Pages Torn From a Travel Journal (4 page)

It was a figure nearly doubled over who stepped silently into our midst: a man in clothes like tent canvas & wearing, of all things, a bellman’s cap. He’d entered bent-over due to a shocking abnormality of physical height; even inside now, he was unable to stand upright. No doubt existed that he must be at least over 7 feet tall.

Beady, overly round eyes seemed to squint in a head that seemed too small, almost shrunken. It was Nate those eyes addressed. “Good even-time, Sar. I beg only absolution for any intrusion I might be encumbering thee with,” he spake in the strangest antique diction. “Mightn’t I be enquiring of ye proprietor?”

Nate scratched his head at the sight of great stooped man. “I run the joint if’n that’s what ya mean and–holy
hail,
buddy! Ain’t never seen no one tall as you in my life!”

“So much more than I, good Sar, thee have never before seen, ye spectacles most incredulous.” The man had several paper tubes tucked under his arm; & one of them he unrolled with a single flap of an enormous hand. “I beg thy permission to post this notice in thy window–in exchange, mind thee, for admission at no cost to thee.”

It was a poster of the most intricate illustration, entitled along the top:

O’SLAUGHNASSEY’S TRAVELLING SHOW!

RIDES!

CONCESSIONS!

ODDITIES OF NATURE!

THRILLS FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY!

COME ONE, COME ALL!

“Well tickle my stick, a carnival!” enthused Nate. “That the same one was here last year?”

“Indeed, Sar, the same.”

“I never got chance to make it on account’a work but a couple’a chums tolt me it was a doozy! S’you’ll give me free tickets to hang that in my wind-er?”

The tall man nodded awesomely & passed the mechanic a cutting of tickets. “Thy fine graces are bountied in the most, good Sar, and I shan’t scruple to detain thee any farther of thy goodly nature. Thee may trust in my word as a gentleman of verity that
O’Slaughnassey’s
Travelling Show be ye finest, ye most complete, and more striking than any thee might ever have conceived,” & then the man hung the poster so to show its front out the window. Nate & I went outside with him, where he now was able to stand without hindrance. Truly he was a natural giant, & more so in other regards as, first, I caught Nate casting a brief, frowning glance at the titan’s crotch, after which my own eyes followed suit reflexively. He shook each of our hands, his own being double the length & breadth of mine, & offered, “Gentlemen, I am distinguished to have been led into thy midst, and look with much anticipation to seeing thee at the show . . . ”

My distraction took moments to fend off, for, you see, the crotch of the man’s trousers appeared quite disproportionately
stuffed.

He walked off in leviathan strides, collapsed himself into a waiting spoke-wheeled truck, & drove away.

“Ain’t that a kick?” Nate remarked, hands ever on his hips. “Looks like we got sumpthin’ fun ta do after all.”

“Fortunateness seems to have granted your wish,” I said, eyeing the poster.

“Shit-yeah’n a great big
fuck
ta boot!”

I frowned.

Mussed-haired from an apparent nap, the bus driver appeared, & thus began Nate’s indelicate dissertation regarding the show & cost-free admission tickets. “Haow yew like thet! A curnervul!” enthused the driver. “En’t ben tew one in yeers . . . ”

“Nor have I,” I contributed, recalling similar travelling shows that would come to the Stamper Hill region periodically. More times than not, however, I could not attend due to the ubiquitous writer’s curse–i.e., I didn’t have the
money!

Nate sharpened his perpetually snide grin. “Friend’a mine tolt me ‘bout this one last year, & said they had a crew’a carny whores ta
die
fer!”

“Ee-yuh, I believe it,” said the driver. “I went me to a curnervul in Brattleboro onct, and the hoo-ers theer drained me dry. Ee-yuh, suh. If spunk was garbage, theer pussies’d be a dumpin’ grounds. Ask me, theer en’t a better place for a feller to send his jism than up a curny hoo-er’s cooch.”

“Or up her tailpipe!”

“Er in her gut, for thet matter!”

“Or–hail! All three!”

I felt dissolute. The level of vocal vulgarity & overall vitiated moralism staggered me in place; though being the stranger in strange company I struggled to maintain some demeanour. Only when the driver saw fit to slap me on the back, did I actually blanch.

