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Electronic Theses, Treatises and Dissertations
The Graduate School
2006
Getting to Yes
William Harding Eville
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FLORIDA STATE UNIVERSITY
COLLEGE OF ARTS AND SCIENCES
GETTING TO YES
By
WILLIAM EVILLE
A Thesis submitted to the
Department of English
in partial fulfillment of the
requirements for the degree of
Master of Arts
Degree Awarded:
Summer Semester, 2006
The members of the Committee approve the thesis of Bill Eville defended on February
27, 2006.
_______________________________
Elizabeth Stuckey-French
Professor Directing Thesis
_______________________________
Julianna Baggott
Committee Member
_______________________________
Mark Winegardner
Committee Member
The Office of Graduate Studies has verified and approved the above named committee
members.
ii
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Abstract
iv
1.
STORYTELLERS
1
2.
TERRIBLE TOTS
8
3.
FRESHMAN YEAR
21
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
27
iii
ABSTRACT
The following master’s thesis includes three stories. These stories are fiction and
any resemblance to real people is not intended. The stories range from coming of age
tales to cultural satire.
iv
STORYTELLERS
In the summer of 1979 I got a job working at Anthony’s restaurant on Martha’s
Vineyard. Anthony’s was no clam shack or one of those harbor grab-n-go fry shops the
day-trippers all eased their mopeds into just before sunset. Anthony’s was high end.
Movie stars dined there and from the kitchen peering through the swinging doors
we logged a few every night. Jackie O. like some gigantic bug behind her oversized
glasses. James Taylor, all mellow and mustached, a poster boy for lying in a field with a
head full of reefer. And Elton John who tried to come in shirtless one night puncturing
the myth that only Americans have no class.
Elton was hairy. His chest and back fully encased in a thick sponge of blond
curls. When Ronald, the manager, told him no shirt, no service, Elton threw up his hands
and screamed, “Americans, ya’ll got sticks up your asses.” But he yelled this in key and
to the beat of “Rocket Man, I Think It’s Going to be a Long, Long Time.” And so
instead of cursing him we cheered.
Who were we? The dishwashers. Lowest of the low on the restaurant food chain.
Maxwell was a tall skinny kid from Connecticut, so preppy he looked like he slid out of
his mom’s vagina already wearing a pair of argyle socks. In the winter he went to a place
called Prep. school where according to him all anyone did there was get high and fuck.
Kenny was an islander and older. Nineteen and not college material. He wore a flimsy
moustache and locked his wallet down with a small silver chain attached to his belt loop.
I was from Jersey, came to the Vineyard each summer thanks to a small cottage that had
been in our family for over a hundred years. It wasn’t much but it gave us a pass to a
new way of life. This is not to say it was better. Just different and therefore important.
Anthony’s was my first real job and I loved everything about it, right down to the
sweat and rotten stink of the job itself. Mostly, though, I loved working with Maxwell
and Kenny. We were a mixed crew to be sure, and if we had met on the streets odds are
there would have been no acknowledgement of each other. Unless the day was especially
dark with teenage combativeness. Then we might have hauled off and slugged each other
just for the hell of it. But because we worked together, took shit not just from the owner,
but from the cooks, waitresses, even John the bartender a prematurely grey 30-something
who always rode us for more ice and clean highball glasses, we grew tight. But then in
August a new kid was hired. He told us to call him T.
T.’s real name might have been Tommy, or Tim, or even Travarius for all we
knew. He was so quiet, almost a mute even.
“How about I call you Pee,” Kenny suggested, testing him out after T. told us his
name. Kenny grabbed his dick for effect and made like he was doing the elephant walk.
“I prefer T.,” T. said matter of factly. He was a tadpole of a boy. Seventeen but
only stretching to five foot three. He had a round face, never smiled, and let his hair hang
down into his eyes.
“I’m D.” I said putting out my hand.
“Fuck you, you’re David,” Kenny screamed from somewhere inside the walk-in
freezer.
1
“I’m going with Z,” Maxwell said, sticking out his arms and legs and making like
the letter. He was wearing a madras shirt and new topsiders and when he fell, because
Kenny pushed him, two buttons popped. Maxwell stayed down and kicked Kenny in the
ankles. There was no danger of fighting, a month of working elbow to elbow had seen to
that. And for the moment, T. was also safe.
At the end of the night the dishwashers were required to do the final clean-up.
Because we had proven ourselves over the summer as workers who would not loot the
place or set it on fire and in fact leave it ready for the next day’s business, we were left
alone to lock up. And on those nights when we found ourselves with an overly large
stash of alcohol, hoarded during our shift from customers who didn’t finish their bottles
of wine or glasses of whiskey, we would stick around getting drunk and telling stories.
About two weeks after T. started working with us, we hit the jackpot. A table had
ordered up two full bottles of wine but then after opening them, had to run home for some
emergency and so didn’t touch a drop. There was another table of whiskey drinkers who
eventually lost their way during dinner and stopped draining their glasses before ordering
the next round. And a party of eighteen celebrating some yachting victory ordered
champagne, lots of it, but seemed more excited by the pop and fizz that came with the
opening of each bottle than what was inside.
We finished the wine while cleaning up. Kenny and I did the last dishes,
Maxwell swept and mopped the floor, and T. hung his small body over the big sinks
digging elbow deep into the pots and pans. He had to stand on top of an overturned bait
bucket, the blue of his sneakers rising on tiptoe and the bucket leaning and showing air.
“Be easier if you climbed in,” Kenny said to him. “You’d get a bath at the same
time.”
T. didn’t answer. Not that we expected him to. But he was drinking that night. A
chowder bowl of red wine rested in the crook of the sink’s faucet. Every few scrubs T.
would reach for the bowl with two hands like a little kid draining the remaining milk
from his cereal.
When we finished cleaning, we moved on to the whiskey. “Oo la la,” Kenny said,
while wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Then he rolled up his sleeve and pointed to a
raised ridge that inched around his arm from bicep to tricep.
“Wanna know how I got this scar?” he asked.
“Humping your mom?” Maxwell suggested.
“Shoulder deep up a sheep’s ass,” I said.
“Wrong and wrong again,” Kenny. He walked over to T. and held his arm
underneath his nose.
T. shrugged, looked bored, and took a drink.
“Fucking,” Kenny said. “I earned this stripe fucking.” He folded his arms and
smiled. Kenny was a smoker and already had the yellow teeth to prove it.
Maxwell laughed. “And I thought the Prep. girls liked it rough,” he said.
“Sorry pretty boy,” Kenny said. “Got this from my fourth grade teacher.”
“Liar,” Maxwell screamed. “No one gets laid in the fourth grade.”
“I was seventeen.”
“Can you stay back that long?” I asked.
“Idiots,” Kenny said. “I was a life guard. Julie Givens. That was her name. She
hit the beach a lot. I’d watch her come and go. She had small tits and was in her thirties.
2
But you overlook that kind of shit when checking out a former teacher. You know what I
mean?”
Maxwell and I nodded. “Definitely,” we agreed.
“Anyway, one day she forgets her towel. I watch her rooting around in the sand.
You know, sitting in it but not laying back like she normally does. So I walk over and
give her my towel. At this point, I’m just being friendly. Not even imagining anything
more. I mean, Givens was cool to me back in the fourth grade. Gave me an A on my
cloud project. The one where you look up in the sky and imagine what all those shapes
are.
“But then the next day she forgets her towel again. The same thing on the third
day and on and on until I’m like her regular towel boy. Not that I mind. She keeps
apologizing about being so forgetful. I tell her no problem, it’s summer vacation. She
shouldn’t have to remember anything. Then she tells me how mature I’ve become since
the fourth grade. A regular philosopher she calls me. And that’s when it hits me. Givens
is digging my shit.
“When we finally got together, it was back at her place. A little ranch thing she
shared with her husband, a drunken electrician who was supposed to be working that day.
I don’t know, maybe he forgot his lunch, or came back to watch soaps and down some
Jack and Cokes. Whatever. I didn’t stick around to find out. When his truck rolled up I
was on my feet, and when he came through the front door, his tool belt jangling like an
alarm, I was half out the window. It was an easy drop to the ground except for a nail
sticking up from the sill.”
“A nail did that?” I asked, pointing to Kenny’s arm.
“No, the nail just hurt and I yelled out in pain,” Kenny said. “That was a big
mistake.”
“Hello boozing electrician,” Maxwell said.
“Yup. Plus a pair of needle nose pliers. Those babies can really do some
damage.” Kenny raised his scar to his lips and gave it a kiss.
“Before or after?” Maxwell asked.
I looked at him. “Before or after what?” I said.
Maxwell sighed. “What I want to know, is whether Kenny got his arm stripped
before or after he slipped Mrs. Julie Givens his hall pass.”
Kenny hung his head.
“I’m so sorry,” Maxwell said. “Now move aside.”
Maxwell shuffled to the center of the room, his lean body all angles and lines like
some overgrown cricket. He tossed back his drink, smacked his lips twice, and then said
to us, “I am a thief.”
“What do you thieve?” Kenny asked.
“The only thing that matters. Money.”
