Well, okay; you asked. Person with dwarfism works if you’re something else even more extraordinary. A surgeon (there are some) can pull off Person with dwarfism. But trust me, you really gotta go some before dwarf is only the second most interesting thing about you. Me? I’m of average intellect, average tastes, averagely dextrous, born into an average Brooklyn family (dad’s a plumber, mother’s a nurse). God gave me just one extraordinary difference — one thing that makes me stand out (ha!) in a crowd. Me, I’m a Dwarf.
And that’s all you’re getting, pal. This is Jakey’s story, remember?
So, Jakey’s childhood. He don’t talk about it much — sweet kid, never complains — but I can see the signs. Been there myself. Ain’t nothing like a highly visible disability to make those teenage years stick in the memory. My defence was a mean right hook — one advantage, you’re the right height to hit ’em where it hurts.
But, still and all, I didn’t have it as tough as Jakey did.
There’s this belief about all-male boarding schools, you see. Which ain’t too wide of the mark, apparently — but not how you’d think. Some of it’s about who’s top dog. More of it’s about grossing each other out. Mostly it’s a substitute, an outlet; let’s face it, ain’t much hornier than a fifteen-year-old schoolboy. Critical point — none of it’s considered gay.
What does make you gay, though, is falling in love.
Which is kinda where we came in, ain’t it?
Gotta be honest, that ain’t my scene. I love Jakey to bits, but I never looked at him from under my eyelashes and thought, hmmm. But hey, dull world if we all want the same thing, right? Jakey always knew who he was. Knew to keep quiet, too. Boys spot that one, they’ll kick you out and hunt you down, no mercy.
I swear, I sometimes think boys are fucking feral animals until the age of twenty. People say girls are worse. Ain’t never found that myself. Girls, in my experience, are nice. Comforting. Supportive. Concerned. Warm. Soft. Welcoming. Loving. Boys, on the other hand . . . .
So. Jacob White, eighteen, Park Avenue, poor little rich boy in his final year. Paul Hunter, twenty-five, making a poor boy’s journey through Med School and teaching Latin to pay the bills until his residency comes through. Paul took prep — that’s home-room for WASPs — two weeks before end of term. Jakey saw blond hair, tanned skin, footballer’s build. Paul saw Jakey drop his books.
‘Watch it, Snowy,’ he said, and passed them back. Electricity when their hands touched; that sudden, certain knowledge. Minutes, stretching into days, carefully not making eye contact. That feeling, making both their hearts pound. Scary as hell when it hits you like that; someone you couldn’t, shouldn’t, mustn’t . . . but God knows you just can’t beat it.
Both of them counting the days till the end of term. A note left in a pigeon hole.
Have I ever been in love, what the — ?
Ah, forget about it, I’m just yankin’ your chain. You really wanna know, I’ll tell you. I’ll be totally honest: ain’t never had time for it. That’s not I don’t see the point, by the way, that’s literally haven’t had the time for it. A career in entertainment don’t make for stable personal relationships. Still, one day, if I meet a girl who likes me for me, not just my body . . .
Yeah, I know. You wanna hear about my job, don’t you? Maybe later. This is a love story I’m telling you, and a story about shitty parenting. Back to Jakey.
So, was it love, that day on Park Avenue? Who knows? I always reckon you can’t put too much faith in the lure of the forbidden, and That Feeling. Still, the way Jakey described it . . .
Wicked Stepmother was out, buying shoes, getting Botox, something, I don’t know. Dad never got in before nine at night. Whole palace, just for them. After the obligatory awkward tour — Paul baffled by its sheer size, Jakey massively embarrassed, like Yeah, I know, sorry, my dad’s really really rich . . . — they somehow got past it and into each other’s arms.
Fit together like lock and key, apparently. Oh, what — too graphic? Okay. Try hand and glove. Still too penetrative? Ah, you’re obsessed. How about moon and stars? Yeah, too romantic. Apple pie and vanilla ice-cream? Too clean-cut. Roy Rogers and Trigger? Too horsey.
