short people've got... no reason to live!
All night we waited in that sad potty-mouthed wooden booth, waiting for the midget to come out.
- He said he lives out by the Dirty Sock, she said, how far away is that from here?
- Only about fifteen minutes or so, it’s just off the highway. He should be here any minute; it’s not far at all.
Any minute now that door is going to open and we aren’t going to see why but we’ll know in our hearts that he’s finally here.
He never arrived, and we can never know just how he would’ve appeared and I’d be lying if I said I was only a little disappointed. Instead we just sat emptying bottles into bigger bottles, waiting for some kind of chemical reaction within ourselves.
Another friend of ours is a midget, or a dwarf maybe, the differences elude me now but it has to do with ancient European folklore and in any case they don’t seem very important to our present discussion. This isn’t a legal matter, after all. This is about people who are interesting because they are smaller than most other people. Among other reasons, of course, but usually the lack of height charts at number one. There have been a great deal of talented leaders and artists who happened to be midgets- many speculate that they were able to accomplish so much in part due to all the normals gawking at their diminutive frames. That’s what they call people of average height; they call tall athletes freaks, or worse, depending on that midget’s respective temperament.
Our friend the excessively short person had her breasts surgically augmented, although you’d never know it unless she told you. Or unless one of her friends were to let you in on the secret. Basically, they aren’t noticeably bigger than normal, although before the procedure, they probably weren’t very noticeable at all.
So the three of us sat there talking into three different cellular phones to three different people whose company, apparently, we would have preferred at that moment. My girlfriend was calling me from the coast of Florida, telling me she just slept through another dance. I know how you feel, I feel that way all the time, is what I wanted to say, but instead I just said too bad. But we both knew that it wasn’t really a bad thing, and that it certainly wasn’t “too bad.”
We also knew that sometimes people say things just to say things, to fill up air space and space-time and airtime and all that rot until something noteworthy comes along. We are waiting forever, for something greater than the daily mundanities we’ve grown to know and disregard and maybe even despise. We are waiting for something other than bills and news on the stock market’s eternal rise and fall and toothpaste and television and routines and drudgery. We’ve had it with that. Instead we’re waiting for midgets, and when they fail to arrive we blame it on their stubby little legs that are still so cute to us even though they totally stood us up last night. That little jerk.
- He said he lives out by the Dirty Sock, she said, how far away is that from here?
- Only about fifteen minutes or so, it’s just off the highway. He should be here any minute; it’s not far at all.
Any minute now that door is going to open and we aren’t going to see why but we’ll know in our hearts that he’s finally here.
He never arrived, and we can never know just how he would’ve appeared and I’d be lying if I said I was only a little disappointed. Instead we just sat emptying bottles into bigger bottles, waiting for some kind of chemical reaction within ourselves.
Another friend of ours is a midget, or a dwarf maybe, the differences elude me now but it has to do with ancient European folklore and in any case they don’t seem very important to our present discussion. This isn’t a legal matter, after all. This is about people who are interesting because they are smaller than most other people. Among other reasons, of course, but usually the lack of height charts at number one. There have been a great deal of talented leaders and artists who happened to be midgets- many speculate that they were able to accomplish so much in part due to all the normals gawking at their diminutive frames. That’s what they call people of average height; they call tall athletes freaks, or worse, depending on that midget’s respective temperament.
Our friend the excessively short person had her breasts surgically augmented, although you’d never know it unless she told you. Or unless one of her friends were to let you in on the secret. Basically, they aren’t noticeably bigger than normal, although before the procedure, they probably weren’t very noticeable at all.
So the three of us sat there talking into three different cellular phones to three different people whose company, apparently, we would have preferred at that moment. My girlfriend was calling me from the coast of Florida, telling me she just slept through another dance. I know how you feel, I feel that way all the time, is what I wanted to say, but instead I just said too bad. But we both knew that it wasn’t really a bad thing, and that it certainly wasn’t “too bad.”
We also knew that sometimes people say things just to say things, to fill up air space and space-time and airtime and all that rot until something noteworthy comes along. We are waiting forever, for something greater than the daily mundanities we’ve grown to know and disregard and maybe even despise. We are waiting for something other than bills and news on the stock market’s eternal rise and fall and toothpaste and television and routines and drudgery. We’ve had it with that. Instead we’re waiting for midgets, and when they fail to arrive we blame it on their stubby little legs that are still so cute to us even though they totally stood us up last night. That little jerk.
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