Kenny fingered the chain attached to his wallet. I stuck my hand in my pocket and felt
the crinkle of small bills.
“Why does a rich kid need steal?” I asked. “Why do you even work here, for that
matter?”
Maxwell looked at me. “My dear ignorant boy,” he said, in that style of voice he
used when telling stories. Inflated, with his jaw stuck out, and using big words. “Just
because daddy’s rich doesn’t mean there’s any trickle down. That’s why I have two jobs.
3
This one, and when I’m not standing around choking on it with you losers, I work at a gas
station in Edgartown.”
“We know asshole,” Kenny said. “You stink of gasoline every night.”
“A far finer smell than the stench of mediocrity that hovers around you,” Maxwell
said. He smiled, then frowned, and continued.
“So the gas business is mostly executed in cash transactions. Perhaps, while
gassing up you have seen the stack of bills your pumper carries. The size of a fist or
grapefruit even. It is mostly ones but the heft of it does not lie. It is worth something and
it has power.”
Maxwell walked around the circle. He held one hand palm up as if gauging the
weight of an imaginary wad of cash. His other hand twirled in the air, a theatrical gesture
that both distracted and drew us in. I took a moment to look down the row at T. His face
was a mask and at first glance he appeared to be outside the circle. An unconcerned
observer of a manhood ritual performed by a tribe of drunken braggarts. But then he
gave himself away by smirking. It was just a small thing. A slight tilt of the lip, brief
exhalation of air, and shake of the head. But it was unmistakable. T. was listening to our
stories. And he was not impressed.
“It speaks to you,” Maxwell continued. “Maybe not the first day or even the first
month but eventually the wad will begin to talk. It will point to the drivers, particularly
the young ones just a few years out of college. It will ask you to notice their new clothes,
and that the car they drive is a BMW, whereas yours is a Pinto. The driver will be a
young man, about your age and in the passenger seat will be a hot babe. She will be bored
of course. Her eyelids fluttering and maybe her hands folded on top of her very short
skirt. So short in fact that when cleaning the windshield you will get a clear shot of her
light blue panties. She will not close her tanned thighs, either.
“But even though this inaction on her part will announce quite clearly that she
prefers you to the lunkhead driving this fast car, you are also too poor and dirty to ever
touch this prize. She will tell you this, after she breathes deeply so that you can see her
nipples quite clearly as the push up against her blouse, by eventually closing her legs and
patting the driver on the shoulder. And at that moment you will have no other choice but
to become a thief.”
Maxwell paused. He walked to the counter, reached for a whipped cream and
sucked back deeply. When finished he gave a slight shudder, then placed the back of his
hand on his forehead.
“I do declare,” he said. “I believe my brain is being eaten.”
“Better speed it up then, before you lose consciousness. It’s just a small time
story anyway. No one winds up dead, right?”
It was T. who had spoken and he had done so definitively. We all looked at him
and he looked at each of us in turn. “I have something to say is all,” he said. Then he
reached for his glass and drained it.
Kenny whistled, I burped, and Maxwell crumpled. His story had been stabbed
and as a result he appeared smaller and confused about what to do with his hands. He
finished as quickly and as smoothly as he could. He told us he fleeced both his boss and
his customers. If a customer asked for fifteen bucks of gas, Maxwell gave him twelve.
Most people didn’t check the gauge to see if the correct amount was put in the tank. But
4
if they did crane their necks to see the number, Maxwell would just act surprised, blame
it on the pump’s automatic shutoff, and then pump the rest in.
“It’s easy,” Maxwell said, just before giving way to center stage. Then he turned
to T. then and said, “This better be good.”
T. walked slowly to the center of the room. He did not pace about or twirl his
hands, but his legs shook slightly. Eventually, he turned to face us. His eyes were
closed.
“I killed my brother,” T. said. He opened his eyes and looked at each of is in turn.
For a moment no one spoke. The only sound in that kitchen the whirring of a rusted fan
blade. It was Kenny who finally broke the silence
“Holy Cain and Abel,” he said.
“No way,” I said.
“Why aren’t you in jail?” Maxwell asked.
T. ignored us and started talking.
“It was four years ago. I was thirteen and my little brother Nelson eleven. Our
mother had dropped us off at a county fair and told us to call home to be picked up. But I
didn’t want to spend another night hanging out with my little brother. So I spent the
night testing him. I chose rides I knew he wouldn’t like, and instead of the prize pig vote
I dragged him to a lecture on environmental safety. When Nelson complained he was
bored, I called him a baby. I was an asshole but couldn’t take it anymore. For years
nothing came between us, but that summer his eleven year old cheeriness, he was a
whistler for God’s sake, made me hate him. But nothing I did could shake him. So at the
end of the night, I told him he could get home however he wanted but I was definitely
going to hitchhike. Then I walked away. I made it twelve steps before he called out for
me to wait up.”
T. paused. “I need more to drink,” he said. He held out his hand and Kenny
walked toward him. Neither Maxwell nor I spoke. The sound of the whiskey leaving the
bottle and splashing into T.’s bowl washed over us. I felt an urge to leave the kitchen.
My bicycle was just down the stairs leaning on a tree a few feet away from the
dumpsters. The feeling grew and I wanted to race outside and pedal home in the dark and
not hear anything else T. had to say. But I didn’t move.
“We chose a spot near the fair’s exit,” T. continued. “It didn’t take long to get a
ride. A lady hauling her two little kids slowed down. We told her where we were going
and she said she could take us halfway home.
“Nothing much happened during the ride. I looked out the window and counted
trees while the woman talked, and Nelson had fun with the other kids. He made them
laugh so hard by acting like a pig, snorting and swinging his head back and forth, that the
little boy got the hiccups.
“When we came to the crossroads, our house a left turn, the lady’s a right, she
paused as if maybe about to go out of her way and take us all the way home. It was after
10:00 now, and dark out. If I had stayed quiet, she might have changed her mind. But I
was mad at Nelson for making those kids laugh and having fun. So, instead of sitting
quietly and waiting for the woman to offer more help, I thanked her and got out of the
car.”
“Halt,” Kenny said. “I need to piss.”
I looked at Kenny. “Piss in your hand,” I said.
5
“Excuse me Cap’n?” Kenny said.
“He said piss in your hand,” Maxwell said. “Because we’re not waiting. Are we
T.?”
We all looked at T. There was no expression on his face. If anything he looked
confused to see us.
“Go on,” I said. “Keep talking.”
“Not many cars came down that road and I wondered if we would have to walk it.
For awhile we sat by the side of the road our backs leaning against each other for support.
We sat there like that for about twenty minutes before a pair of headlights approached
and Nelson jumped up and waved his arms. The car sped by, then locked up, and
fishtailed to a stop about fifty yards away.
“The car was a four door Buick, white, with a large backseat. Nelson ran to the
car and jumped in first. I slid in after him, and before I even had the door closed, the
driver lay down a skid and peeled out.
“There were two men in the front seat. The driver had a curly afro and looked
thick in the shoulders. The passenger was tall, his head almost touching the ceiling. He
had long straight blond hair. Both smoked cigarettes and did not turn around or say a
word, not even when Nelson told them where we were going.
“Nelson looked at me and I shrugged my shoulders. I figured if the men in front
didn’t want to talk to us that was fine by me. But something about the quiet, they didn’t
even talk to each other, made me not want them to know where we lived. So when we
were still five blocks from home, I told them we would get out. No need to trouble
yourself with door to door service I said to them. But they kept on driving. Rolled past
the corner I suggested without even slowing down. I offered up another corner and then
another and when I stopped talking Nelson took over and kept asking to be let out until I
finally elbowed him in the ribs to get him to stop.
“While they drove us out of town, I tried to tell myself it was all a joke. These
guys were looking for kicks and it being a boring town the best they could come up with
was scaring the shit out of some little kids. But they kept driving farther and farther out
of town. Eventually, we came to a graveyard. Our great-grandfather was buried there
and Nelson and I had ridden our bikes through the trails, some of which went deep into
the woods. I prayed they wouldn’t turn, but they did.
“They took the turn hard and I was thrown against Nelson. When we settled we
looked at each other. Nelson was crying now. Tears rolled down his face, and he
couldn’t catch his breath. He held onto my thigh with both of his hands, his fingers
digging into my flesh. I was tight up against the door and Nelson almost sitting in my
lap.
“The driver circled around a large Jesus Christ statue and then sped down one of
the dirt roads. The man in the passenger seat laughed and punched the driver in the
shoulder. The driver hunched deeper over the wheel.
“Nelson cried so hard, his whole body shook. I tried to pat him on the back but
my arm felt too heavy. I leaned forward and brushed my lips against his cheek.
Something about my leaning over to Nelson freed up my other hand and I reached for the
door handle. It came away easily and the door, which for the entire ride had seemed like
a thick wall, suddenly opened. I tumbled out. It was that easy. I just leaned back and
fell. I hit the ground on my back, and rolled for a long time before I could get to my feet.
6
I wasn’t hurt, not even a twisted ankle. I heard a car door slam, the same one I had just
fallen out of, and I screamed for my brother Nelson. But the only sound I could hear was
the car driving away, back on the main road now, and moving fast. Then there was
nothing.”
