Thoroughly Modern Monsters

by Jennifer Rainey

  “Hey, you keep in contact with that girl from Pennsylvania?”

  “No,” Quinnish said dismissively.

  “She was a good looking honey, I’m telling you,” George said as he folded his hands over his massive gut. He would joke that his brother was the lucky one; the more Francis drank, the fatter George got. “Anyway, Bounder’s out, he says. Pressure’s too much for him, not to mention the travel. You know any good strong men?”

  Quinnish realized he didn’t really know anyone outside of the carnival. “No. Some people just can’t take it, George.”

  “You can. You’re damn good at this, Stern. You sing like a bird. It’s got that quality… you know… ethereal. It’s ethereal. People like that. Or at least they’re made to. The day you quit is the day I retire, you hear me?”

  Quinnish chuckled. “So, where are we off to next?”

  “Cincy. Dammit, don’t tell anyone I even told you that. It’s supposed to be a surprise.” George looked to his watch. Quinnish knew he had places to go, people to see and all that, but he wouldn’t move for another fifteen minutes at least. When George DeLuis managed to get a moment to sit, he milked it for all it was worth. Watching him get up again might as well have been a sideshow on its own.

  “Anywhere but the coast?” Quinnish asked.

  “Fuck the coast.”

  After George waddled from his trailer, Quinnish took a bath.

  He never took showers. He found them oddly impersonal. He wanted to surround himself with water, feel it in his ears, between his toes. Showers were like a quick screw in some actor’s trailer at the end of a shoot. Baths were personal, baths were a love affair.

  Baths enveloped him completely.

  Sometimes when he was entirely submerged, he could hear the ocean and its song replace any calliope or drunken ringmaster in his ears.

  There were times he wanted to stay under the water for hours, but he always told himself, reassured himself, that it wasn’t to get away from the carnival—just to cleanse, to prepare for his next appearance.

  After he was finished once again telling himself this not two or three but four times, he threaded his fingers through his dark hair and exhaled as he emerged from the water. Involuntarily, he shuddered as the sounds of the carnival filled his ears once more.

  A parking lot near Cincinnati was not so different from a parking lot in Lancaster. The litter scattered across the lot might’ve been slightly different, and yes, Cincy had a few more rats than Lancaster had, but Quinnish found himself taking money from the same suckers outside the same big top with the same drunken ringmaster about to make his appearance.

  No location was so different; the land never ended no matter where he was.

  “Oh, Quinnish!” Francis sang as he stumbled to the big top, his cummerbund in disarray. Truthfully, Francis didn’t even know it was called a cummerbund. Why should he know how to wear it properly? “You missed one.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Quinnish laughed and tried not to sound defensive. “I don’t miss anyone.”

  “You did.”

  “Where?” he demanded.

  Francis pointed one tanned finger down the midway.

  Plain. She was a terribly plain woman, and Quinnish found that a horrible shame.

  “Why don’t you do something about that? George wants a full house,” Francis said and fiddled with his top hat. No matter what he did, his stringy dark hair stuck out awkwardly.

  The patrons never minded. George always said, “After the Quinnish treatment, an audience’d watch a dog shit for an hour and still love it.”

  Quinnish was happy to admit that it was true.

  Francis continued, “I’ll wait here. A little delay never hurt anyone. It’ll build up some suspense.”

  After righting his own top hat, Quinnish charged down the midway, his chest swelling as he breathed in funnel cake and grease-scented air. His target paused to examine a sea of goldfish in plastic bags sparkling in the June sun. Their keeper said nothing, kept his ears plugged and nodded solemnly to Quinnish.

  The other workers watched from every ride, booth and fried food cart. One old man, the carousel operator, even lifted an eye patch made for show.

  “Excuse me, ma’am!” Quinnish called.

  She pointed to a dead goldfish and quirked a brow at the game operator.

  He tapped her on the shoulder. “Ma’am!” She turned to face him with a bright and lovely smile that Quinnish hardly found a suitable match for her plainer features. Her teeth were white and even, but it was a pair of luminous blue eyes that grabbed his attention.

