by Curt Colbert
Mel fled their rat-infested Yesler Terrace housing project, bought a spanking new Cadillac convertible, and floated over the Magnolia Bridge into the Village, where he parked in front of Leon’s Shoe Repair, ignoring the gawking Magnolians—Mel was probably the first dwarf to ever set foot in the neighborhood—and crossed McGraw Street to Magnolia Real Estate, where he and his bank balance were greeted with equanimity and a firm handshake to seal the transfer of a Magnolia Bluff house deed for cold cash.
Signing and initialing each contract clause Mel noted the bigotry: Property transfer and residency are restricted to Caucasians. Forgetting his own place in society, Mel signed it. Had Ma been above ground, she would have slapped him silly. Mel reasoned it was her fault, anyway, her making him rich.
Mel moved into the prettiest house Dahl ever built on Magnolia Bluff, whose namesake cliff plunged shamelessly into the crotch of Elliott Bay, ogled by the hoary Olympics Brothers, envied by eyeballing tourists from the Space Needle’s observatory. To keep him company he replaced Ma with orchids. Certainly his snooty neighbors had no interest in fostering friendship. In fact, they actually shunned him, as if a dwarf neighbor was something to be ashamed of. They would cross the boulevard to avoid him. They never invited him to their fancy estates, and whenever Mel attempted neighborly gestures they would recoil, stammer incoherently, and flee. Except for Joy. His neighbor Joy was the only Magnolian with the guts to befriend a dwarf.
Joy lived in another Dahl house with a city view you’d slit your throat for if you had the bucks to buy it. A regular-sized lady, Joy had jazzed hair and a perfect figure in 1973, was still young and nubile and freshly divorced from Hubby #1. Mel misinterpreted Joy’s neighborly gestures. Thought Joy had the hots for him. So he made a pass and she slapped him so hard he spun across her living room like a child’s top spinner. Even so, they would remain friends through the years. Most of them anyway.
When Mel complained to Joy about the way the other neighbors treated him, Joy said, “Hey, quit your whining. You wouldn’t have lasted five minutes on the Bluff back in the glory days.” And she told him how it was growing up in the early Magnolia days, back in the ’50s and ’60s when the rich discovered God’s Chosen Neighborhood.
Over the Magnolia Bridge in those glory days journeyed famous architects and interior designers to build and embellish fine estates for their feathered clientele, Mrs. Danforth Pierce-Arrow, Mel’s next door neighbor, now in her dotage, being one, and Mrs. Neil Robbins being another. The Robbins were Jewish. Jews—even Catholics, as long as they could afford to—were permitted to own homes on Magnolia Bluff, although generally speaking Protestants were preferred. And no colored people, no, no. Magnolians, said Joy, feared and loathed diversity, but back in those days they didn’t call them bigots. Just rich.
On many a day, Joy told Mel, Mrs. Danforth Pierce-Arrow, who’s Episcopal? And Mrs. Robbins, being a Jewess? They would come into the Magnolia Pharmacy at the same time. Maybe nearly collide at the prescription counter? Never exchanged more than a polite nod. Joy saw this all the time growing up in Magnolia.
Mel remarked, “At least they recognized the other’s living presence. Whenever I come upon Mrs. Pierce-Arrow or Mrs. Robbins they just tilt their noses and pretend they don’t see me. Mel, the Invisible Man.”
“Will you ever get over all this self-pitying?” said Joy.
Joy. A regular-sized person who’d grown up in luxury and privilege. How could Joy ever empathize? But she was still reminiscing on the good old days:
Over the Magnolia Bridge came the serving classes, housemaids in crisp uniforms overlain with thin cloth coats, shivering alone at bus stops in darkness on winter nights, snow drifting up to their bare knees before a bus agreed to stop. And the Carnation milkman who always entered homes through the Deliveries door or the Housestaff Only door, removing his boots before restocking, say, Mrs. Pierce-Arrow’s fridge with glass bottles of milk topped by two inches of thick cream, along with fresh butter and eggs still warm from the nest. At Christmastime, Mrs. Pierce-Arrow would leave the milkman an envelope tucked discreetly into the fridge’s egg section.