“En’t that right, Slim?” he gruffed, laughing. “You ever git’cher peter-snot up in a carny whore’s cunt?”

Stupefied, I could only falteringly reply, “I’m sad to say that I have never had the benefit of the experience . . . ”

“But ya’d lak to, wouldn’t ya?” Nate asked with some concern.

As for the opportunity of conveying my “peter-snot” into such a creature, I wanted to answer that the notion of my caring less was most definitely an issue of total impossibility. Being the sport, however, I replied, “Why, of course . . . ”

The mechanic rocked back & forth on his heels. “Well tonight’s yer lucky night, ‘cos we’ll be a-goin’. That tall feller gave me three tickets–one fer each’a us.”

The driver erupted a hoot. “And I thurt it’d be a dullard’s night!”

“We’se havin’ us some
fun!
” & with
this
exclamation, Nate performed a vocal demonstration that I believe is referred to as a “rebel-yell.”

I raised a querying finger. “I believe you aforementioned something about an associate of yours endorsing this show last year?”

“Aw, shee-it yeah, man!” Nate’s eyes gleamed vulpurine at the tickets. “An’, see, this friend’a mine? Dolman Nale’s his name–he runs couple’a stills up in the woods, but it was Dolman tolt me ‘bout this self-same carnival last year’n how dandy the whores turned out, but see, what he couldn’t quit ravin’ ‘bout was this one whore in
particular . . .
”

The driver’s interest was duly piqued. Mine, however, was not.

“Said they had this li’l blondie whore with a smile could launch a thousand ships and a rack’a tits like to make a monsignor pull his hair out–”

The driver
roared
laughter.

Nate’s seedy grin inclined toward us. “But ya know what else?”

“Whut?” pleaded the driver.

“I daren’t contemplate,” came some veiled sarcasm from me.

Nate’s voice fell to a whisper. “She has hands for feet . . . ”

The driver’s already odd face transformed to something odder in reaction to Nate’s cryptic words. “I curn’t be heerin’ yew right. Yew say hands for–”

“I say she gots
hands
where her blammed
feet
should be!”

“No!”

“‘S’a fact. Dolman Nale ain’t one fer tall tales.”

Though my own faith in this Mr. Nale’s credulity fell pointedly short of Nate’s, I had heard of similar anomalies–
chromosomal,
evidently, based on the fascinating research of Johannsen & Mendel of years ago. The theory is thus: that once an ovum is positively fertilised, discrete constituents called “gene-markers” are mysteriously activated. The resulting embryo-genesis ensues; however,
flawed
gene-markers may, for a myriad of reasons, come into play, triggering abnormal development.

“Yee-ip, I ain’t kiddin’ yawl. Gal was born with hands fer feet–and born without teeth too–”

“No teeth, nuther?” said the driver.

“Not a chopper in her yap, no sir!” Nate gave a lewdly knowing nod. “But it’s on account’a that that she sucks the best pecker in the land. Dolman Nale, he’s
had
some dick-suckin’ in his time, but he says she’s the
best,
and don’t charge much neither. Says the gal also does a show–”

The driver crossed his arms. “A shew, yew say?”

“Yee-ip. They got a bunch’a peep-tents there, they call ‘em. For, like, ten cents worth’a tickets, you can look in and watch.”

The words unwittingly goaded a question I could not repress. “Watch
what?
”

“Watch the whores gettin’ poked by stunt-cocks—you know.”

“I assure you–I
don’t
know. Stunt—”

He dramatically grabbed his crotch & hefted it. “They’se carnies with really big dicks.”

“Ee-yuh,” augmented the driver. “An’ for fellers who en’t got the dough for a hoo-er, he curn at leest watch’n have at himself with his hand.”

“Oh,” I muttered.

“Yee-ip,” Nate aggravatedly repeated. “And this blondie, this gal with hands for feet? What she do in her tent is she beats off four fellas at once. Get it?”

