Ed hated his job. He felt like a hack and prostitute. Ed’s dream was to be a real writer. It didn’t matter whether his dream was fulfilled as a novelist or a mainstream journalist, he just didn’t want to write crap anymore. Ed’s problem was that he didn’t have the makeup to be decent reporter. In a world that required extreme aggressiveness, Ed was way too timid. Probably way too nice also. His timidity also prevented him from even attempting to write a novel. Trying to get a novel published is a masochistic endeavor of enduring rejection after rejection. Ed didn’t have the stomach for that either. He was left with the choice of writing crap or selling shoes—and he hated stinky feet.
Ed studied the ceiling from his bed for about an hour before finally giving up on getting back to sleep. He decided he might as well get on the road to his next crap assignment so he could write his next crap article. Hopefully, he could get this over and done with in one day so he wouldn’t have to spend the night. Ed wasn’t a superstar reporter and, besides, Manifesto Veritas, wasn’t a very big paper. Trying to get a reimbursement for hotel and meal expenses from the paper was harder than proving your innocence during the Salem Witch Trials. Most of the time, Ed didn’t even bother trying. Getting reimbursed usually wasn’t worth the hassle, at least from Ed’s perspective. As with the rest of his life, Ed preferred getting walked on to fighting for his rights.
Ed showered and got dressed. He decided to pack an overnight bag with a few days worth of clothes, just in case. Better to have it and not need it than vice-versa. It was still dark outside when Ed got into his car, a ninety-five Saturn, and got onto the road. At least there was no traffic.
CHAPTER 3
Steven Richards woke up in his trailer about twenty-four hours before Ed Nanreit got on the road. His whole body hurt, but this was nothing unusual. He was always in pain and mornings were especially bad. That’s what forced him to quit touring. Steven Richards used to be known as, “The Crash Test Maven,” when he traveled around the country on the carnival circuit.
His act consisted of strapping his body into a specialized contraption and catapulting his body through a plasterboard wall. The contraption he used was similar to the machine used to test crash safety in cars, except instead of a crash test dummy, Steven Richards rode in the specially designed apparatus. At the point of impact, his safety belts would “fail,” launching him through the wall into the hay bales set up behind the wall. Of course, none of the carnival spectators knew that his safety belts would fail. An unexpected twist always increased the entertainment value.
The announcer would give a big buildup about the death defying feat about to be witnessed along with a speech about the importance of wearing seat belts while The Crash Test Maven was being strapped into his vehicle. “Come one, come all! Watch what happens when a real human crashes into a wall at fifty miles an hour! See the effect the impact has on his body when the vehicle comes to a sudden stop! Revel in the marvels of modern technology as his safety harness saves his life from certain death! You’ll never forget to wear your seat belt again!”
In reality, the straps that secured The Crash Test Maven were attached by Velcro at certain key places to allow his body to be launched through the wall, which was painted to look like solid brick, thus increasing the illusion of danger. Also, at the point of impact, The Crash Test Maven was traveling at a top speed of less than twenty miles an hour. Regardless, it looked pretty spectacular. Upon hitting the hay bales, The Crash Test Maven would lie on the ground feigning death to the gasps of the crowd. Two paramedics would rush to his aid and resuscitate him while the crowd watched on in horror. After the paramedics finished working on him, The Crash Test Maven would jump up and raise his hands in triumph to a cheering crowd. The act was a crowd favorite.
The Crash Test Maven had been launched through thousands of plasterboard walls during the almost twenty years he toured around the country with one carnival or another. The constant abuse to his body over the years finally took its toll though. The Crash Test Maven was finally launched one last time, into retirement, by a worn out body that could no longer endure the pain associated with crashing through a wall on a daily basis. He parked his trailer for the final time in the town he’d always wintered in during the carnival off-season, Gibsonton, Florida.
Gibsonton has been the permanent winter residence of showpeople—circus freaks, ride jocks, concessionaires and the like—since the 1920’s. The Ringling Brothers Circus train used to arrive every November, along with its animals and sideshow performers, and stay until spring. Over the years, it became a safe haven where freaks could walk down the street without being stared at. The town eventually became known as, Showtown USA, and was home to such performers as the eight foot, four and a half inch, Al the Giant; his wife, the two foot, six inch woman known as Jeanie the Half Girl; Percilla the Monkey Girl; Melvin Berkhart, The Human Blockhead; and the Lobster Boy; a town where the Siamese twin Hilton sisters could run a fruit stand without being gawked at. The town passed circus zoning laws allowing elephants, circus trailers and Ferris wheels to be parked in the front lawn. Showtown is home to people who are outcasts in normal society; a community where normal people are shunned.
Since he was now retired, The Crash Test Maven was once again just plain old Steven Richards, Steve to the few people who actually knew him. Not many did. Steve rarely ventured out of his trailer. He had become a bitter dwarf, a has-been, half-pint who had no use for people anymore now that the applause was gone. When he was a star, he would often hide out in his trailer from people seeking autographs. Now he hid out in his trailer because no one wanted his autograph. Without the spotlight, he became a hermit, shunning the outside world, and eventually developed a mild case of agoraphobia—he was afraid of being in public without the adoration and attention of his fans. About the only time he would dare venture out the screen door of his trailer was when he needed food, smokes or to bring his best friend, Jack, back to the trailer . . . Jack Daniels, that is. The whiskey not only allowed him to escape the reality of his dismal existence, but it also helped dull the constant physical pain he suffered through.