So try this. They fit together the way you do fit together when everything goes right; when their touch sets you on fire, when there’s nothing in this world but the two of you and the occasional moan or whisper, Like that? Just there? More? Now? And all the time you know the answer; you’re only asking because it drives you wild to hear them, knowing it’s you making them feel that good, that needy, that desperate, my God, ain’t nothing beats that feeling when it’s right and sweet and perfect, vulgar and sacred all at once, and so fucking beautiful you think you’re going to die —
Ahem. Sorry. Got a little distracted there.
Coulda got away with it too if they’d only stopped there, but ain’t a pair of lovers anywhere knows when to put the brakes on. Paul took Jakey into his stepmother’s dressing room to play.
It’s freakin’ haunting you, ain’t it? Eaten up with curiosity about about how I keep the wolf from the door. All right; Dwarf Career Guidance 101.
I had nice parents, wonderful, in fact — made me welcome, loved me to bits. Supportive church. Little (!) sister who didn’t take too much advantage of her big (!!!) brother. A shitty high (ho ho ho) school experience, plenty of not-very-good-natured ragging, a few beatings, until I got the hang of that right hook I mentioned. Turned eighteen; time to choose a career.
You’re four foot two with an Achon Dwarf’s mobility issues, there’s a whole bunch of stuff you can’t do. Manual work’s hard, verging impossible. Forget the skilled stuff — building, plastering, plumbing, car repair — even the unskilled stuff is mostly outta reach (you spotting these for yourself yet?). Can’t even wait tables, except as a novelty. Of course, they’re supposed to adapt for workers with disabilities, but for minimum wage plus tips, you got to be realistic and ask who’ll bother.
Besides, why do something dull when the Man Upstairs gave you a way out?
Jakey’s kinda lean, but he ain’t no Vera Wang size two, which is what Wicked Stepmother was on her wedding day. Still, they let out the laces and got him into it somehow. Then Paul got going with the cosmetics.
Sometimes, drag’s grotesque, a bad parody of femaleness. Sometimes, it’s beyond beautiful. Guess which Jakey was when Paul was finished.
They gazed into the mirror, young and fresh and flushed. Hands roaming, mouths warm, that soft laughter that comes easy to lovers. Then —
Oh, come on. You know what happened next.
Well, she walked in, and she looked at them, and she laughed. She’d waited for this day, this opportunity, her whole married life. One powerful, vengeful woman; two scared boys who were right where she wanted them. Paul and Jakey clinging to each other. Wicked Stepmother triumphant. Gay don’t play well in the rarified heights of Park Avenue.
‘Your father will die of shame,’ she told Jakey.
‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ said Paul firmly.
‘You be quiet,’ she told him. ‘Jacob, think of your father. You can’t let him know his only son is a pervert . . .’ Loving every second.
Jakey, desperate but determined: ‘I can’t change who I am.’
And Wicked Stepmother, like a striking snake: ‘Then you’ll not spend another minute under my roof.’
Paul said,
‘You’re just jealous because he’s so much prettier than you are.’
Sometimes the truth ain’t such a hot idea.
See, Wicked Stepmother’s pretty, but Jakey’s mother was something more. Haunting. She was an actress before she married Marcus. Occasionally someone runs into Jakey, and they’re like, ‘My God, you look like her . . . Anya’s boy, right?’
So that did it, all right, you betcha. The truth hurts. Hurt people aren’t nice.
&nb
sp; You know, I met her once. Jakey’s mama, that is.
Bet you didn’t expect that, did you? But the stage is a cold-hearted bitch of a mistress; even the raving beauties gotta pay their dues. She started as — oh, let’s say, an exotic dancer.
You can stop counting on your fingers, by the way — I ain’t that old. She was gone before my time, off into the stratosphere, until Marcus White caught her in his golden net. She wasn’t happy. Park Ave and Mrs White didn’t quite measure up. One bright March day, she came back — see the Old Place, catch a few shows. Caught mine. Lotta gals do.