  Quinnish sang, “My lady, the show is about to start! We’d love if you could take part—”

  She shook her head gently and tapped her ear with one finger.

  The game operator erupted in laughter. Quinnish glared at him, and the young woman began to flash her hands in signs he couldn’t understand. Gaping, he shook his head and hoped Francis had already stumbled into the big top.

  The last deaf person Quinnish had encountered was in the company of someone who could hear and had been dragged to the big top anyway. Judging by his sour expression, he’d left the show unimpressed. Most of the hearing impaired did. They were immune to Quinnish’s charms, but none of them, he was happy to say, ever approached him about their disappointment. He may not have directly made them see the show—their hearing companions did—but he still played his part. They paid the admission price. That’s what mattered.

  She held up one finger and reached into her calico purse, pulling out a cell phone. She typed rapidly, then handed the phone to Quinnish with a smile. She had opened a notepad app, and the screen read:

  “Sorry about that. What is it you wanted? And I love your hat, by the way! Very Mad Hatter chic. (I design costumes.)”

  Quinnish nodded and emphatically thanked her before trying to type on the tiny keyboard. He smashed the letters together and made words that couldn’t even have existed on another planet, let alone in English. He quickly located the backspace key, but in his haste did not use it to its full potential.

  What he created felt clunky to him. Was this really what he wanted to say to her? Clearing his throat and shooting another poisonous glance to the grubby game operator with the goldfish, he handed back her phone.

  His message said, “My ladty the show is abnout to start. Wed lov if you coulsd take party.”

  She hid silent laughter behind one hand and shook her head before mouthing, “No, thank you!” She turned back to the fish in their plastic prisons.

  Quinnish frowned and reached for the phone again. He chewed on his lower lip as he tried to type just as quickly as she did.

  “please? i think youds enjoyt it!”

  After reading his newest creation, she showed the phone to the game operator, who doubled over in mirth. Quinnish turned to him and tore his plugs from his ears. He tossed them over his shoulder and sang, “Oh Chuck, my dearest fellow, protector of the fish so yellow! It’d probably be a good idea if you ate one.”

  Chuck’s smile disappeared as he reached against his will for one of the plastic bags on display. He shook his head slowly, severely as he pulled out a goldfish. “You can just rot in Hell, Quinnish.” He opened wide.

  The woman grimaced, but Quinnish gripped her by the shoulders. “Please!” he cried and sank to one knee with his hands clasped. He figured that was the universal sign for “For God’s sake, take pity on me!”

  She shook her head but still smiled. Could it be, Quinnish thought with a shudder, that she thought his display was cute? His knee was in a puddle of God-knows-what, and she’d reduced him to a begging, pleading mess! How was that at all cute?

  The woman turned away. He couldn’t bring himself to follow her. His shoulders slumped, and his knuckles collided with the asphalt. From somewhere behind him, Francis drunkenly called, “Hey, better luck next time!”

  Quinnish drew in a deep breath before climbing to his feet again. With calculated strokes, he brushed o
ff his coat and trousers. He adjusted his waistcoat and stood tall, as tall as he could, as the woman left the midway.

  He turned and silently walked to his trailer. He was in want of a bath.

  “Guess we found your weakness!” Francis cackled in Quinnish’s trailer later that evening. He wore acid wash jeans and an AC/DC t-shirt; they were Francis’s own rendition of a smoking jacket. When he was ready to call it a night, AC/DC came out to play. When the time came to sleep—usually around three in the morning—he’d simply peel off the jeans and fall into bed. Quinnish imagined Bon Scott was probably still alive the last time that t-shirt was washed.

  Francis continued as he reached for a glass of scotch. “I can see it in the papers. Siren defeated by deaf chick.”

  “Half-siren.”

  “Whatever. She got you good.”

  “Don’t you have a contortionist to bang, Francis?” Quinnish asked.

  “Nah, she’s pissed at me. Thinks I only love her for her body.” He shrugged. “She’s right, but I don’t want her to know that, dammit.”

  “What about Eleanor?”