And over that glory bridge came roofers and plumbers and electricians to tweak the infrastructure, guaranteeing that all the Mr. and Mrs. Pierce-Arrows and Robbins and even the Catholic families with their unplanned children enjoyed the security and comfort of upper-class loos and hearths. Nothing like crime ever transpired on the Bluff, Joy told Mel, unless you counted when the Marvel family’s colored maid was caught red-handed with Mrs. Marvel’s sterling silver flatware, family heirlooms. The maid insisted she was carrying them into the kitchen for polishing. But Mrs. Marvel fired her on the spot. That was the biggest crime scandal on Magnolia Bluff in those early days, unless you counted three-year-old Dougie Marvel’s appearing naked in teenaged Annie Quigley’s bathroom. Annie, naked in the tub, screamed. And then the summer when little Kathleen Pierce-Arrow got caught playing touch tag with young Neil Robbins. Back then, that was about as criminal as things got.
And, too, the sacrosanct Magnolia Bridge delivered upper-class men like Joy’s Husband #1 in sleek automobiles from their luxurious estates into the city’s languishing heart, where they doctored and lawyered, ran their banks and visited their clubs, and wouldn’t hesitate to drive right over the drunk Indian weaving against the stoplight.
“Back long ago?” said Joy. “What they call Magnolia now? It was an island. Separated from the mainland by a bracken-ishy slough. When the city’s rich folk saw the potential out here, why, they filled in the slough and built the first bridge onto the island.”
“Why did they name it Magnolia?”
Joy shrugged. “It was a mistake Captain Vancouver made back in history. See—”
“I’ll bet Captain Vancouver hated midgets.”
“Mel, how many times have I told you not to refer to yourself and others like you as midgets? You are a dwarf, a small person. You are not a little fly.”
“I hate myself.”
“Oh, stop whining. In my heart you’re bigger than me.”
In her regular-sized heart.
Then one day, less than a year after staking his claim in God’s Chosen Neighborhood, Mel received a call from his banker. “Your account has five dollars left in it,” said the banker. “You want us to apply that to your monthly fee?”
Having exhausted his inheritance on the house and big floater car, Mel needed to “work,” a word only whispered by his neighbors. But he had no real training in any kind of work. Desperation unleashed a flash of genius. He invented Mel the Diminutive Man, learned the tightrope, and joined a traveling carney act. Joy told him, “One day, you’ll be a star, Mel. In my heart, I know that.”
Mel made his public debut in 1973 on that fateful evening in Walla Walla, Washington, when he rescued the famous carney dwarf Skippy Smathers from disgrace. And then Skippy Smathers rescued Mel from financial ruin, moving into Mel’s house and paying monthly rent. Mel regained faith in his future.
When Mel introduced Joy to Skippy Smathers, he felt their instant chemistry. Joy broke Mel’s heart the day she and Skippy wed, Mel standing as the best man. All along wondering to himself, If Joy is okay with dwarfism, why did she choose Skippy over me? I’ve got more man in me than Skippy has in his little digit. Meaning finger.
III
While Skippy mounted Joy’s bounteous gifts, Mel spent three years solo, pampering exotic orchids in the solarium of his showcase home, waiting for his friends’ marriage to fail. After the divorce, Mel and Skippy teamed up again, and this time they rode their dreams to Hollywood.
In Hollywood, Skippy’s star skyrocketed, while Mel’s career never took off. Skippy played the little man in every stage and film production where a dwarf counted, while Mel languished in his pal’s burgeoning celebrity shadow.
Mel, destined to play the extra. Mel, destined to lose every casting call to Skippy. Destined, it seemed, to live off Skippy’s earnings, while he propped up the star’s fragile p
syche. It wasn’t a proud destiny, and Mel was a proud man. But destiny, like a fickle friend, can turn in the wink of an eye.
They never actually moved to Hollywood. Personally, Mel would have preferred moving from Seattle, fleeing God’s Chosen Neighborhood. Mel wanted to live in Los Angeles, in that house next door to Jack Nicholson, the house he had always dreamed of owning. Overlooking Hollywood’s glitz and glamour. That’s where Mel knew he belonged. But Skippy balked at the idea. Skippy was afraid of Los Angeles. As if Los Angeles was a dwarf-eating monster. And Skippy always got his way.
Twenty years passed. Mrs. Pierce-Arrow got crushed by her dumbwaiter and her son Danforth III now occupied the Pierce-Arrow estate. Neil Robbins married Kathleen Pierce-Arrow, they placed Neil’s parents in a luxury senior complex and now occupied the Robbins nest. Mrs. Marvel, a crotchety crone still lived in the Marvel estate and her servants came and went. Annie Marvel married, had a bunch of offspring, converted to lesbianism, and fled the Bluff.