You know the old proverb, a fool’s bauble is a lady’s plaything? Course, I ain’t no fool, not the way they meant it, anyway; but a lot of people wonder about Dwarfs that same way. Made a living off that my whole adult life. Made a lot of love off it, too.
But just for once, I didn’t feel like that was it. It was more like — she was trying to reconnect with something. Her old life, maybe. Who she used to be. Whatever it was, I wasn’t complaining.
Most beautiful thing I ever saw.
Christ, where was I?
Back on Park, Paul laughed.
‘It’s okay,’ he said to Jakey. ‘You’re coming home with me.’
‘I’ll get you fired,’ she told Paul.
They stared at her.
‘Fired and out of Med School,’ she continued. ‘Fucking schoolboys won’t impress the Professional Ethics board. You’re never going near him again. Try, and I’ll find out. I’ll find out, and I’ll end you.’
Long silence. Everyone stares at everyone else. All three knew she meant it. All three knew she could.
And here’s where my story and Jakey’s collide.
Only one place Paul knew to bring him. I open the door and there’s the young man I tipped off about the gig at St Ethelred’s, desperate, panicked. In his wake, a boy with the face of a long-dead woman I’d never forgotten.
‘Hey,’ I said, looking up at them. They looked awkward, giant. The apartment’s built for me, you see, for us. The seven of us that make up Small and Mighty. Put a non-Dwarf in here, suddenly they’re the freak. Naturally, that satisfies. But Paul’s a friend.
‘Rough night?’ I asked.
Paul nodded.
‘Come on in.’
So, yeah. Paul and I worked the same turf for a while; all kinds of paths cross in the fleshpots of Forty-Second and Broadway. Not precisely the same, mind you. He’s your classic one-season wonder, pretty and forgettable. Me and my six compadres, we’ve got stamina. Girls’ll still be paying to see us strip to the bone long after Paul’s looking at his bald-spot and his beer-gut and wondering where it all went wrong.
You want to say exploitation, don’t you? Ah, that’s okay. Plenty out there in the little-people community think I’m a fuckin’ traitor to the cause, making it harder for everyone else like us.
But here’s the way I see it. Sometimes, God makes someone totally ordinary and gives them just one extraordinary gift. Anyone say to Elvis, Forget that voice and that ear, stay in Memphis and rot? God takes the daughter of a waitress and a hospital porter, gives her a pretty face and a blinding figure — who says to her, Fuck Hollywood, stack shelves instead?
Say he made you five eleven with a skinny frame, great cheekbones and no bad angles. You gonna turn down five years on the catwalks? Remember — ain’t nothing special about you but the one glorious fact that you’re beautiful.
Skin work? Okay, now we’re getting into exploitation, sure. But again — only one thing makes you special. Glorious tits. Fantastic pecs and a huge cock. A body people pay to stare at. You’d say no? Really? You reckon? Yah, that’s because you’ve never been poor and average.
Last question. Say God gave you a different kind of body people would pay to see. Say everywhere you go, people stare. Can’t help themselves. They see you, they stop, they stare. Undress you with their eyes. Wonder what you’re like underneath. Every hour, eyes moving over you. Never stops. Not for one minute.
Now who the hell wants to say I can’t take my clothes off and get paid for it?
‘Rafael,’ I said, stuck up an arm in Jakey’s general direction. He took it gravely, no embarrassment about stooping. His hand was like ice. ‘You look like your mom.’
‘Did you know my mom?’ asked Jakey, baffled.
‘Rafael knows everyone,’ said Paul.
‘I do,’ I said, deadpan. ‘He need a place to stay?’
‘Is that okay?’ asked Paul.
‘You don’t mind a Dwarf-sized bed, sure. You’ll come in handy getting stuff off high shelves.’ That’s like a common-sense acid test, by the way; clearly in a custom-built apartment, we don’t have too many places we can’t reach with a stool.
Mark and Joe drifted in.
‘One of Rafael’s strays,’ said Mark with a grin. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Jakey,’ said the boy with Anya’s face.
‘Mark.’
‘Joe.’
Everyone shook.
‘There’s four more,’ I said. ‘Finlay, Jack, Andreas, Leroy. We’re a stage act. Strippers. Just so’s you know.’