T. stopped talking, turned, and threw his glass against the wall. It hit a picture of
a large sailboat. The picture shattered and T. dropped to the floor. He lay on his side, his
body shaking.
After a few moments, Kenny whispered, “Holy shit.”
Maxwell exhaled but said nothing.
I stood up. “What happened to Nelson?” I asked.
T. raised his head off the floor and looked at me. “We never found out,” he said.
“We searched, but nothing. No car, no two guys, no Nelson.”
Lying on the floor, T. looked smaller than ever. I wished I could have shown pity
for him, but my allegiance was now with Nelson, and I spoke with revenge, not empathy.
“It can’t end there,” I said.
“You’ve said enough,” Kenny said.
“Yeah David, time to clam up,” Maxwell said. He held his hand out to T. to help
him up. But T. stayed on the ground, looking at me.
“What do you mean?” T. asked. “How can it not end?”
“You didn’t tell Nelson you were opening the door,” I said. “You just jumped
out.” I was nearly hysterical now. The booze was a factor, of course, but even sober I
doubt I could have held back. I was still under the cloud of black and white morality, of
what brothers owed to each other, and T. had done the unthinkable. Big brothers were
supposed to look out for their little brothers, not let them die. “You need to do penance,”
I said. “You need to know what it felt like.”
“What do you have in mind?” T. asked. His face seemed open, hoping perhaps
that I might suggest something that could help him.
“Come on,” I said, and walked out the door and into the night. The sky was clear
and a half moon lit the tops of the trees. It was the kind of night where you breath
deeply, filling your lungs with as much as air as possible. Behind me I could hear Kenny
and Maxwell telling T. not to listen to me.
When we reached the road, I turned and pointed to a spot. A small clearing under
a street light. “Stand there,” I said. “And put your thumb out.”
“Don’t do it T.,” Kenny said.
“I can give you a ride home,” Maxwell suggested.
“Put your thumb out,” I repeated.
After a moment T. nodded and walked to where I pointed. He turned his back to
us and I saw his shoulders rise and fall. His arm shot out, and then his thumb rose
slowly. Maxwell, Kenny, and I hovered in the background, three silent sentries, and
when a car finally came around the bend and stopped for T., we did not show ourselves.
7
TERRIBLE TOTS
It's Saturday night so I plan to send the three year olds out first. Saturday night
crowds are a special breed says Mr. Jameson, the promoter and my boss, and you have to
hook them early or they'll run down the street to the pig sticking or around the corner to
watch the cripples do the hand jive. Three year olds are cute, don't mind being naked,
and have a tendency to fall down quickly, which is what the crowd wants Mr. Jameson
says.
Tonight I've given Tommy a toy fire engine. It's bright red and has a siren that
can be heard over two blocks away. A thick hose dangles out the back, and I've taught
him to squirt his opponent Freddie in the chest so he can't get at the toy. There's also two
action figures which he can arrange as drivers or passengers depending on his whim. But
Tommy's distracted and doesn't even care when Freddie takes the toy away.
"Do you have to go to the bathroom?" I ask because he's hopping up and down
and holding his stomach. "NO!" he says, but I know it's a lie because he hasn't been to
the shitter for three days now and there's nothing wrong with his appetite. Last week he
did the same thing. Told me he was fine and then on the mat in front of everyone messed
himself silly. Mr. Jameson promised me I'd be dancing with the cripples if Tommy didn't
shape up and I'll be damned if it's going to happen again.
Mr. Jameson is not a nice man, that much I know, but he is a brilliant promoter
and before starting up Terrible Tots he was the ringleader in a circus. He has a big
booming voice, a curvy black mustache, and is good with a whip. But that life's all
behind him he says.
"The circus is dead," he tells us during our Monday morning inspirational
meetings. "Clowns and animals tricks don't mean shit anymore. It's children beating the
shit out of children that people want to see," he says. I have to believe him because every
night the stands are so full the spectators are doing lap sits.
At Terrible Tots it's my job to get the kids ready, strip them down, oil them up,
and make them fighting mad so when they hit the spotlight they'll be on each other in a
hot minute. But some nights, like tonight, it’s not so easy.
“There's nothing wrong with shitting," I tell Tommy. But he's not buying it. He
says it's a part of him and besides it hurts. We’re still backstage but at this point the
crowd starts chanting and stomping the bleachers and I can feel the night slipping away
from me.
I grab Tommy but then Freddie turns the fire engine's hose on us and soon we're
all soaked and slipping around in the green room. Tommy wriggles out of my arms. He
stands a few feet away and does a victory dance that includes wiggling his little butt my
way and I wish I had legs so I could catch him.
That’s the thing about me. I've been legless since the fourth grade when I had
what my mother calls, "the trouble with the lions." She also refers to me as, "arm
specific," which I think is ridiculous, but then she reminds me that if I hadn't been
ridiculous that afternoon at the circus, I'd have grown up normal like all the other boys.
My mother prides herself on her frankness, but that doesn't make it sting any less.
8
It all started when we were having a series of men visit our classroom to tell us
about their jobs. Mrs. Johns, my teacher, called it career week and after each lecture we
all got busy writing the person a thank you note. It was an exciting time filled with so
much possibility that each day most of my classmates changed their minds about who
they wanted to be.
I remained under the spell of our first lecturer, though, a big cat specialist for the
traveling circus. He had entered our class room whip first, cracking it through the
doorway to get our attention and following it up with some shots from his pistol and cries
of "Simba stay still, Simba through the hoop." Yes, I was a definite goner from that
moment on and soon began practicing my craft with the neighborhood Doberman
Pinchers. I was a natural, and in no time at all kept the dog bites to a minimum.
Lions, I found out, were a different category. At the end of career week we had
an essay contest entitled, 'What I Want To Be When I Grow Up.’ A class trip was
organized to visit the job site of the winner; which was me. It was the first and last
contest I have ever won. I believe the strain of success had something to do with my
decision to sneak into the lions' cage that day to teach them the art of rolling over.
Unfortunately, even though it seemed to be going well at first, I became distracted when
Mrs. Johns started screaming for me to get the hell out of the lions' den. I never even saw
the lions coming but in no time they had gnawed off my legs and were soon napping in
the corner in a food coma.
But that's all behind me now. And even though I know Mr. Jameson is not a nice
man, I'm forever indebted to him because after I got out of the hospital he gave me a
chance. My mother is also indebted to him. She's a season ticket holder at Terrible Tots,
got the perk when she traded me to Mr. Jameson for help with the hospital bills and a
timeshare in Daytona. We don't live together anymore, but she waves to me from her sky
box. I still feel a connection.
But mostly my life is in the hands of Mr. Jameson. I've been with him twenty
years and it's my job to take care of the littlest tots. Five and under is my specialty
because at that age they don't seem to mind my lack of legs. Sure they're curious and
climb all over me playing search for the lap or stick crayons into my stumps. But I don't
mind because I can't feel a thing. Most importantly, they're laughing and having fun.
The ten year olds are a different story. They're always carrying me outside when
I'm asleep, putting me by the front door, and painting WELCOME in big white letters
across my chest. I'm a heavy sleeper and usually don't wake up until the next morning
when someone is wiping his boots off on my testicles. They still work but don't see
much action.
I'm about ready to throw in the towel with Tommy and Freddie and take my
lumps with Mr. Jameson when Mrs. Clayton, our orphanage liaison, arrives. Mrs.
Clayton has thick red hair which she piles straight up like a highway emergency cone.
I've got it bad for Mrs. Clayton. I know I shouldn't be lusting after a taken woman, but
I’ve heard Mr. Jameson say it's only a starter marriage, and therefore doesn't really count.
"Hey Stretch, looks like you need some help," Mrs. Clayton says. It's not the
worst nickname I have, and at least Mrs. Clayton makes it sound more hopeful than
nasty.
Because I find it difficult to talk around Mrs. Clayton, I just nod vigorously. She
bends down and with her hair begins herding the kids toward the mat like some majestic
9
unicorn. She gives a loud whinny too and it's easy to see why she's a favorite with all the
kids. Just before Tommy and Freddie reach the mat I yell that the winner gets an extra
bedtime story. In no time they begin battling just like the Terrible Tots they are.
The crowd goes wild. They just can't seem to get enough of these kids. I know
the money's flowing like water down at the betting booths. Technically, what we're
doing is illegal, but I've heard palms are being greased and, if the winds are blowing
favorably, we might be clean in just a few months. That would mean TV contracts,
possible syndication, and, according to Mr. Jameson, a healthy trickle down to all us
employees. I'd like to believe he's telling the truth. But so far, the only trickle down I've
seen is a pair of leg warmers last Christmas. I didn't think that was funny at all.
But I still have hope and tonight's match starts like a winner. First Tommy is on
top, gnawing away at Freddie's arm. But he tires quickly and lies down to take a nap.
You never know what kids are going to do at this age and I guess that's why they're the
crowd favorite. Freddie seizes the opening and steps in to give Tommy, The Big Hug.