As the century turned, the bigotry clause disappeared from real estate contracts but that didn’t mean it disappeared from some Magnolians’ deep-seated preferences. Persons of color and dwarfs received a friendly nod at Tully’s but rarely got called over to join a table of fat cats. Nothing much had changed in God’s Chosen Neighborhood.
IV
Mel was lounging on the patio chaise reading Variety when he heard “the Sound.” The rubber butt of Skippy’s walking cane thudding on flagstone made Mel cringe. Skippy had adopted the ornate cane as an iconic eccentricity. Thought it made him look debonair. Mel thought it looked ridiculous. A dwarf with a cane.
Mel glanced up. A blue PGA cap shaded Skippy’s face but Mel could sense a sullen pout. Skippy’s arms overflowed groceries, the cane poised to thud again. Sighing, Mel set Variety aside and went to help. Mel carried the groceries into the house, Skippy and his cane gimping along behind.
This limp was something new.
“What’s wrong now?” Mel asked tiredly.
“Awful bad news,” grumped the gimper, missing Mel’s reference to the new limp. “If you really want to know.” Skippy paused to emphasize the awfulness, then blurted, “No call back.”
Mel clucked his tongue. “Tough luck, sport.” He thought about bringing up the new limp, but why bother? Skippy would complain about it before long. Mel fed the groceries into the icebox while Skippy hung in the background, a broken shadow watching Mel work.
Stars don’t put away groceries.
“Henry Chow’s getting the part.” The broken shadow spoke bitterly. “That’s what Lana thinks. Like she was Henry’s agent exclusively. Like she didn’t even represent me. Talk about a two-faced, double-dealing opportunistic…”
When Mel didn’t comment, Skippy limped into the breakfast nook and slid onto a sunstruck bench. Warm sunshine cut through a windowpane, washed the fine stubble on his baby-face cheeks, refracting into tiny dots that danced along the wall. Skippy tried batting the dots away. When that failed, he flung his golf cap at them. It landed squarely on Mel’s fresh orchid centerpiece. Mel’s signature, Mel’s pride. Skippy gazed disgustedly out the window.
Mel brought tall glasses and a pitcher of iced tea with frost dripping off it. When he poured, he didn’t spill a drop, that’s how fastidious he was. Skippy needn’t have disturbed the flower arrangement, Mel thought. The least Skippy could do is pick the golf cap off the orchids, put things right. Where were Skippy’s manners? Maybe stars don’t need manners.
Skippy’s tight lips blew light ripples across the iced tea’s crown. He sipped, scowling, and said, “That role was tailor-made for me.”
“M-hmm.” Noncommittal.
Skippy persisted. “It doesn’t compute. Henry’s never played a clown before. This film’s about an aging dwarf clown. Henry Chow doesn’t know the first thing about playing a clown. I know clowning. I should have that part.”
“Maybe they wanted an Asian.”
“Oh, nothing’s definite yet.” Skippy sounded slightly hopeful. “It’s just Lana’s professional gut feeling that Henry’s got it wrapped up. Anyway, if he gets the part, it’s not because he’s Asian.”
“Then why?” Mel was only half listening. He wanted that golf cap removed from the orchid centerpiece, and he wanted Skippy to have the decency to do it. Was that asking too much?
“Because Henry’s shorter than I am.”
“That’s not so. You’re shorter than Henry. They probably wanted an Asian. You know how politically correct Hollywood is these days. Lana Lanai’s the worst of the bunch.”
Skippy was adamant. “Asian has nothing to do with it. If Henry gets this role, it’s because he’s shorter than I am. Now.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m growing, Mel.”
The way Skippy said it, so serious, so… melodramatic, Mel couldn’t help laughing. “Ha ha. That’s bull.”
Skippy reached across the table and touched Mel’s sleeve. Lightly, to fix attention on what he was going to say.
“It’s true. I’ve noticed it. You know it sometimes happens to a dwarf. Mid-life hormones get wacky. My hormones must have kicked up. I’m growing, Mel. Real fast.”
Mel smirked.
