by John Oakes
Midget pool!
Sure enough they also were standing on a raised platform that allowed them to bend over the table and make their shots. On the wall behind the two pool players, the dartboards were placed only four feet off the ground.
"Little help," Winton said, eyes just above the table. Cody grabbed the drinks from him and Winton scaled the three small steps that lead to the semicircular bench.
Cody looked to his left and, sure enough, on his side of the booth sat a small staircase with three short steps.
"So this is a midget bar?"
"You catch on quick, Gulliver," Winton said and reached for his drink.
"This place is incredible. Everything is different. How come I've never heard of it?"
Winton sipped at his pint and scrunched up his face thoughtfully. "No one advertises it. The owners don't really want it to become a spectacle. The patrons feel the same way."
"Oh, sorry," Cody said, thinking of his own reaction. "It's just so cool, I thought."
"It's pretty amazing what they've done with the place. I've heard there are places like it elsewhere. But this place has a special charm, like Cheers. Everybody-knows-your-name kind of vibe."
"Is it ok that I'm here?"
"I go back with the owner, Darla. If I vouch for you, you're cool."
"Oh, well, thanks."
"But it's not like a super secret lair. It's not the Bat Cave. And as you can see," Winton patted the bench seat. "There is seating for big folks too. Don't feel out of place. You're very welcome."
"I didn't see a sign outside. What is this place called?"
"Well, there are a few names for it – mostly people trying too hard to make it sound clandestine. We usually just call it 'Darla's'."
"Not many folks here for a Saturday."
"It'll pick up later in the evening. Most folks that hang here work Saturdays. But let's eat. Darla has a cook back there that makes a mean chicken pot pie. You like a pot pie?"
The two men ate and drank and ate some more. Things were still slow, so Darla came to chat for a bit, ribbing Winton affectionately. Darla was maybe a little older, but was built very similarly to Winton – large head, large hands and short legs. But she was better looking. His face was slightly crooked, where Darla's was open, with symmetrical features and big blue eyes. She wore too much make up and had big hair, but that was just Texas for you. She also wore a red checker shirt that exposed some healthy cleavage. That plus her bantering skills went to show that tips came the same way in every bar.
Cody had liked talking with her and hoped to again. She was the best sort of proprietor: friendly, open and quick with a joke. She made him feel less out of place, since it was her bar and all. But she had duties to attend to.
"And you wouldn't believe what that bastard boss told me today, Winton. He said that I was getting too fat for the costume! More or less said I needed to lose weight or he would fire me!"
Cody noticed that the young man next to him in the booth was indeed somewhat fat. He'd introduced himself as Jonathan and wore a pink polo shirt that clashed with his dark complexion. He also wore a plaid driver's cap and seersucker pants. It was sort of a frat boy look, and it wouldn't have worked for Jonathan even if he were seven feet tall.
"The guy even said "I don't mean to sound like a jerk, but... BUT!" Well then don't say it dude! How about you just don't say jerkish things, ya jerk!"
"Yeah, like saying 'I don't mean to be a ____' makes whatever you are about to say ok," Glen chimed in in his soft-spoken drawl.
The two had sat down with them immediately after spotting Winton. They had not been invited to sit, but Winton didn't seem put out, so Cody assumed they were all good friends. Glen, whose kind face was framed with short dark hair that was graying slightly at the temples, looked to be a little bit older, maybe late thirties or even early forties, where Jonathan seemed younger than Cody.
"Yeah," Jonathan cried. "I don't mean to smack you in the face, but, here you go. Smack! But it's ok because I said I didn't mean to."
Cody had to laugh. He had never thought of that phrase being so ridiculous before, but what they were saying was true.
"But Jon, you expect the guy to tailor a new costume for you, just because you gained weight?" Winton asked. "Why don't you just lose some weight? It would be good for you."
Winton took out a prescription bottle and popped an oval pill. He swallowed it with beer.
"You can't possibly be taking his side Winton!" Jonathan looked incredulous. "Don't we take enough shit from guys like him?"