Freddie's big for his age, a definite future husky shopper. When he gives someone, The
Big Hug, it's usually lights out for the other kid. But Tommy's still napping and
something inside of me snaps when I see Freddie looming over him. Before I can stop
myself, I yell, “Watch out!”
This blatant act of favoritism upsets Freddie. He turns to look at me then sits
down on the mat and throws a tantrum. He works his arms and legs into such a lather
that Tommy wakes up. Tommy’s not moving, either, and just sits there sucking his
thumb.
Eventually, the match is called on account of inactivity. Amidst the boos and hail
of half eaten hot-dogs, I slide onto the mat and collect the tots. Mr. Jameson is not
happy, that much I can tell by the way he's waxing his mustache.
"Tomorrow, we're going to the mall," he yells at me. As I lead Tommy and
Freddie upstairs for baths and tooth brushing before bed, I try not to let his words get to
me. But it's hard because the mall can be such a frightening place.
I tried to talk back to Mr. Jameson once before and he took me to the mall and
gave me both barrels, as they say. It was a Tuesday, the day the wealthy shop for body
parts. Although I no longer have legs, I do have a nice set of fingers, perfect for playing
the piano or throwing a split finger fastball. Almost immediately, a group of women
began measuring my fingers and comparing the complexion to their own kids.
"It's a match," one lady screamed. I'm sure I would have lost all ten digits if it
hadn't been for Mr. Jameson and his whip.
"A little leftover from the circus days," he whispered to me. Then he cracked it
on the nose of a pretty soccer mom and declared, “No sale.”
"Let that be a lesson to you," he said on the drive home. As I take out a bedtime
story to read to the tots, his words ring in my head. My fingers are shaking too and it
isn't until I'm two pages into the story that I begin calm down. It's about a group rabbits
who have to find a new home. They have a big journey and go places they never thought
existed. It's so exciting, I continue reading long after the tots have fallen asleep.
It's an illustrated book and there are beautiful pictures of the traveling rabbits
hopping through fields of clover or just sitting around. Their hind legs are so big they
almost come up to their ears. I close my eyes and imagine what I could do with a pair of
10
legs like that. In my mind I’m running and running and running so fast that no can catch
me. I run so hard it feels like my heart is about to explode.
Then, out of nowhere, Mrs. Clayton is running along beside me. We start talking
and then hop behind a hill where there’s a Jacuzzi, one of those supped-up jobs with
enough jets to wash all the years of unhappiness away. And all the tots are there too.
Not in the bathtub, but out in the front yard, playing nicely together. The sight is so
beautiful I open my eyes to see it better. But then it disappears and I’m back in bed with
Tommy and Freddie. But they look sweet and peaceful now. I whisper goodnight to
them and crawl out of bed.
After leaving Tommy and Freddie’s room, I roll over to the employee's lounge. I
get around on a scooter I built myself. It’s just some plywood with wheels attached and a
bit of orange shag carpeting on top for stump comfort, but I like it. I use part of a mop
handle to push myself and some days, while poling around the hallways, I imagine I’m
Huck Finn working his way downriver.
The gang is passing around a bottle of whiskey while watching the tapes of
tonight's matches. It seems one of the ten year olds got so excited after he won, he ran
into the stands and began beating a customer over the head with his own cane. By the
looks of the tape the customer must have been at least eighty. He never even fought
back. But the guy next to him, another gray hair, came to his rescue. Surprisingly, he
held his own, until an old woman took him out at the knees with her pocketbook. Mr.
Jameson's studying the tape closely and at first I think he's worried some injured
customer will rat us out to the police. The boys in blue receive a nice monthly payoff,
but you never know.
"Hey, that's not bad, don't you think," he finally says. "A Battle Royale with the
last geezer standing as the winner." I look at the scene more closely. The fans are
jumping up and down and laying side bets on the fight between the ten-year-old, the old
man, and the woman with the pocketbook. I shake my head in wonder, knowing that
Mr. Jameson has struck gold once again.
"Hey Stumps," Mr. Jameson says to me the next day. "How old is your mother?
She's getting on in years isn't she?"
I'm afraid to answer and just shrug.
"I remember her as a wiry sort. And the type who wouldn't mind making some
extra cash. The hard way. Am I right?"
I nod. It is an accurate assessment of my mother.
"Excellent! Bring her in. Tonight!
“What are you planning?” I ask.
“Listen,” he says. “Don't think I forgot about that little stunt of yours last night.
But you bring in your mom, pronto, maybe I’ll go easy.”
Later on, I'm wasting time at my desk because I’m not ready to confront mom yet.
Just the thought of my mom naked, oiled, and doing hand to hand combat with someone
else's mother or grandmother is turning my stomach. Then Mrs. Clayton walks by.
What's wrong Stretch?" she says. I'm so upset I tell her everything.
"Oh the Senior Soiree," she says, which is what everyone's calling it now. "Well,
if it makes you feel any better, it's not going to be done nude," she says. "I mean, do you
really think anyone wants to see that?"
11
This makes me feel a little better. It also distracts me, this discussion of nudity
with Mrs. Clayton. Today she's wearing her hair down and it crashes about her head and
shoulders like waves on a jetty. Immediately, I start thinking about the Red Sea even
though I've heard it's not really red.
I roll my wagon over to Mrs. Clayton's desk where she has sat down to do some
filing.
"Something I can help you with Stretch?" she asks when I reach her desk.
"Are you happily married?" I ask her and that stops her filing right at the letter L.
"Now are you just taking some sort of poll or is this because you want to get into
my pants?" she answers and it sets me back, this frankness. Here is a woman who’s not
squeamish about talking sex with a legless man.
"I guess you could say I'm taking a poll," I say unable to tell her the real truth,
which is that I do want to rummage about in her pants.
"A poll, huh?” she says. “Well that's too bad because my New Year's resolution
was no more polls. But if you were asking out of co-worker curiosity and a pressing need
to put a redhead down as one of your conquests, I might be more inclined to answer you
truthfully. And in excruciating detail about the plight of my miserable marriage and what
I wouldn’t do for a little ten cent loving.
Before I can answer, Mrs. Clayton gets up and walks out of the room. "Lunch
time," she says just before leaving. She turns her head toward me and smiles. "Upon my
return, I look forward to taking this conversation to the next level."
This drops me like a sack of potatoes and before I know it I'm on the floor and
staring up at the drop ceiling. Suddenly there are dancing hearts and little cupids shooting
arrows instead of the usual water stains and spit balls shot long ago and turned brown
with age. Life is good for the moment and I am content to just close my eyes and listen
to my heart. So amazing that, deep down, everyone’s heart, Mrs. Clayton's too, plays the
very same song. I lose myself in life’s internal drum, the thump-thump, thump-thump of
the here and now. But then I’m interrupted by a group of the ten year olds. They are led
by an exceptionally angry child named Jimmy. We don't use last names at Terrible Tots
because Mr. Jameson says anonymity is the key to longevity.
"What's up with the Senior Soiree?" Jimmy growls down to me. Jimmy's a
freckle faced kid whose face lights up bright red when he's on the mat. He's also
exceptionally pale and ever since the crowd began chanting "Ghost, Ghost," at his last
match he's stopped answering to anything else. He also won't go outside now until after
dark claiming any time in the sun is too big a risk for his image. Jimmy's been with us at
Terrible Tots for five years, we got him at an orphanage auction like we do most of our
kids, and although he's going through that stage in a young boy's life when torture
techniques become more than just a hobby, I still have a soft spot for him.
"What are you talking about, Ghost?" I ask. I’m still flat on my back but can hear
a lot of breathing and sneakers squeaking. When I finally right myself, though, the size
of the crowd takes my breath away. The entire class of ten year-olds are there, all ten of
them, and behind them come the nine year olds and then the eight's. I can't help but ask
where the others are, especially the under five's because they are my responsibility.
"It's nap time Half-Pint," Ghost says. “And you didn't answer my question.”
He snarls when he says this and I want to remind him how it was when he first
arrived. Back then he was a cuddly overweight kid with buck teeth who looked like a
12
pint-sized Teddy Roosevelt. We had a ball walking softly and carrying big sticks all the
while screaming Bully, Bully to each other. Ghost even wanted to be like me so much
he'd tuck his little legs underneath his butt and I'd show him how to walk on his hips.
We'd race up and down the hallways, pulling our bodies along with our arms until we
were exhausted and collapsed at the finish line. At night I'd lie back and he'd use my
stumps as a head rest while reading his comics. We were inseparable and I loved him
like a son, a brother, and a friend. But I knew our relationship had to end when I caught
him reading a book entitled "Amateur Amputating."
I tell Ghost the truth, that the Senior Soiree is something Mr. Jameson cooked up
because he thinks there's a niche there and could make us all a pile of dough.
"Make him some dough," Ghost answers in a harsh tone that cuts me to the quick.
Something about the venom in his voice directed not at me but Mr. Jameson gives me
courage.
"You're right," I fairly yell. Then before I can stop myself I start babbling about
how it's time for all of us to pull together and get out from Mr. Jameson's shadow. The
words come so fast I’m unsure of where they're coming from or even who's speaking
them.