Skippy insisted. “They noticed it. Must have. Or else Henry Chow did and pointed it out to them. I wouldn’t put it past him and I’m worried sick. This growth has happened over the last six weeks. Too fast. I’m fifty-three, for chrissake. It’s not normal.”
“But not unheard of in dwarfs. You said that.”
Skippy passed a hand across his brow, reminding Mel of Tallulah Bankhead, then said, “Oh God, I’m scared. I’ll never work again. And I bet you noticed it before. You must have noticed my limp. You did, didn’t you?”
Mel nodded solemnly.
“Oh God, I’m finished.”
Softly, Mel said, “What’s the limp all about?”
Skippy had parked his cane on the doorknob. He retrieved it and walked back toward Mel. “See? When I use the cane, I limp. That’s because I’ve grown. Just since I bought this cane two months ago. Cost me a bundle too, cherrywood with all this frippery on the handle. Now it’s already too short for me.
So I limp. If this keeps up, I’ll soon be too tall for the good dwarf roles. I’ll never get work again. Not even as an extra.”
Something dark flickered in Mel’s eyes, and Skippy instantly regretted his remark. “Geez, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve been such a lucky son of a gun, and you always ending up an extra. All I meant was, my luck’s changing. That’s all I meant by that.”
Mel laughed and grabbed Skippy’s head like a football, wrestled it, ruffling the soft silver curls. “It’s great,” he chuckled, “just great. I like it. A growing dwarf. It’s hilarious, really. You should try it out on Nick down at the Magic Castle.”
A horrified thought struck Skippy then. He flung himself away from Mel. “You don’t believe me,” he cried. “You don’t buy a word I said.”
Mel stared. Skippy fled the room.
Sighing, Mel gently removed the blue golf cap from his orchids. Apparently stars have the right to ruin centerpieces. Mel took his iced tea outside and finished reading Variety.
That night Mel made frozen lime daiquiris with dark rum, placing a fresh orchid on top of one. He knocked on Skippy’s door, heard a grunt, and went in. Wide awake, enveloped in darkness, Skippy sat stiffly upright on his canopied bed. Mel set down the daiquiris and jerked the heavy drapes aside. Moonlight poured into Skippy’s cluttered, musty room. Skippy blinked, averted his eyes. Mel pushed a loud chintz chair up to the bed, climbed onto it, retrieved the daiquiri with the orchid, and held it out to Skippy. Skippy waved it away.
“C’mon, take it, sport. My peace offering.”
Skippy sipped the frosty apology, licked his lips, and said, “I fell asleep for a while. I dreamed that Henry Chow died in an awful accident on the SLUT. They found his body floating in Lake Union, all covered with Satan’s hoof prints. The tra
in had derailed.”
Mel aimed a remote control at the flat screen. Crazy colors flashed. Cacophony galloped into the room, riding a loud car chase across the high-def panel.
Mel muttered, “Henry Chow’s an ass.”
V
The next morning when Skippy woke, first thing he saw was the depressing saffron sky. He had no reason to get out of bed, so why was Mel rapping insistently on the bedroom door? Skippy sat up and yelled, “Go away! Don’t bother me!”
The door opened a crack. Through the space came Mel’s velvet voice. “Better get dressed, sport. We’ve got company.”
It sounded like a warning. Grumbling, Skippy burrowed into the sheets, but the scent of coffee brewing, of bacon broiling, eggs frying, wafted to his nostrils. Mel was so clever. He’d left the bedroom door slightly ajar so these delicious aromas would tempt Skippy. Sleep was impossible now. Skippy grumbled and rolled out of bed.
The table in the breakfast nook wore an aqua linen cloth and Mel had folded the napkins into swans. The good plates and Skippy’s mother’s sterling flatware were laid out. An artfully arranged fresh orchid centerpiece seemed too flamboyant. This table was celebrating something, Skippy thought, and then he saw Lana.
Perched on the bench, lumpy Lana sat at Skippy’s place, and with one of Skippy’s mother’s forks she picked at Mel’s home cooking. Mel stood on a stool by the stove flipping fried eggs. When Lana saw Skippy, she called out cheerily, “Surprise, surprise!”
“I don’t like it,” grumbled Skippy. “I don’t like surprises at breakfast.”
Mel smiled. “Why, Skippy, you’re up! Good, good. Lana’s got some great news.”
Lana flicked her wrist, dangling her bejeweled fingers. “Come, sweetie. Sit, sit.”