  “Shit, you don’t know?” Francis coughed and downed the rest of his scotch. “El’s pregnant. She thinks it’s Chuck’s, but I’m afraid it’s mine. The farther I stay away from El, the better.”

  Quinnish chuckled and asked the obvious question, “Think her kid will have a beard, too?”

  “Not like hers,” Francis laughed.

  There was a tinny knocking at the door.

  “Maybe that’s El now,” Quinnish said with a smirk.

  “Sure as hell better not be.”

  Quinnish opened the door, and Francis cackled shrilly, limbs flailing. The former’s face grew hot as the woman from that afternoon smiled nervously at him from the other side of the screen door. She held out an envelope and shrugged as if to say she wished she could offer him more.

  “Bring her in!” Francis cried. “Bring her in! Bring in the champion!”

  She tiptoed into the trailer and pressed the envelope into Quinnish’s hand.

  “Congratulations,” Francis continued and held out his hand in greeting. The young woman took it and nodded deeply.

  Quinnish opened the envelope. It smelled of rose perfume, and there was a handmade card inside, as calico as her purse, pieced together from various papers and cloths. He felt as though he were holding a piece of art and opened it as delicately as the woman crept around his trailer.

  On the front it read, “Many apologies.”

  Inside it said, “I’m sorry for not seeing your show! All the way home, I felt bad about turning you down. I would love to see it if you’re still in town tomorrow. Sincerely yours, Grace.”

  His mouth flapped open and closed, and he met her bright gaze. He shook his head and shrugged. “It’s okay,” he said deliberately. Grace handed him her cell phone, and he tried his hand at the device again.

  “Its alright. really. I wasnt expecting you to come back.” He admired his handiwork. It was the most legible message he’d typed so far.

  She typed, “I insist! I didn’t mean to embarrass you in front of your co-workers. I saw the way everyone flocked to you before the show. You must have quite a knack for your job.”

  Quinnish grinned and typed, “I do. I’m Quinnish, by the way.”

  “What a wonderfully unusual name. Is that European?”

  “Merish. My father was a merman. Mom was a siren. My parents were very…” He wondered which word to use and settled on, “…creative. In all arenas. As you can see, I got my mother’s legs.”

  “Are you talking to her over the phone?” Francis asked, hiking up his jeans; belts were for rich people, he always said.

  “Yes,” Quinnish answered. “She uses sign language.”

  “And?”

  “And I don’t.”

  “I know how to say fuck off in sign language,” Francis laughed and stumbled to the door with his middle finger extended. He took off, voicing his hopes that perhaps he could get the contortionist to take him back.

  Once the ringmaster had left, Quinnish motioned to his bed, and Grace took a seat on the very edge, her calico purse hanging down to the floor.

  “Would you like some tea?” he typed.

  She eagerly nodded, and as he left to retrieve Earl Grey from the single cupboard in his tiny kitchen, she looked around the trailer as a woman looks around her date’s apartment for the first time. She wanted to know everything she could about him without asking, it appeared. He could tell as he glanced over his shoulder that she was taking in every detail, including the pile of condoms on the dresser. Grace tucked one strand of hair behind her ear and smirked.

  He turned back to his tea, and Quinnish felt her gaze trail from his head down to his shoes.

  His tongue ached to say something, anything to cut through the silence. While he was turned toward the microwave where the cups of water spun around, he asked, “Are you checking out my ass?”

  Quinnish turned around with a pleasant expression. She was just as bright, and he handed her a cup and sat down beside her.

  She didn’t look quite as plain, he noticed, in the warm light of his trailer. He admitted that anyone would look plain in the dusty, unforgiving light of the midway. The sun at high noon and the glow of fun house marquees do not tend to bring out one’s best features.

  And still, even that afternoon, those blue eyes had glowed.

  “You read a lot?” she typed and motioned to a pile of books next to the pile of condoms.

  “I do.”

  “I spy Heinlein. And Bradbury.”

  “My favorites. Yours?”

  “Oh God! Choosing a favorite author is like choosing a favorite child, but I’ve always liked Aldous Huxley,” she typed and gaped when Quinnish made a face. She retrieved the phone. “Don’t mock me, siren! He was a great writer, a great social commentator. Brave New World is one of my favorites.”