"Ghost," I say. "We shouldn't be beating each other silly every night and twice on
Saturday and Sunday. No, it shouldn't have to be this way. Living with violence and
rage is not the answer. We need to get away from here. You, me, and all the tots. We'll
move to the country and sit down every night for communal meals we've chipped in to
create. Everyone will help with the grocery shopping, cooking, and cleaning.
Afterwards we’ll all sit around like a family, chatting about our day and working out
homework problems together. At holidays we'll stand around the piano singing old
favorites instead of hitting the bourbon and then each other. At night we'll go to bed
bruise free."
I also tell him about the set of prosthetics I've had my eye on. A beautiful
titanium pair of legs which are supposed to be light weight and undetectable when
wearing baggy fit jeans. I tell him with my new pair of legs I'll be able to stand tall and
be the father figure he needs. Finally exhausted, I close my eyes and picture this new
life, complete with a back yard big enough to house a family of rabbits.
"Where's the fun in that?" Ghost asks and I realize I have forgotten to take his
version of Utopia into account too.
"Well," I begin. "You'd get to keep all your profits for one."
Ghost stands there thinking. He shifts his weight from left foot to right and back
again.
"What about the competitions? I don't want you going all Little League on me.
That shit's for shitters."
"Well I hope you'll change your tune once you get away from here. But if you
don't that's up to you. Don't you see? The key is that it will be up to you. Up to all of
you. We'll be free to make our own decisions, not just follow Mr. Jameson's.” It's quite a
speech and at one point I feel so tall it's as if I'm standing up. And I know I've reached
them because no one says a word.
"So how would we do it Half-Pint?” Ghost asks. “It's not like Mr. Jameson's
going to let us just walk away. I'm money in the bank you know.”
13
"Leave it up to me. I'll come up with a plan and then it will be just us and the
rabbits."
"Rabbits?" Ghost asks. "What's with the rabbits?"
"Just get ready. Tonight we ride."
There's a lot of murmuring among the tots but they quiet down when Ghost
reaches out his hand.
"Shake," he says.
Just as the last tot leaves the room, Mrs. Clayton returns. She looks so beautiful
standing in the doorway watching the children pass, I can't help but tell her everything.
"If there's a steady paycheck in there somewhere, count me in," she says.
"Will your husband be coming?" I ask. She pauses for a moment before looking
me in the eye. "No, I don't think he'll be receiving a forwarding address."
"Can you be ready by this evening?" I ask.
"I can be ready by tea time," she answers.
My first stop is Ben's Rent-A-Friend. Kidnapping forty kids, including a lot of
toddlers, isn't something you do by yourself.
Whenever I've get the big blues I roll over to Ben and his Rent-A-Friend outfit
and for ten dollars an hour work myself into a frenzy of male bonding. Two hours just
about taps out my savings, but, in moments of extreme loneliness, it's worth every last
dime. I could do without the two minute warning buzzer, though. I've tried to talk to
Ben about it but he tells me it's the most important aspect of the business. Ben's a
sympathetic soul who's known what it's like to be alone ever since he contracted leprosy
as a child. I suppose I should defer to his judgment.
"I know it's bit harsh when your new friend starts cursing you out in the final two
minutes,” he explains. “Saying you’re worthless and a blight on the world. That just
being in your presence is bringing his standing in society down not just a notch but
straight to the bottom. But think of the alternative. What if you went back to your life
without that dose of reality? Of going back to Mr. Jameson after two hours of nothing
but huggy, huggy. You'd be a blubbering mess in two seconds and back here junkie
quick looking to hock every last body part for the full day special."
Whenever Ben takes the time to break it down like that I have to agree with him.
Still, it doesn't lessen the blow and I always roll back to Terrible Tots the long way. Past
the pig stickers and cripple tents and repeat to myself how lucky I am.
"Ben," I say as I walk through the door of his office. "We're breaking out tonight.
Gonna head for the hills, the promised land, build a Utopia, rub our cheeks with freshly
mown grass and pick clover under the warm blanket of the sun. Are you in?"
"Yo Top-Heavy, what the hell are you talking about?" Ben asks. He's sitting at
his stool watching the monitors. I can tell he's distracted by what's going on in room
eight. I can't see everything, but get the gist a regular isn't responding well to the two
minute warning. Instead of just hunching his shoulders in defeat, he gets pissed. The
regular's name is Mel, a flabby 450 pounder. Bobby, the Rent-A-Friend, is just a little
guy with apple cheeks and eighteen cowlicks in his hair. The perfect friend you might
say and Mel isn't taking kindly to his insults.
"I don't like the looks of this,” Ben says.
I wheel myself around the counter to get a better look and see right away what
Ben is talking about. Mel's tied Bobby onto a swing and is pushing him so hard he starts
14
doing loops over the bar. After three clean swoops the inevitable happens. Bobby kisses
metal. It's a gruesome sight. Then Mel sits down and starts wailing over what he’s done.
I have to admit it, though, that this sorry scene excites me. Something's in the air, even
here at the Rent-A-Friend.
“Give me a hand," Ben says and I follow him into room eight. Bobby's sitting up
now holding his hand over his bloody mouth. Mel’s nosing around the Astroturf picking
up Bobby’s teeth.
"Fuck this shit Ben, I'm through," Bobby says.
“Now let’s all calm down,” Ben says. “Things got out of hand, but that’s no
reason to make hasty decisions.”
“Out of hand? My front teeth just went bust. Screw this. This shit's for the
birds," he says then storms off with Mel waddling after him.
Ben sits down on the floor and covers his pock marked face with his hands.
"That's the third friend I've lost this week," he sobs.
"Well, you haven't lost me," I say. This calms Ben a bit and he uncovers his face.
"So what's this about new pastures and horizons?"
I spend the next hour giving Ben the goods and the more I talk the more excited
he gets. And the more excited he gets, the more the whole thing seems real.
"I've still got fifteen friends in rotation and I think I can convince them to help,”
Ben says. “I've also got three vans ready to roll. How's that sound?"
"It sounds like we've got a convoy," I say. "Drive up to the back entrance of
Terrible Tots at 8:00 tonight. And be ready to roll.”
My next stop is mom.
"Simon," she says as soon as she sees me. Mom’s the only one who still calls me
by my real name and hearing it out loud chokes me up for a moment.
“Hey mom,” I say and reach up to give her a hug. Mom squats down and hugs
me back and I’m surprised by her agility. Mom's hitting the high digits now, but she still
has the moves of a forty-something. That's what I tell her and she gushes.
"Oh Simon. If it hadn't been for your trouble with the lions, you could have been
something. Maybe even a lawyer. As it is, no way you'd convince anyone in your
condition."
"Thanks mom," I say. I know she means well.
"Mom," I continue. "There's not much time and we need to talk."
"Park it."
"I'm leaving," I say.
"But you just got here."
"No, I mean the Tots. I'm moving on to greener pastures, but I need your help."
"Hmm, payback time, huh. Well give me a minute and I'll have my own bill
drawn up for you too."
"Let's start again," I suggest. I tell her about the Senior Soiree and how Mr.
Jameson wants her for the first match. I mention how awful and degrading it will be.
Not nude, but almost, and incredibly violent. Then I tell her about my plan, about how I
want her to join me and together we’ll dupe Mr. Jameson and come out the other end free
people. I detect a gleam in her eye, and the twinkle of the born competitor.
15
"Sounds like you're using me,” she says. “But seeing as I'm your mother, I guess
that's my lot. Count me in." Mom shoots her hand out and we shake like business
partners.
I go warm inside, like my intestines are sweating. I want to tell mom I love her
and need her. But then her boyfriend, Ed, comes stalking in. Ed’s an ex-botox specialist
turned Harley repairman. He says when he fixes a road hog it stays that way, but with
people there was no stopping the downward slide. Ed and I have never seen eye to eye,
and I think it’s because I remind him of the frailty of the human condition.
"What the hell's he doing' here?" Ed asks.
"Leaving,” I say.
“Oh Ed,” mom says. “Simon was here with a proposition. What are you doing
tonight, dear?"
"Dunno,” Ed says. “Nothing, I guess.”
"How would you like to go three out of four falls with me for money?"
"Who's paying?"
"Don't you worry about that,” mom says. “There's going to be a big crowd too."
"I get to kick your sorry ass in public and instead of getting grief, I get paid?" Ed
asks.
"Of course, there’s the possibility it will be your ass in a sling," mom counters.
"Yeah, fat chance. Just tell me when and where."
"She's in," I tell Mr. Jameson when I finally see him. It's mid-afternoon and he’s
pacing about his office.
"Took you long enough," he says.
"Looks like we've got an opponent too," I say, ignoring his comment. "Her
roommate Ed. Most nights they're beating on each other anyway, so getting paid for it is
a definite step up."
"Fine relatives you have there, Stumps." Mr. Jameson sits down and leans back
in his chair.
"You know, I've decided I'm not even going to market the Senior Soiree. Nope.