"I know it's tough out there, Jon. And I'm sure he's as much of an ass as you claim. But he can't just pop into JC Penney and grab a new medieval jester's costume in an Obese Child's Medium. He'd have to get it tailor-made."
"Who cares? You think he is really that hard up for cash? Plus it's Medieval Adventure we're talking! They have to hand-make everything anyway."
"Are you sure there isn't any other reason he wouldn't want you to gain weight?" Winton asked. "I dunno, perhaps because pretty soon you won't be able to pull off a cartwheel without breaking an arm and having gravy squirt out your arteries onto the guests?"
"My skills haven't changed one bit." Jonathan leveled a finger at Winton. "Chris Farley could nail cartwheels and he was 350 lbs! Plus I'm a damn court Jester! Fat is funny!"
"The man has a point," Cody agreed.
"You're right, Jon," Winton said sarcastically. "In fact, why don't we order you some queso and a straw so that you can get even funnier? You can write it off as a business expense."
"Dammit if queso does sound good, actually," Jonathan admitted. "Asshole."
"What do you do?" Cody asked turning to Glen.
"Oh, I do more or less the same as these guys." Then realizing he was being vague, "I work for a children's charity. I go around to hospitals and do a bit of clowning and a little magic to cheer them up."
"So, you do magic too!"
"Not at all like Winton. Just a couple simple things to wow the kiddos."
"Man, that's incredible what you do. I could never work with sick folks. I'd be so sad. But sick kids? I'd slit my wrists."
"It doesn't pay well, but I like making the kids laugh."
"Working with kids is the worst," Jonathan said. "Little cretins have absolutely no filter. Cruel as hell sometimes too. And you can't smack 'em."
"They can be a little honest," Glen admitted softly. "But, there is a lot of good in that too. I try to just screen out the hurtful things." Glen turned to Cody. "They don't know what they're saying."
"And what is this giant ass cracker doing?" All eyes moved across the table into the face of a small black man with a severe countenance.
"He's my friend," Winton explained calmly. "Don't be rude."
"Rude? Please. I'm getting a drink." He turned to call over the bar for service. "Oh Darla, my dear!"
"That's Kevin," Winton said to Cody. "Don't take anything he says personally. He's completely full of shit."
"He really is harmless," Glen agreed.
Winton went to the bathroom, and Glen followed.
Kevin returned, drink in hand, began to climb up the steps and then paused, looking at Jonathan. "Is there gonna be room for me on the bench next to this whitey mammoth when they get back?" Jonathan just rolled his eyes and jerked a thumb toward the booth.
"Hi, I'm Cody." He held out a hand to shake. Kevin walked along the semi-circular bench seat to its center. Kevin's arm came in a sweeping arc, and he slapped his hand into Cody's. "Hey, what's up...Kevin."
Kevin set his drink down on the table and then sat himself down. He wore a black leather jacket, a drivers cap like Jonathan's, except solid black, and a maroon dress shirt under the jacket.
A short awkward silence descended until Jonathan decided to launch into his same diatribe about his ill-fitting costume at work.
"Oh, hell no," Kevin sighed. "You need to tell that motherfucker what's what. He needs to get you a new suit or he's gonna hear
from your lawyer."
"I don't have a lawyer," Jonathan said.
"Shit, he don't know that! You think he wants to cross hairs with some dirty lawyer over what amounts to discrimination on the basis of the orientation of one's adipose tissues?"
Jonathan didn't respond.
"That means you fat! And he can't fire you based on that. So, grab him by the potato skins and go get yours!"
"Yeah," Jonathan said. "No one else was being any help. Winton just told me to lose weight!" Jonathan hit a fist onto the table.
"Oh, you still need to lose weight. You're fat as shit. Gonna die any minute probably."
Jonathan flipped him off. Kevin just laughed to himself and drank.
Winton came walking back to the table with Glen in tow. As they sat back down, Cody turned to Kevin. "So what do you do, Kevin? Are you a performer like these guys?"
Kevin smiled sardonically and shook his head down at the table. "You got to be kidding me."
