to separate you two?"
Standing, Masoncup smoothed his electric-blue acetate suit. "It ain’t like you’ve gotta pack your things tonight." The alcohol had cut a numb furrow through his brain and he teetered for a moment before finding his whiskey legs. "Uncle Fatty hasn’t made a decision yet one way or the other. Let’s just... go on about our lives for
the time bein’."
"Easy position to take," Screw Boy said, getting to his feet, "When your job ain’t on the line."
Masoncup licked his lips, frowning at the unpleasant taste.
Waddling over to the double-doors, Maestro MacCorkindale swung them wide. The carnival was silent at this hour; the only sound that of the cars speeding past on the highway nearby.
MacCorkindale bowed as the Geek and Colonel Tapeworm left the trailer, saying their good-nights to Comet. The midget knew better than to take his eyes off of Screw Boy, lest he receive a thumping on the noggin; the two merely glared sullenly at one another as Screw Boy made his exit.
MacCorkindale turned, offering a bow to Comet. "Good night-a, most delicious woman," he said, then toddled off down the steps, his head disappearing before he reached the ground. A musical burst of flatulence – Speak Softly Love – faded into the night as the midget strolled away.
Masoncup rubbed his neck, sighing. Comet was staring at him, her eyes moist and red; unable to meet the stare, his gaze flicked from the floor to her face and back again several times.
"I’m sorry about all this," he finally said, starting for the door.
"I just hope if Uncle Fatty lets us go, he’ll at least have the courtesy to do it face-to-face," the fat woman said.
Masoncup paused in the doorway. He stuck his head outside, looking for the others. They had disappeared amongst the tents and other trailers.
He considered the words carefully before speaking. "Uncle Fatty doesn’t exist. I mean, he does, but he doesn’t. He’s a tax dodge." Masoncup watched the swarms of gnats swirling around the exposed light bulbs strung through the carnival grounds, then turned to face Comet. "I’m Uncle Fatty. I own the show."
Comet’s expression didn’t change, but he could see the hurt in her eyes.
"I guess you’re faced with the prospect of some sleepless nights, then," she said.
After a long moment, Masoncup gave her a slight nod. Then he stepped out, shut the double-doors behind him and walked into the Tennessee summer night.
Honestly, I don’t know where the hell The Apartment of the Last Neanderthal came from, except that I’ve always been incredibly nervous and uncomfortable around pretty much everyone, which will probably be obvious after you’ve finished reading the stories in this collection.
I also really love Cheap Trick.
THE APARTMENT OF THE
LAST NEANDERTHAL
It was Rosa – little Rosa, five years old – who said it this time. She’s the daughter of the couple that own D’Agostino’s, the mom-and-pop grocery store I like. It’s the only one left around here. I figure it doesn’t have much longer before it’s either swallowed up or just plain run out of business by the big chains.
Anyway, Rosa. She can’t even pronounce the word right, so it came out "Nandythoo" or some goddamn thing. She doesn’t even know what it means. At first I figured she was aping the other kids, but it was just her by herself in the frozen aisle, so now I’m starting to think she heard it from her parents. Figures. That D’Agostino, he always looks at me funny. Now I don’t know how much I like their store.
This name-calling is nothing new – I’ve been hearing it all my life. It’s not like I’m the Elephant Man or something, constantly being hounded and tormented, but I hear a lot of it, mostly from kids. Adults just say it with a look – either curious, which I don’t mind so much, or disgusted, like the sight of me wrecked their appetite. There’s also that Is-he-in-a-freak-show glance-and-look-away thing, which is what I mostly get.
I don’t look so terrible, really. My face is kind of bony, and I’m short (only about 5-foot-4). It’s the brow that gets the most attention, I think, and the way my mouth, my chin, recedes a little. I don’t think I look so bad, but I can also see why people say what they say. This Neanderthal business is a recent development, though.
I’ve been called caveman and Bigfoot and plenty of other names, but a few months back, some kid out of the freaking blue points me out to his buddies as I’m walking back from the Dairy Queen and yells "Neanderthal Man!" He even said it the new way, the way I’d never heard until the last couple years – "Neander-tall." He must’ve seen some show on the Discovery Channel is all I can figure. But it sticks with me the way the other names don’t – not because it stings any worse, but because it became Number One With A Bullet on the name-calling Top Ten.