I'm going total quiet on this one. All word of mouth. The whisper campaign angle. That
way everyone who comes tonight will think they're special. Like they're on the inside of
what's hot. Those that miss out will forever hate themselves and just maybe show up
every night from here to eternity so they don’t miss out on anything else ever again.
What do you think Stumps?"
"It's brilliant," I say.
"It is, isn't it? But for it to work we need a lot of word of mouth. Pick out ten of
the tots and hit the town."
"No problem," I say, trying to hide my delight. Instead of needing an excuse to
steer clear of Mr. Jameson and prepare for leaving, he’s done it for me.
"See you tonight," I say.
"Make sure you're early. I'm going to have you give your mom away. You know
like a wedding. Only instead of getting hitched, she gets creamed."
"My mom's pretty tough," I say.
"Okay then, she does the creaming. You think I care who wins?"
Mr. Jameson picks up the phone and our little meeting is over. It's three hours
until match time and I wheel myself over to Ghost's room to go over the plan. I haven't
16
been to his room in years and am surprised by the changes. Gone are the posters of dogs
and dinosaurs and in their place a whole series of bald men beating the crap out of young
blond women in bikinis. His room is also lit by a black light and the effect is something
more like a cave than a room.
"You like?" Ghost asks when he sees me checking out his wall. He's lying on his
bed touching a lit cigarette to his bare forearm.
"Not really," I say.
"Well screw you," Ghost answers. He stands and walks toward me. In the
purplish hue I see he's wearing ripped shorts and nothing else. Small hairs are sprouting
out from his shins and a line of fuzz dots his upper lip.
"You're getting big," I say.
"Whatever,” he says.
"You having second thoughts?"
"More like fifth and sixth thoughts. Tell me again. What's in it for me?"
"Well, for one thing, I guarantee you'll stop wanting to mutilate your arm like you
were doing," I say.
"What if I like burning my arm?" he offers.
"I don't believe you."
"Yeah, well what do you know? You had your damn legs chewed off as a kid.
Maybe you wanted to do that. Ever think of that?"
"No," I answer, which is the truth.
"Then don't go telling me what I do or don’t like to do."
"Fair enough,” I say. “But let me tell you a story.”
"Make it short. I've got biting practice in 10 minutes."
"Okay. It's about a young ostrich whose parents are eaten by lions. After eating
the parents, the lions are so full they decide not to eat the little ostrich right then. The
ostrich's name is Ryan, and the head of the pride takes a liking to him. He gets a kick out
of the little bird's fluffy bottom and the way he sticks his head in the sand when scared.
He tells the other lions they're not to eat Ryan. The head lion even teaches Ryan how to
use his beak like a knife, his claws like teeth, and his long skinny legs like whips. Young
Ryan grows up to be a great fighter and in a few years even becomes the leader of a small
pack of lion boys.
'That's my boy,' the old lion says whenever he sees Ryan spear another lion cub
during the monthly fight over the wildebeest carcass. All seems perfect for young Ryan
until a terrible drought comes upon the veldt. The grass wilts and dies giving way to
dust. Soon the animals on which the lions feed die off. After eating all the carcasses, the
lions roll about the dirt rubbing their stomachs and crying out in hunger. The head lion
lasts about a day before he turns to Ryan and says, 'You know, you never were a real
lion.' Then he eats him.
"Excellent story," Ghost cries out when I finish. This was not the reaction I had
hoped for.
"Really great," Ghost repeats. "But now I have to go." He pushes past me. Then,
just as I give up hope, he turns.
"So which am I? The old lion or the ostrich?"
"That's for you to decide," I say. "I'll be at the side door at 8:00. Right after I
introduce my mom in the ring. Bring whomever you think wants out."
17
"We'll see."
After Ghost leaves I breath a heavy sigh. My heart beats so fast I can feel it in my
stumps. 50/50 he rats to Mr. Jameson, I think, and almost wheel it double time down the
hall to tell Ghost it was all a joke and nothing is going to change. Then I see on his
bedside table a small book. It's a journal and I open it to a random page.
Beat the shit out of Jeffrey tonight. It was easy. Too easy. There has to be
something more. The next entry. The crowd smelled tonight. Don't know what they're
serving at the food stand but it was ugly. And finally. Saw Mr. Jameson working with
Jeffrey. He was whispering in his ear. Bet he was telling him how to beat me. Screw
Jeffrey and Mr. Jameson. Nobody beats Ghost.
The journal calms me. He is as confused as the rest of us.
I wheel myself down the hall and crawl up the stairs to my room. I'm on the fifth
floor, a little present from Mr. Jameson, and it takes almost an hour. Ordinarily, once I
leave my room in the morning, I don't return until it's time for bed. But today's the last
time I'll see the old place so I suck it up.
My room is small. Just half a bed, some toys for any tots who wake up scared of
the dark, and my books. I only own two books, but as far as I'm concerned that's plenty.
One is the encyclopedia of stilts and I guess there's no reason to explain my attraction to
it. The other book is an autobiography called Circus Days written by a woman named
Jeannie Eleven. Jeannie Eleven is a dwarf and the book is all about her life with the
circus. It's not a nice life but Jeannie approaches each day with forgiveness and looks for
love wherever she can find it. In one chapter she finds it with the bearded lady. The
whole chapter is about the two of them having tea while outside the elephants are
stampeding, the horses breaking free, and the strong man taking out his frustrations on
the locals. But Jeannie and the bearded lady don't care. They just go on sipping and
talking about better days to come.
At the end of the book Jeannie looks for love in the wrong place and everything
ends rather abruptly. I don't want to go into it now, but let's just say not all fathers are
hoping their son will come home with a circus dwarf for a wife. But even though the end
is rather gruesome, finished posthumously by Jeannie's husband Stan, I'm still inspired.
Jeannie never gave up hope and she took action.
I want to take my books with me, but know any sign of packing will only alert
Mr. Jameson. It's hard enough getting down the stairs and with a bundle it would make a
hell of a noise. So I say good-bye to Jeannie Eleven and the stilt maker. I give my bed a
pat and even take a moment to kiss all four of my walls.
By the time I get back downstairs it's 7:00pm. My wagon is missing and it takes
me quite a while to get to the big top. I can tell immediately Mr. Jameson is pissed, but
the stands are full so he cuts me some slack.
"Next time I cut your arms off," he hisses, but I know he's bluffing. Mom and Ed
are beside him. Ed's wearing a blue Speedo and nothing else. Mom's decked out in a
bright red wedding dress. She's got a veil too and really looks quite good.
"Hot stuff," I tell her.
"Eat your heart out, baby," she answers.
I smile and move toward her, but Ed steps in the way.
"Back off she's mine," he says.
18
"Take it easy, Ed baby," Mr. Jameson says. "Stumps is only giving her away.
Then she's all yours."
Ed retreats and glowers from the altar. The crowd is on their feet screaming for
the match to begin. Usually we cater to the male 15-35's but tonight it's a diverse bunch.
Seniors, tots, single women even.
"The skies the limit," Mr. Jameson whispers in my ear. "Just keep your eye on
the prize my friend." His breath is hot and thick. Then he takes center stage and works
the microphone like the professional he is. While he's winding up the crowd, I tend to
my mom.
"Is my veil on straight?" she asks.
"It's perfect," I say.
"You know, I never had a wedding. Your dad and me were married and all. In a
church with lots of people and food and dancing. But it wasn't a real wedding. It wasn't
an extravaganza! Tonight will be a night to remember."
"It sure will," I say.
The wedding march starts and I don't have time to say anything else. Ed is
standing on the altar mooning the crowd and they're loving it. A group of old ladies hold
up a big sign that says, Marry Me Ed.
"Hey ma," I say when we finally get to the altar.
"Yes dear," she answers but I can tell she's distracted by the fans. Her chin is up
and a brilliant red hue covers her face.
"I’d like to kiss the bride," I say.
"Oh dear,” mom answers. “There's no need for that. We'll see each other soon.”
This calms me and I move out of the way just as Mr. Jameson steps forward
carrying a massive fake diamond ring. He leans into the microphone and shouts, "With
this ring, I pronounce this couple - AT WAR!"
The arena goes nuts and I slip away.
I make my way through the deserted hallways, trying to move fast but jumping
each time the crowd gives another scream. I stop and wonder whether its my mom or Ed
hitting the mat, but then scold myself and move on. When I'm just about out of the
building, Mrs. Clayton pops out from a side door.
"Psst, Stretch, over here," she says. She's cowering by the door and looking up
and down the empty hallway.
"What's up, Mrs. Clayton?" I ask.
"Are you still going through with it? Are you still breaking out tonight?"
"Of course. It's all set. Ben's probably got the vans ready outside right now.
Everyone else is at the match. We can walk out together."
"Oh no," Mrs. Clayton says. "I'll, um meet you there. I just wanted to make sure
it was still on."
"It is. And Mrs. Clayton."
"Yes Stretch."
“A man who has you on his arm, doesn’t need legs,” I say.
"Oh Stretch," she says. "You're really making this hard."
"What are you talking about?" I ask.
"Oh nothing. Nothing at all. I'll see you in five minutes."
19
With that Mrs. Clayton disappears and I'm left alone to chew on her last words.