Then pointing to Cody, but looking at Glen and Winton, "Did he just ask me that?" Then over to Jonathan an octave higher, "Did he just ask me that?" Then straightening himself, "White Castle over here wants me to perform for him! Well, ok then." Kevin grabbed the table and worked his legs up underneath him and stood in the booth.
"Here we go," Winton said, annoyed.
"Shall I dance for you sir?" Kevin asked in a mock southern accent. He took up a stance, bent to the side and arms akimbo.
"Enough, Kevin." Winton implored. "He doesn't know you. I told you to be nice."
Kevin pulled sharply at the lapels of his jacket. "Bitch, I'm a CPA."
He sat back down and grabbed his drink.
"But you used to perform," said Glen helpfully.
Kevin shot him a glance, then softened and made a side-to-side motion with his head.
"What kinds of shows?" Cody asked, realizing that no one at the table seemed to take Kevin or his outbursts very seriously.
"All kinds, all kinds. Birthday parties, plays," Kevin said in a faraway voice. "Just when you think you're out, they pull you back in."
"At least you have a 9-5 gig. I'd kill for a little security," Winton said. "And it would be nice to not have to haul my office around with me in a rusty old rapist van. The signs tell me to slow down near schools, but I just haul ass right on by."
"But at least you work for yourself," Jonathan gestured toward him. "You're your own boss."
"Yeah, and I get to stay up at night, worrying about every aspect of the business." Then to Cody, Winton said, "I used to work in the city planning office, but then the economy crashed, developers stopped building, city budget got slashed and poof, my job is gone."
"Can't imagine why you got the pink slip," Jonathan muttered.
"Outrageous," Kevin said.
"So then you started doing magic?" Cody asked.
"No. No. I've been doing it all my life. Did my first real shows in college, you know, for fun, to meet girls. I guess I should be thankful I have that even, and Missy of course. But it sucks sometimes. Here I am, two master's degrees, and I wear a damn cape to work."
"I was an elementary school teacher, once," said Glen.
Jonathan raised a hand. "Navy Seal."
Everyone laughed. "This fat, little juggling bitch was a loan officer," Kevin said. "This whole economy mess is his fault."
"You know what, Kevin," Jonathan said, "I wish loan officers had given black people more loans before the crash."
"Why is that?" said Kevin testily, rising to the bait.
"Because then the banks could take them away."
Awkward silence followed Jonathan's bad attempt at playing Kevin's insult game.
"Hey guys, I don't mean to sound racist, but..." Cody let the comment hang in the air, until everyone was laughing again.
"I don't get it," Kevin said looking around. "Why's that funny?"
Cody turned to Winton who was still laughing into his beer. "So, are most midgets in the entertainment field?" Cody asked.
Before Winton could open his mouth to answer, Kevin cried, "Who are you calling midget, you goofy-looking behemoth?" Kevin was looking up at Cody with his sarcastic eyes.
"Some of us take issue with the term 'midget'," Winton said slowly. He splayed his hands diplomatically. "I probably should have explained."
Cody felt hugely embarrassed. A blush crept up his neck. He was really enjoying getting to know these guys. Why did he always have to say the wrong thing?
"I'm really sorry if I offended—
"Ah psssshhh." Kevin waved a hand at Cody. "You're a colossal bag of Wonder Bread, and I'm a midget. So what?"
"'Midget' gets used in a mean way sometimes," Glen offered, "like the n-word for black people."
Cody didn't know what to say. Had he been throwing around the equivalent of the n-word? He felt like an unbelievable ass, even more than usual.
"Oh my God," Cody said, "I...I...I..."
"What the shit are you talking about? It ain't nothing like nigger!" Kevin was speaking a little louder, so that other people in bar might hear him say the last word especially. It was becoming apparent that Kevin liked to make others uncomfortable. Not like Tagg did, more like a comedian making fun of his audience.
"Midget means you're small," Kevin said emphasizing the last word. "Nigger was a word born out of four hundred years of oppression and slavery. When were your grandparents whipped, chained up and thrown in the cotton field for being too small to ride the rides at Disneyland?" Kevin asked defiantly.
"He has a point," Winton said. "Hard to compare the two. Truth is, any descriptive word or noun can become pejorative."