Pretty soon, all the kids in the neighborhood were calling me Neanderthal Man or Neanderthal Jim, if they knew my name, and it was really eating me up. I don’t want to give the wrong impression, like I’m Mr. Social Interaction or something. I tend to stick to myself. I don’t much leave my apartment other than to go to work and the grocery store. I like to rent movies now and then, so I do that, but I go when the video store isn’t too busy. It’s the looks I get, you know? The looks from adults are a hell of a lot worse than the names kids call me. I mean, they’re just being kids.
But the way this Neanderthal thing stuck, what with all the kids picking it up (and I live near a damn elementary school, so there’s a plentiful supply of children) had me balled-up something fierce. There were times – whole days, even – when I couldn’t get it off my mind no matter how hard I tried. So when Rosa chirped it at me at D’Agostino’s, I was already about two-thirds of the way around the bend. Why the hell was it the name that stuck when the others all faded like forgotten TV shows?
I’m online, and I usually just visit chat rooms and read about upcoming movies, but I decided it was time to put the Internet to some real use. I went to Yahoo! and typed in "Neanderthal." I spent hours researching the subject. What I found out is that the first kid – that one outside the Dairy Queen – almost nailed it. It’s subtle, I think, not like I’m a full-on throwback, but as I poked around more, I started to think maybe it’s not so impossible. My parents don’t show any signs of it (my dad looks like a goddamn movie star, for Christ’s sake, and I still kind of hate him in a way), but what if it was some genetic thing, a race-memory or something?
See, what a lot of people don’t know, what those kids yelling it at me from the schoolyard and laughing like monkeys in the trees don’t know, is that some scientists now think that Neanderthal Man was one smart cookie. That they were actually smarter than the Cro-Magnons who either fucked or slaughtered them out of existence as they swept across Europe. So I started thinking: what if these technology-thieving Cro-Magnon sonsabitches banged my great-great-great-great-great-great-etc.-etc. grandmother way the hell back, and for some reason this Neanderthal gene just sat around in my family’s bloodline while they got closer and closer to producing my James Dean-looking dad, who then pops a throwback load into my mom’s womb, creating what for him must be the ultimate disappointment? I realize how this sounds, but the more I thought about it, the more it gave me something to, I don’t know, almost feel good about.
As I did more research, I became more convinced that there was something to this theory. I mean, what do I know, right? – but it seemed feasible. Stranger things, as they say. It was reaching the point where I couldn’t sleep nights, the stuff that was going on in my head. Finally, I called the anthropology department at the University. The first guy I talked to – scientist-type – just laughed like I was some frat boy making a prank call, but the second fellow, Westin, his name was, agreed to meet with me.
I don’t have to tell you I was more than a little nervous about going to the campus. The place is crawling with beautiful girls and those good-looking college-boy types, and I didn’t know if I had it in me. I felt sick to my stomach, but I made myself go. Problem is, it’s really hard to find your way around that place, so I got lost. The looks I was getting were killing me, and the girls were so pretty. I was afraid to ask for directions and at one point I almost ran, just to get the hell out of there and not be looked at like that anymore. Eventually, I stumbled across the right building, but I was late when I made it to Professor Westin’s office and he was real bent about it.
He suggested that we get down to business, so I laid my whole theory out for him, glossing over certain parts (you don’t want to tell a guy you’ve just met about how you get teased all the time; it makes you sound weak). He seemed impressed by the research I’d done, especially that I knew some of the most recent information.
"Well," he sighed, "you understand it’s very unlikely." I swear, the old guy was totally saying one thing and doing another, because you know what Westin did next? Pulled a set of calipers from a cabinet and went to work measuring my skull, hmming and tsking the whole time. It made me feel a way I never had before, a little like a circus freak, yeah, but more like a find.
Westin poked and prodded and hmmed some more. I got the feeling that he was trying to hide something, like he was working real hard to contain his excitement. I knew I was on the right track when, after he finished going over my skull, he stood back and stared at me like I was something good to eat. "I suppose I could take a blood sample," he said after gawking for a good long time.
I put the kibosh on that. I could see Westin was upset – he tried to hide it, but he went on about DNA and proving the link and a bunch of other mumbo-jumbo – but as he yammered on and on, his voice just became a drone. I faded into my own thoughts, and I realized that maybe I didn’t want to know for sure. Like, this way there was some question, and as long as that was the case... well, I wasn’t just an ugly, unfortunate bastard.