Steve woke up, got out of bed and began his normal morning routine—swig of whiskey from the bottle next to his bed, morning whiz, brush his teeth, another swig of whiskey to wash the minty-fresh flavor away, Marlboro Light—as if this was any ordinary day. He had no idea how different today would be. It began the same as he aimlessly flipped through the channels. Steve was particularly fond of the trashy talk shows; Jerry Springer was his favorite. He watched them as religiously as some housewives follow their “stories.” There was something appealing about these shows to a four foot three, former sideshow freak. The people who appeared on these shows were the real freaks in this world, not him, and they only got their fifteen minutes, but The Crash Test Maven had almost twenty years of fame. Unfortunately, the only thing on at this time of the morning was news. Fuck the world! Steve flipped through the channels without watching anything in particular, killing time until his shows came on. His breakfast consisted of Jack Daniels over ice. Straight. Coke was for pussies.
About a half hour before the morning lineup of trash TV began, the power went off in Steve’s trailer. This happened often. The power hookups in a trailer park weren’t the most reliable. Steve hated leaving his trailer, it actually caused him some anxiety, but he also didn’t want to miss his shows. They were the highlight of his day. There was a bar a couple of blocks away where he could watch his shows and continue his Jack Daniels breakfast. No one paid much attention to a dwarf in Gibsonton, so he could sit in a corner of the bar and watch his shows in relative anonymity. Leave the safety of the trailer or face the world and watch his shows. This was a major dilemma in Steve’s life.
“Fuck it,” Steve said to the Jack Daniels bottle.
He downed the remainder of his breakfast in one gulp to give him the courage he needed to face the world. Ten minutes later he was sitting in a booth in the local bar smoking a cigarette and continuing
his liquid breakfast. The establishment was a small, intimate watering hole frequented almost exclusively by the locals. It was always dark inside, giving the illusion that it was night-time regardless of the hour. The bar itself was only about twenty feet long with eight or nine bar stools for customers. There were four booths across from the bar. Faded carnival and circus posters lined the walls along with a few signed pictures of some of the more famous performers who’d had a drink here at one time or another. A picture of The Crash Test Maven holding his helmet hung next to the bathroom door. Almost made Steve feel at home. Most importantly, there were two strategically placed televisions on opposite ends of the bar that could be easily viewed from both the bar stools and the booths.
There were only a couple of other customers in the bar this morning, so Steve’s anxiety level of being among people wasn’t too high. Ricki Lake was just about to start, then came Jenny Jones, followed up by the king, Jerry Springer. Later in the afternoon, the trash-fest would begin anew with Sally Jessy Raphael and Maury Povich. He had unlimited access to his best friend, Jack.
Maybe it won’t be too bad sitting here after all, Steve thought. Just like old times, being around my millions . . . and millions of fans, he told himself in an attempt to alleviate his anxiety. Despite his attempt, he still felt some apprehension about being away from the comfort and sanctity of his trailer.
Ricki was discussing whether her guest’s bisexuality was interfering with his relationship with his fiancé when Steve noticed one of the customers sitting at the bar staring at him. Steve tried to ignore him. He’d been getting strange looks all his life. It came with the territory when you were born a dwarf, and this guy definitely wasn’t a local. Locals were used to seeing dwarfs and all sorts of other abnormal-looking people in this town. Locals didn’t stare.
Ricki brought out the bisexual’s fiancé to give her side of the story, but Steve was having a hard time concentrating on the TV. He could feel the man’s eyes boring into the back of his skull. Steve’s heart rate had increased the moment he stepped through the door to his trailer; it was now off the charts. Beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead. It was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. The bar seemed to be shrinking, closing in around him. A wave of nausea swept over him when the room started spinning. Steve shut his eyes tightly. He needed to get out of here fast, otherwise he was sure he’d die. Back to the comfort of his trailer. Safety.
Before Steve could move, he felt a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. He heard words whispering in his ears, but he couldn’t make them out. When he opened his eyes, the room had stopped spinning. He could breathe. His heart had even slowed down to a reasonable pace. The stranger from the bar was now sitting next to him, but Steve was no longer terrified of this man. He didn’t even feel nervous about being out in public for the first time in years.
Ricki’s audience was booing something the bisexual said, but Steve wasn’t paying attention to the TV any longer. All his attention was focused on the man sitting next to him.
“I said, are you all right?” the stranger said to Steve. His hand was still on Steve’s shoulder.
“I-I think so,” Steve answered. “The room . . . it was . . . Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks,” he said without finishing the explanation.
“Well, you look better than you did a couple of minutes ago,” the stranger said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of anymore.”
The man had a soothing, comforting tone that was instantly relaxing. It wasn’t so much what he said, but how it was said. Steve hadn’t felt this sense of comfort since he was a child wrapped in his mother’s arms, protected from the other kids’ teasing.