  Quinnish sneered in only semi-mock disgust. “To each their own. Reading’s a nice way to escape the carnival, at least.”

  “Do you want to escape the carnival?” she asked. He looked from the screen to her face, etched with something like concern.

  “Oh, of course not. Where else would I go?”

  She nodded and sipped her tea. She had a habit, Quinnish noticed, of sucking on her lower lip after every drink she took so he could see the very edge of her teeth. He couldn’t decide if he thought it was alluring or annoying. She typed, “Have you always worked with this group? (Your typing is getting better, by the way.)”

  “Since I was twenty-one. I’m good at it. Why quit? You said you make costumes?”

  She nodded vigorously. “For a local theater troupe. Hours suck, not a lot of money, but I’m good at it. Why quit? I enjoy turning people into what they’re not!”

  “Sounds deep.”

  “It’s not.”

  Quinnish’s fingers took off before his mind really had a chance to catch up. “Well, I lie to people for a living. The show at the big top is terrible. Our tiger is a cougar that’s been painted with stripes. You shouldn’t go.”

  He paused and glanced to the backspace key. It tempted him, but he returned the phone anyway. It was the first time he’d admitted it to someone who didn’t work for the carnival.

  The smell of fried dough and dirty animals outside that constantly wafted toward the trailer suddenly irritated him. He discreetly, he hoped, ran the scented envelope under his nose again. Fresh. It smelled fresh. It wasn’t fried, it wasn’t greased, it wasn’t covered in powdered sugar. It was different, almost frightening, and yet when he breathed in, he felt as though he were underwater.

  Grace shrugged as she typed. “That’s not so bad, Quinnish. I’m helping others lie.”

  “Acting isn’t lying. Acting is an art. I’m an expert in pulling wool over eyes.”

  “Well, are you proud of it?”

  They were merely pixels on a screen, but Quinnish wondered if he saw accusation in those word
s. Disgust, maybe? It wasn’t on that sweet face, but was it in her words? “I guess I am,” was all he managed to type.

  His great-grandmother had caused shipwrecks. It could’ve been so much worse.

  She nodded at his response and typed more slowly now. She kept touching her hair, tucking it behind her ear, messing with it, fussing with it with one hand as she paused and considered her words. He wanted to reach out and make her stop. She finally handed the phone to Quinnish.

  “I still want to see the show. I do. You will be here tomorrow?”

  “You want to see it? Legitimately? My lady, that is something I’ve never been told before.” Everyone who had ever rushed to the big top and left it delighted had the glazed eyes Quinnish gave them. Grace’s eyes were still clear and bright. She would go entirely of her own accord, she said, and the universe felt at once unbalanced.

  “Well, I want to,” she typed. “You care enough to lie about it every day. It must not be that bad!”

  Quinnish paused, her words once again peculiar to him. “Well, come then. My dearest lady, we will put on a show that you’ll never forget… for better or worse.”

  He held his breath and let the water fill his ears so that he could no longer hear Francis bellowing outside. He heard the ocean in his head.

  But that evening, it didn’t soothe him as he would have liked it to. It made his skin crawl—not as much as the sounds outside his trailer, but enough. It made Quinnish feel misplaced there with the DeLuis brothers and their cougar-tiger and Ferris wheel and carousel and various Barnum and Bailey-style accoutrements.

  He sat up in the bath again and released a soft, frustrated groan. He shook his limbs and cracked his neck, and still his muscles were tense.

  Quinnish shut his eyes and saw a pair of blue ones looking back at him, beautiful but unnerving to him. They blinked and smiled in that way eyes can, and he resolved from that moment on not to shut his eyes again until he went to sleep. There was something about Grace’s gaze in all its loveliness that made him feel as though he were looking at something he shouldn’t. He wanted to look away, and yet, her gaze was undeniable.

  The movement of the water felt awkward, inadequate between his fingers, and he glanced to his suit on the back of the door. For the first time, the arms looked too long, the shoulders saggy and the legs uneven. He frowned and slid underwater again.