Jakey took this calmly, the way you take everything calmly when your world’s blown apart. He was swaying on his feet.
Paul turned to Jakey.
‘I’m so sorry, Snowy . . . I — I —’
About to say the words that can either melt your heart, or tear it right out of your chest.
‘Don’t,’ I said.
Paul looked baffled.
‘Leave the kid his heart at least,’ I said, and held the door open.
They looked at each other. Felt the charge between them right across the room.
Paul left before the tears spilled. I showed Jakey to bed. He was out like a light in ten seconds flat.
‘Don’t,’ I said, over coffee this time.
‘I have to see her,’ said Jakey.
‘Won’t no good come of it,’ I warned. ‘The woman’s poison.’
‘I have to try.’ Big blue eyes looking at me over the top of the mug. We have just one chair in the place for non-Dwarves; I was on the top step of the kitchen stool. We were at equal height; quite a novelty.
‘Listen to Rafael,’ said Finlay, wandering in and dropping a plate in the sink. ‘He knows what he’s talking about.’
Jakey’s too nice to argue. Could see he was going anyway.
‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ I told him. ‘That one, she’d eat your heart if she could, and relish every bite. Meet her somewhere public.’
Finlay laughed out loud.
‘You think she’ll get violent?’
‘Just you make sure,’ I said. ‘Coffee at Sak’s. She’ll like that. Chance to waste some money while she’s there.’
I followed him, although blending in ain’t my strong suit. Wicked Stepmother was blonde, skinny, beautiful — a bombshell in her day, still looked good. Still — the word women dread, the word that means for now, but for how much longer? Still groomed and toned enough to pull off an azure bodycon dress and skyscraper heels at one in the afternoon.
Took his hands; looked loving from a distance. Body language easy to read. I over-reacted, Jacob. We’d love to welcome you back, if . . . Jakey’s face wary but hopeful. Then the killer; I have these brochures . . . papers passed across the table, Wicked Stepmother talking faster now, blood-red fingernails stabbing. Jakey shaking his head: no. Narrowed eyes and whispered words. She stood up, towering over him, six foot and change on those heels, enough to scare the shit out of Attila the Hun. People turned to look. Notes thrown on the table and she was outta there, carrier bags dripping off her arm. Jakey tried to stand, couldn’t make it. Everyone staring, nobody helping. Could see the cogs turning: was he her bit on the side? Was she paying him off? I wonder how much . . . ?
I scrounge
d a paper bag from a counter, ambled over to Jakey. Rubberneck factor goes up several thousand per cent — Man, now there’s a — look, hon, it’s a — whaddya call them these days, anyway? I waved and smiled amiably, which put them right off further staring. Useful trick.
Jakey’s having a full-on panic attack; turning blue around the lips, trying to breathe and failing. I give him the paper bag to breathe into, and gradually he calms down. People peek; I stare back. They look away first.
Leaflets for sexual reorientation programmes. Think yourself straight. Yeah, seriously.
‘She told you if you didn’t enrol, your father would never see you again,’ I said.
‘How — did you —’
‘Just concentrate on breathing. How do I know? Told you, Jakey, the woman’s poison. Cut her off.’
‘She’s between me and my dad,’ he whispered. ‘I have to keep trying.’
‘Like hell.’
Knew he wouldn’t listen. Poor kid.
‘Thank you,’ said Jakey, that night in the kitchen. ‘I don’t know how to — you’re like a guardian angel.’
I waggled my eyebrows at him.
‘You know I’m straight, right?’ Jakey threw a tea-towel. ‘Just warning you — don’t go getting any ideas.’
‘Why are you single?’ he asked.
‘Never found time to fall in love.’
‘But you’re always —’
‘Oh, you bet.’
‘And you never loved any of them?’
‘Perk of the job. Girls are curious, see. Urban legend about people like me. Mother Nature makes up for what she withheld in height by . . . ah . . . over-endowing us in just one department. They want to find out. More’n happy to oblige.’
New World Fairy Tales Page 13