First the deduction, then the horrendous picture, formed in my mind. “Ah, I see . . . ”

“And like I said, the fellas is all packin’ really big cocks, and what they do, see, is they all slap down their jizz on her, for what they’se call the
wet
-shot. Shee-it, Dolman tolt me that poor gal looked like a dang
rum
bun
time them stunt cocks was done a-cummin’.”

The driver percolated laughter.

My element, surely, this was not, but I stood determined to go along since Nate’s inference that a free ticket had my name on it. My only interest was the change of scenery & possibly–should finances allow–a candied apple. I’d leave the “peep-tents,” & the “hoo-ers,” to them.

Nate cracked his hands together like a pistol shot. “Well, hail. What’re we’se waitin’ for, boys? It ain’t far, and I’se got my truck.”

“I’m much obliged to be included,” I told him.

“Ee-yuh,” added the driver for the nth time, &–for goodness sake, he rubbed his crotch! “I need ta fuck me a hoo-er in the wuss way.”

Nate fumbled for keys in his pocket. “I just hope that blondie with hands for feet is there this year.”

A moment previously, my eyes found their way back to the poster advertisement. “If this hanging is timely, I’d say you’re in luck.”

Both men drifted over as my finger directed their attention. The poster turned out to be an elaborate artistic endeavor &, in specificity, a helix of detailed sketch-illustrations which furnished an eye-catching border for the sensational lettering. I’ll add that the artist demonstrated a talent akin to a hybridization of Dore & Brundage: evocative & if anything
too
-detailed representations of the carnival’s repertoire of personnel. It was here that I became engrossed, as did my associates. It was a rich & grotesque tableau that formed the poster’s curtilage, commencing, first, typically: the Bearded Lady; the Mermaid of Ponape; the World’s Oldest Man, the Sword Swallower; the 500-Pound Woman; an interspersion of double-headed livestock & an Oddities Room proffering jars of variously anomalous fetuses; then, far more attention-arresting: a cadaverous, sunk-eyed female (Cadaveressa, Revived From the Clutches of Death By African Magic!), an impish little girl (The 45-Year-Old Child!), a ghostly 3-eyed man (The Tri-Clops!), &, at the bottom, the target of my notice: Bliss! The Girl with Hands for Feet!

It was this drawing that the 3 of us scrutinized.

The tiny yet intricate oddment of art depicted a robustly bosomed young woman sitting spraddled & smiling brightly through a most beatific & even angelic visage; arms extended as well as legs, the latter sporting hands where nature would ordinarily attach feet.

“Dang if that ain’t her!” Nate cried out.

“Juss like yew’re buddy said,” added the moronic driver.

All a likely story, I presumed. The majority of such outlandish carnival exhibits would turn out, after more scrutinous review, to be rife with fraud &, hence, bait for the gullible. But what did I care? A few hours of distraction would surely benefit my mood, & the ticket was any writer’s favorite price.

The passage of a few minutes found us on our way. The means of our transport? Nate’s dent-ridden & rust-patched rattletrap of a truck, which endeavored noisily along the road that wound about the darkening woodline. The vehicle’s inferior suspension brought a frown to my lips over each bump, while further frowns were elicited due to my 2 unpolished companions, both of whose body odor raged, not to mention incessant discourse replete with language the likes of which might urge the lowliest of gargoyles to become sickened to the point of projectile emesis. Simple decency demands that I repeat no excerpts in this humble travelogue.

Dusk brought the day’s quiescence, slowly draining vivid darkness into the quaint rural scenes ahead. I chuckled as a duo of bats glided crazily across our passage, for Nate & the driver curtailed their coarse talk momentarily as if the tiny black
chiropterans
foreran doom. Of other motorists/pedestrians on the road, we encountered none, though the trek did clatter us past a handful of decrepit, wood-slat domiciles complete with “hayseeds” sitting in front-porch rocking chairs; as well as a badly white-washed general store & a feed & fertilizer supplier, all tucked oddly off the road & half-into overhanging woods as if shunning something. When we rounded the next bend, however, the forest abruptly gave way to an expanse of great open space that I’d estimate being a mile square. “This here’s Tuckton’s Fields,” Nate explained. “Ain’t nothin’ but dirt-scratch land on account’a the soil got wored out after the War’a Northern Aggression.”