“You don’t get out much, do you?” the stranger asked.
Steve shook his head from side to side.
“Don’t like being around people?”
“Not really,” Steve answered.
“There’s no reason for anyone to live their life being afraid of anything. I can help.”
“You some kinda shrink or sumthin’?” Steve asked.
The stranger smiled. “Let’s just say that I have a . . . an interest in helping people with things that scare them. Call it a hobby. But don’t be concerned with any of that for now. So, what brought you out into the big, bad world today?”
“The power went off in my trailer,” Steve said. For some inexplicable reason, he felt a need to talk to this stranger, like he had no will of his own.
“Oh. You live in a trailer,” the stranger said. He almost sounded disappointed.
“Yeah, a couple of blocks away from here. With the power being out, I couldn’t watch my shows. You know, Ricki, Jenny, Jerry, Sally, Maury.”
“That’s a shame . . . but what’s done is done,” the stranger said, sounding distant.
“Yeah, it sucks . . . but so does life.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what. I’ll keep you company while you watch your shows . . . to make sure you don’t have another, ah, anxiety attack. Then afterwards, I’ll help you overcome your fears. You’ll never be afraid again. I promise.”
Steve didn’t object. Truth was, Steve felt comfortable around this stranger. Relaxed. Being in the bar—a public place—didn’t even bother him with this guy around. The guy was like a security blanket. It didn’t make sense, but why fight it. Being afraid to walk out your front door didn’t make any sense either. At least Steve could watch his shows in peace.
Steve spent the rest of the day in the bar watching his shows. His liquid breakfast turned into a liquid lunch. The stranger never bothered him, didn’t try to strike up a conversation—he just sat there watching Steve nurse his Jack Daniels. The guy didn’t even complain about Steve’s smoking and it was obvious he didn’t smoke. Steve almost forgot he was there. It never even occurred to Steve that he didn’t know this stranger’s name. The only thing that mattered was that Steve was able to watch his shows in this bar as easily as if he was sitting at home on the couch in his trailer. Only difference was, the TV was bigger here.
Maury concluded his show by revealing that nineteen year old Kurt was the father of Lita’s eight month old daughter, despite the fact that she had slept with five other guys that he knew about, and was rumored to have taken on the entire wrestling team within two months of them breaking up. “The paternity test doesn’t lie,” Maury informed Kurt, who looked like he wanted to kill Maury. Kurt promised to take financial responsibility for his daughter, although he still thought Lita was a “filthy, disgusting, slutty, nasty-ass ho-bag.”
Steve cackled at Kurt’s description of Lita, slamming his palm down on the table. “Sorry, Kurt, your fifteen minutes are over,” Steve said to the television as the credits started rolling.
“Was that the last of your shows?” the stranger asked. It was the first thing he’d said in hours.
“Yeah, that’s the last of ‘em today. No more ‘til tomorrow,” Steve answered. “Usually, I hate it when Maury ends. Nothin’ left to look forward to after that. But today is different. I haven’t felt this good being outside in years. I don’t even hurt today. Whaddya say we get outta this dump and find a classier place. The way I feel today, I think I could even talk to a broad.”
“Can you?” the stranger asked.
The dizziness returned just as quickly as it had left earlier. Steve’s heart rate suddenly jumped off the scale. Oxygen wouldn’t enter his lungs. Steve closed his eyes against the spinning room and was again saved by the stranger’s hand on his shoulder. The panic attack subsided.
“Maybe you aren’t ready to take such a big leap just yet,” the stranger said. “I promise you that by tomorrow, you will never be afraid again, but you aren’t ready yet. You must first believe that your fear can be conquered. You must have faith.”
“Yeah, okay. Okay,” Steve said, still shaken. “Let’s get outta here. We can go back to my place. I don’t wanna be afraid no more. You can help me. I just know you can help.”
It wasn’t even six o’clock yet. Way too early for t
he stranger to begin, but anything would be better than this dive. Steve paid his tab and the two men left the bar. Steve took the long way home so he could stop by a package store and pick up another bottle of Jack Daniels. Since he was going to have company, he’d decided that a good host should be well stocked, with booze anyway. It didn’t occur to Steve to think about food. The stranger didn’t seem to care about food anyway—booze either, but still, a good host . . . The stranger was enjoying the fresh air on the walk to Steve’s trailer. It was a welcome change from that stuffy, smoky bar. He didn’t mind the detour to the liquor store and was hoping the dwarf had more errands to run. The stranger had a lot of time to kill and he wasn’t looking forward to spending the next few hours in Steve’s trailer.
But before the stranger knew it, Steve announced, “This is it. My place.”
The stranger entered the trailer and immediately noticed that everything seemed undersized, cut down to scale to suit Steve’s height, like in an elementary school classroom. The trailer itself was even small. There was no place where a normal sized man could sit comfortably. The smoky old bar didn’t seem so bad anymore. The stranger looked at his watch—five after six. Nine hours and eleven minutes before it was time. The stranger sighed.
The Fringe Dwellers Page 2