"Pejorative?" Cody asked.
"Like calling someone a baby," Winton said. "It can be a simple description, even an endearment, but it can also be a mean thing to say if you want it to be."
"Like, saying 'Hey what a beautiful baby!'" Glen said. "Versus calling someone a 'baby' for crying at a time you deem inappropriate."
"Yeah, like being called a Jew." Jonathan said. "One of the most widely hated groups on earth, but it's still all in how people say it."
"I forgot to tell you, Jonathan. Cody saw his first mitzvah today."
"L'chaim!" Jonathan saluted with his glass and then drained the rest of his beer.
"You're Jewish?" Cody asked.
"See, not at all offensive the way you just said it." Jonathan smiled. "Just proved my point! I'm sort of Jewish. My grandmother was. But my mother never practiced and neither have I." Then Jonathan's eyes lit up and he said, "Ooh Ooh! This is our jam!"
Cody and the others turned an ear to the music piping from the digital juke box.
Garth Brooks' voice sang out in unison with Jonathan's
Jonathan slapped Cody's arm. "Do you know the words?" Cody shook his head, though the song was sounding more and more familiar. Through the second verse, Winton and even Kevin joined in merrily. And then when the moment came, every voice in the bar launched into the chorus of "Friends in Low Places."
The whole bar carried on singing what appeared to be their unofficial anthem. Toward the end, Winton leaned forward and said through the din, "But to answer your original question, Cody, yes, many of us who hang at Darla's have at one point or another been in the performance trade. Though, I can't really speak for everyone everywhere."
"It's a double edged sword," Glen said thoughtfully, when the song ended. "We are somewhat hindered by our size, at least in a world built for tall people. And—
"Tall white people," Kevin couldn't help interrupting.
"And yet, people find us...remarkable," Glen continued. "I know sometimes people mock us. A few treat us like another species. But I bring more joy to those kids because of who I am. I see them smile through their pain because of how God made me. I wouldn't trade that for anything."
"For all the shit that we've been through, there is a certain inescapable wow factor that we have," Winton agreed. "It's there in the grocery store or in the classroom or in the offic
e. So, for better or worse, the performance trade has always been useful to us, some as their prime passion in life, for others as a fallback, simply because it beats not making rent."
Jonathan looked up at Cody. "Honestly, I bitch about work. And I don't want to be a court jester forever. But goddam I hated being a loan officer."
"I think I'd feel the same way," Cody said.
"It's constantly debated if it is a good thing for us to be performers," Winton said. "Some argue that people like us for the wrong reasons. But for me, Cody, speaking only for myself..." Winton searched for words. "I mean do people say it's wrong to love watching Brad Pitt act because he's remarkably pretty? Of course not. So it's ok to want to see him perform because he's handsome but it's not okay to watch me 'cause I'm remarkably small?"
"That doesn't seem fair, when you put it like that," Cody said.
"Well-meaning folks always told kids like us that we were special, so that we wouldn't feel despair over growing up different. Then as adults the same bleeding hearts are telling people they shouldn't like my performance because liking my smallness is a bad, dirty thing. This diversity of ours..." Winton shook his head, "it can't be both ways."
Kevin laughed through his nose, but said nothing. His eyes were far away. Glen and Jonathan were nodding softly at their beers too.
"I know people mean well. But usually by trying to protect us, people big and small just end up being patronizing. And it can just cement the idea that my difference makes me lesser, in need of someone's protection. Showbiz is a fickle, shallow thing, but that also makes it a great equalizer. It's a lot of shouting 'hey look over here.'"
Winton took a long pull on his beer. "Anyone in showbiz can tell you Cody, you'll always be successful as long as they are looking."
Chapter Fourteen
Raul's Dilemma
Cody strolled over the southwest lawn, an expanse of fine, immaculately trimmed grass that had been imported from somewhere in Africa. He noticed the silky grounds no more than the flip-flopping sound his sandals made walking over it. His subconscious mind was careful to divert his path to avoid stepping even a toe on the patches of white, raked gravel surrounding the various statues, fountains and sculpted shrubbery.