They sounded ominous, and if I had more time perhaps I'd understand what they meant.
But I'm late and worried about Ben and the others. I make my way down the hall and out
into the sparkling winter night. The stars are doing their thing and so is the moon. I give
a slight bow to it all, even the neon of the city, and for a moment I'm caught up in a wave
of nostalgia for what has been my home for so many years. But this quickly passes and I
look expecting to see Ben and his convoy.
But the road is empty. Just a lone streetlight shining down on the pavement
where Ben and his three vans are supposed to be. I rub my eyes once, twice, three times
and hope for a better view. Nothing. Then I hear a noise. It starts out small but builds.
Footsteps. A lot of them. Soon the street is filled with people. It's the entire arena with
Mr. Jameson leading the pack and holding hands with mom. She's pretty bruised up, but
Ed's nowhere to be seen and I figure she was the winner.
"You didn't really think you'd get away with it did you?" he says.
"I had hopes," I say looking at mom.
"Simon," she says. "I'm sorry, but at my age who else is gonna give me a
chance." She looks at Mr. Jameson with stars in her eyes.
"I would have," I say.
""Let's face it, Stump. Your chance is no chance. And besides it wasn't just your
mom who ratted."
"Who else?"
"All of them," he says. Ben and Mrs. Clayton fall in behind him. They're holding
hands too.
"Hey Bro, I'm sorry," Ben says. "It's shit here, but we're in love. You know. You
take the shit away and maybe we're no longer in love. That's not a chance I'm gonna
take."
Mrs. Clayton doesn't say anything. She just stands there with a goofy smile on
her face and her hair swirling about her like a pile of seaweed. I curse myself for being
stupid and turn to Mr. Jameson.
“When did you find out?”
“Oh, about two minutes after you thought it up. I’ve got spies everywhere, you
know.”
“So why wait until now to stop it.”
“Perverse pleasure in watching you dream. Plus, you’ve got to let a mutiny run
its full course in order to root out all the possible dissenters.”
“And you’ve got them all now?”
“Almost. It seems you may have converted one soft-hearted fool. But he’ll come
around.”
"And me?” I ask. “To the pig stickers?"
"Oh no. That would be too good for you."
With that Mr. Jameson leads me away. In the distance, though, almost hidden
from view, I see a lone, pale figure. He’s holding a backpack. I nod to Ghost and he
waves to me. Then he disappears around the corner, off to run free with the rabbits, I
hope.
20
FRESHMAN YEAR
When the day for the big match finally came, I dressed in my lucky outfit, a pair
of blue Levi corduroy pants and a blue checked shirt with snaps on the front instead of
buttons. I wore my brown workboots too because they made me taller and walking in the
hallways I felt fierce and strong. Twice I got so excited I had to run off to the bathroom
to do pushups on the cold tile floor. The smell of piss hung in the air, and the urinal
cakes stared back at me as I pushed out a quick fifty hoping nobody would come through
the door. Each time I arrived at class sweaty and out of breath, and there was talk of
sending me to the nurse.
In between classes, just after third period, I saw Jeff Hoffman in the hall and he
waved. Jeff was the captain of our wrestling team, a senior with arms so big and round
they looked like flotation devices. He had a rock hard jaw, razor stubble, and a sweet
looking scar over is left eye. Best of all, when he walked onto the mat, he not only won
big and fast, but the other guy usually learned how to scream too.
I was only a Freshman but because I had made the varsity team I could actually
talk to Jeff. I walked over to him, but by the time I reached him he was already
surrounded by a group of girls. The smell of lip gloss circled them like a moat too deep
to cross. Jeff looked over at me, shrugged his shoulders, and rolled his eyes.
"I'll see you before the match," he mouthed and then went back to a girl whose
name I knew was Caroline. She had long curly brown hair, almost down to her ass, and
big eyes that made you smile as soon as you saw them. Jeff held Caroline's arm by the
tricep while he talked to her and I could see his fingers moving slowly back and forth on
her skin. I knew there were calluses on Jeff's fingers, thick ones that looked and felt like
number five sandpaper, and wondered if it hurt Caroline to have her skin rubbed raw.
She didn't seem to mind though, and leaned in with her hips so their pants touched.
After school all the wrestlers met up in the locker room for our pep talk. Jeff
climbed up on a bench and stared us down, one by one, as if to check whether we were
worthy to hear his words of advice. Some of the other guys turned away when he looked
at them. I sat up straighter and composed a speech in my head about what a mean-ass
motherfucker I was, just in case he asked.
Finally, Jeff punched the air with his fists and told us just what do out there in the
gym and under the lights.
"We're here to kick some ass,” he said, pacing up and down the bench now. “If
you're thinking about anything else, don't, because we got a job to do. And what is it?"
Before anyone could answer Richie Rodgers, our heavyweight, leaped up and
smashed his head into one of the metal lockers. It bent forward like a bowling ball had
been whipped up against it. Jeff nodded approvingly then we all started yelling.
"Scalps!” we screamed. “We're taking scalps!" Then we ran out of that locker
room, with me leading and all of us still screaming as we entered the gym where the
stands were packed with friends and enemies, all of them loud and banging the bleachers
with fists and feet so hard it sounded like a car crash. There were also the nameless
nobody's with long hair and beards who showed up and hollered the loudest even though
21
they didn't know anybody's names. Who were those guys? Nobody knew, but they
always sat in the back pounding the hardwood as if they had money on the line.
My parents were out there too. Mom up in the stands with the other moms sitting
small and tight, her thighs practically glued to the bleachers. And dad pacing about the
gym floor like someone I had never met before. The quiet guy around the house
suddenly transformed, giving me a double thumbs up and yelling out loud and in front of
everyone, "Atta boy Mark. Atta boy."
Mr. Matz, the announcer, got things started by reading off our names. Mr. Matz
taught math and helped out at all the home meets. He spoke slowly like he had to drag
the words up from his belly and by the time it came out it was a gravely mess. Some kids
had him for math class and they said it was so boring it was like a preview to dying. But
with the microphone in hand and his voice carrying to every corner of the gym, Mr. Matz
made each name sound as important as a war hero.
I looked across the mat at my opponent. His name was Frankie Marinaro and I
knew him from grade school when everyone hung out at the summer playground. I
hadn’t seen him in years, had better things to do now than go to the playground, but I
remembered him.
Back then Frankie had wielded knock hockey sticks like spears and whacked
tennis balls over the school roof just for the hell of it. He was skinny, but tall, and could
take over the tether ball court for hours. He had thick brown hair, big forearms, and was
good at talking to girls, even as a sixth grader.
I hated Frankie then and looking at him now did nothing to change my mind. He
looked cocky. He kept smiling and bobbing up and down on his toes, and slapping his
teammates on the back like he didn’t have a care in the world. But he also looked tough.
He wore a Mohawk haircut and there were big tattoos on both of his shoulders.
I turned away and grabbed my practice partner, Ronny Jupp, so I could go over
some moves. Ronny was a short fat kid who kept a stash of Ring Dings in his locker and
yawned whenever he was nervous. He was a junior, but still wrestled for the JV team.
Before the season started I hadn't even known Ronny existed. Now I knew every nook
and cranny of his body and that he smelled a lot better on Mondays than Wednesdays.
Ronny and I worked out on a small red mat located behind the row of chairs all us
wrestlers sat on. I thought this area was only for wrestlers but then my father walked
over and stood next to us. Dad was still dressed in his suit and tie, having come, I
guessed, straight from work. My father wasn't a big man, but I had seen pictures of him
when he was young and wore tight T-shirts and smoked Lucky Strikes. Back then he had
a crew cut and it made him look almost tough. Now his stomach was soft and his legs
skinny like an old man’s.
At first I ignored dad, but when he didn’t go away, I stood up. He was more
himself now; the shouting guy from when we entered the gym all but disappeared, except
for some lingering red in the face and sweat on his upper lip. Dad nodded to me and held
out his hand.
"Good luck," he said. "Take it to him."
Without thinking I took his hand and shook it like I would a teammate, in a soul
shake, our hands came together in a fist. It felt weird doing this with my father and I
quickly let go of his hand.
22
"Hey,” Dad said. “Win or lose. You want to go out after the match and
celebrate? Burgers, fries, ice cream, you name it.”
I shook my head. "You never mention losing before someone's going out on the
mat," I said. Then I walked over to where the rest of the guys on the team were
stretching.
I dropped down and worked through twenty pushups before looking back to the
spot where my father had been standing. He was still there but when I looked at him he
turned away and walked back up to the stands.
"Hey,” Jeff Hoffman said.
I looked up and Jeff stood in front of me with an orange slice in his hand.
“You ready?" he asked.
I nodded.
Jeff handed me the orange slice and cracked my back and neck. He leaned down
and re-tied my shoelaces and made sure my headgear was snug but not too tight. Then,
after he shook my hand, he smacked me hard across my face.
"Now you ready?” he asked.
"Yeah,” I answered. “Definitely.”
"Good, because it's time."
Frankie was waiting for me when I ran out to the center of the mat. He stood in a
squat with his hands on his knees. When the whistle blew, he didn’t move at all. He just
kept standing there and looking at me.
My plan had been to leap across the mat like a wild dog and rip Frankie to pieces.
Instead, I froze. He looked so tough. I couldn’t get over it, either. Frankie was a
doctor’s son, that much I knew about him, and yet he had managed to turn into a street
thug. I was jealous and wondered how this had happened. And while I was wondering
this, Frankie popped me upside the head with his forearm.
His arm was big and meaty and for a moment I saw stars. Then he grabbed my
wrist. It was like some tool from shop class had clamped down on me and I couldn’t get
away. Soon my nose was deep in Frankie’s armpit. There was hair in there. Thick black
stuff that reeked of puberty, weight rooms, and not much soap. Frankie stepped in and
lifted me into the air. A few seconds later he brought me back onto the mat, hard.
I lay on my back with Frankie’s arm wrapped around my throat so that I had to
fight for each breath. "I'm going to rip your shoulder out of its socket,” Frankie
whispered into my ear. Then he gave my arm a yank in a way it wasn’t supposed to go.
In the background, over the roar of the crowd, I heard Jeff's voice yelling, "Eat the
pain, Mark. Eat it and love it.”
I wanted to scream back to Jeff that I didn’t love the pain. It just hurt. But one of
Frankie's forearms now covered my mouth. I spent the rest of the period, almost sixty
seconds, on my back fighting to keep both my shoulders from touching the mat at the
same time. I rolled to my left then to my right but couldn't get out of Frankie's grip. I
kicked hard like a mule, thrashed about with every part of my body, but got nowhere.
Above me, taped to the ceiling, was a sign that read, If You Can Read This, You're In
Deep Shit. I remembered laughing when we had put it up there before the match. Now,
it didn’t seem so funny.
Eventually, I was saved by the bell. Our limbs were wrapped up in each other
like knots and it took a while to separate our bodies. I jerked and kicked frantically to get
23
away from Frankie. In the process, I kicked him in the head. It wasn't very hard, but it
felt good watching his head bob back. I didn't even care when the referee gave him an
extra point for my unsportsmanlike conduct. The referee even led me over to coach and
the two of them had a quick discussion about my bad behavior.
While Coach and the referee talked, I looked over at Jeff. He smiled, flexed his
biceps and yelled, "Plenty of time left.” Jeff tapped his knee then, a sign that it was time
to take this match to the next level. This shit wasn’t legal, kneeing someone in the head,
but in the heat of battle the referee usually didn’t catch everything.
When the whistle blew to start the next period I held back and waited for Frankie
to come at me again. It worked. He made a go for my legs, but I timed it perfectly,
raising my knee just as he made his move. I caught him in the eye; I could tell by the
way his head snapped back hard and quick. Then I was on top of him before the referee
could see he was hurt.
Beneath me, Frankie moaned. I told him to shut up and squeezed harder, making
sure my arm pushed against the side of his neck so he couldn't breathe. It wasn't long
before the referee smacked the mat signaling Frankie was pinned and the match over.
I untangled myself, stood up, and looked down at Frankie. He continued to sit on
the mat shaking his head. I watched him for a moment to see what he would do, but
when he continued to do nothing, I turned my attention to the rest of the gym. The crowd
was on their feet, screaming and stomping the bleachers just like they did after one of
Jeff's matches. The cheerleaders waved their pom-poms and kicked their legs, making
their skirts fly up over their waists. On the sidelines, Jeff stood in front of the rest of the
team. He raised his fist high in the air and when he smiled my sweat turned cold with
goose bumps.
The referee raised my hand and after he let go I kept it up for a few more seconds
to make sure everyone could see. When I walked off the mat, Jeff greeted me by
shooting in low, hugging my legs hard, and lifting me into the air. Then he carried me
back to our turf and I was smothered in congratulations from the rest of the team.
Blood pumped through me like a current of electricity and when I looked up into
the stands I could see the whole gym staring at me. Some people raised their fists, others
kept clapping, and my mom stood up in the back row waving both her hands in the air. I
nodded to her and then stripped off the top of my uniform so the crowd could catch a
glimpse of my bare arms, shoulders, and chest. I looked for my father. He was hard to
find because he was still seated. Our eyes met and he shook his head at me.
“Hey,” Jeff said and I turned away from the stands. Because I had to do
something with my hands, I smacked Jeff in the thigh.
“Ow, that hurt” Jeff said and smiled. “Feels good, right?”
“Feels great,” I said. In the background the cheers of the crowd had given way to
a quiet concentration as our teammate Tony Santuro took a hard beating.
"Now we just have the small matter of me wiping the mat with Mr. Vinnie Vitelli
and then we can all go out and celebrate," Jeff said.
“Count me in,” I said.
Jeff shook my hand then moved down the row of chairs to cheer on our
teammates. He took off his warm up suit and while he shouted instructions, he also
stretched, jumped rope, and pounded out pushups that I counted out for him silently in
my head.
24
When the referee blew the whistle for Jeff's match to start, I stood up. So did a lot
of the other guys on the team. Some even slapped each other on the back while they
waited for the show to begin. This was the way it always was when Jeff wrestled. There
was no tension in the air because the result had already been written. The only question
was how long it would take and what type of beating the other guy would suffer. Jeff
was usually fair. If the other guy showed the proper respect he might escape with some
of his dignity left. But if he acted cocky or tried to show Jeff up by popping him in the
head, then it got ugly fast.
Vinnie Vitelli looked like he fit into this second category. He ran out onto the
mat full of smoke and smacking himself in the face with both hands. While he waited for
Jeff, who always took his time walking out onto the mat, Vinnie jumped up and down
like he was on some sort of trampoline. He even looked back at his teammates and gave
them the thumbs up like he wasn't worried at all. And that's when I noticed Vinnie’s
whole team, Frankie too, was standing just like we were. And they were smiling and
slapping each other on the back, while yelling for Vinnie to take no prisoners. I wanted
to yell over to them that they better sit down or Vinnie would get the beating of his life.
But before I could say anything, the whistle blew and Vinnie ran at Jeff with everything
he had.
The match went wrong right from the start. When Vinnie barreled into him, Jeff
didn't just push him aside like some fly. Not that he didn't try. But Vinnie had charged
like some kind of lunatic who didn't feel pain. Instead, he just smiled when Jeff laid into
him. Then he grabbed Jeff’s arms and pushed into him. I saw Jeff back up. I had never
seen that before and neither had anybody else on the team. We all sat down real quick.
After Jeff took a step back, Vinnie came at him again. Jeff tried to pop him in the
head to distract him, but Vinnie just pushed it aside, sidestepped and countered by
grabbing Jeff's legs. He came in low, grabbed Jeff behind the knees and lifted him in the
air. Suddenly, I didn't feel like showing off my bare arms and chest anymore. I put on
my warm up sweats, and pulled the hood of my sweatshirt down tight. For a moment it
felt like I had left the gym, and then the sound of Jeff's body hitting the mat brought me
back.
He landed with a thud. Everything got real quiet. Even Frankie's team sat down
and the bleachers may as well have been empty because nothing came from that
direction. The cheerleaders stopped cheering, and some even forgot to cross their legs as
they slumped down on the gym floor. Jeff's girl, Caroline, hid her face in her pom-poms.
Out on the mat Jeff tried to put up a fight, but the sight of him struggling on the bottom
only made me pull my hooded sweatshirt down even tighter.
Eventually, the crowd and some of the other guys on the team regained their
voices and started shouting to Jeff. Pitiful advice like, hang in there Jeff, keep fighting
Jeff, only thirty seconds left Jeff. Coach squatted next to the mat yelling some of the
same shit and that's when I left the gym. It wasn't a long walk to the locker room, maybe
50 feet, but I knew everyone could see me. I felt like a deserter, but I didn't care.
Anything was better than watching what was happening out on the mat.
The locker room was empty. A dripping shower gave off a loud echo, but
otherwise it was quiet. Some of the lockers were open and gym clothes spilled out of
them like different multi-colored tongues. I walked over to the mirrors and climbed up
on a bench so I could see my whole body. I had a deep scratch in my forehead, but
25
otherwise nothing looked different. I undressed and flexed a few times. My muscles
were as small as ever. My pubic hair hadn't grown any either, and the pimples on my
forehead were still red and far too numerous.
I put my uniform back on and took a long drink of water at the fountain. Then I
walked back into the gym. Jeff’s match had ended and he was sitting in a chair holding
his head in his hands. I had hoped he would have gone berserk. Maybe ran into the
stands and beat the shit out of some innocent bystanders. Or at least stormed out of the
gym so nobody had to look at him.
The rest of the meet went by but I didn't pay attention. Teammates won and lost
and I didn’t even catch the final score. After showering, I walked out into the hall to
meet my dad. I wondered what he would say, or if he would say anything at all. But he
wasn’t there. He had left me to walk home, and taken mom with him.
26
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
William Eville was born in North Plainfield, New Jersey. His undergraduate degree is
from Princeton, where he majored in economics. He has held a variety of jobs including
Vice President of Development for the Walt Disney Company.
27