.
“Then there are those who feel their own strangeness and are terrified by it. They struggle toward normalcy. They suffer to exactly that degree that they are unable to appear normal to others, or to convince themselves that their aberration does not exist. These are true freaks, who appear, almost always, conventional and dull.”
(Arturo in response to critics)
“It’s interesting that when these individuals choose — and it is their choice always — to endure voluntary amputations for their own personal benefit, society professes itself shocked and disapproving. Yet this same society respects the concept that any individual should risk total annihilation in war, subject to the judgment of any superior officer at all and for purposes ranging from a promotion for the lieutenant to higher profits for the bullet company. Hell, they don’t just respect that idea, they flat expect it. And they’ll shoot your ass if you don’t go along with it.”
N.S.: If you could make it happen by snapping your fingers, wouldn’t you want your whole family to be physically and mentally normal?
Oly: That’s ridiculous! Each of us is unique. We are masterpieces. Why would I want us to change into assembly-line items? The only way you people can tell each other apart is by your clothes. (Miss Olympia begins to giggle and refuses to answer seriously to further questions.)
Zephir McGurk’s love life took place in his safari car with the khaki canvas shades pulled down all around. If surplus females arrived on Arty’s doorstep, or if one didn’t appeal to Arty (whose taste, when you come right down to it, was for standard pneumatic types with commercial grooming products), he would send her on to McGurk. Arty’s line wasn’t particularly imaginative. He would give her the old “If you would do me a great service, console my trusted lieutenant in his spartan dedication” routine.
It evidently worked often enough to keep McGurk healthy and even-tempered. McGurk was such a gent that nobody who went tap-tapping at his windshield in the dark after the midway was closed ever went screeching in fear or pain or shame through the camp before dawn. There were occasional exits like that from Arty’s van, but the guards would catch them and calm them and give them hush money.
McGurk’s little trysts were always discreet. He was never seen with female company and he was never late to work. We figured he escorted them to the gates and kissed their hands adieu before first light. Arty claimed that McGurk actually fed them to Horst’s cats, but that was Arty. McGurk was silent on the subject and would not be baited.
Once, when I was in trouble and pacing the camp in the dark, I did hear something. But I had maggot brains that night and may have imagined half of it and misunderstood the rest.
I’d gone to cool my face on Grandpa’s urn. I was lying on the hood of the generator truck with my face against the silver loving cup that held the old Binewski ashes and served as a hood ornament. Whoever drove the generator truck would always complain that the wind whistled through the urn’s handles like a siren at any speed past thirty-five. Al just said, “Tough,” and that was that.
On the hottest night Grandpa seemed to cool off before anything else. Leaning a cheek or my forehead against the urn felt like packing ice in my burning brain. So there I was, finished blubbering but still half loony, leaning my face on the urn, when I heard something. It came from McGurk’s safari car, parked just ahead of me. I could have spit on his bumper. It was a rough, strangled sound and I figured it must be McGurk’s climax song. But it kept going on. It scared me. I thought someone was dying. I remembered what Arty said about McGurk’s feeding his women to the cats, and I thought he was strangling somebody. Then I heard a word in his own voice. “Please,” he said. Then the ropy, gurgling sound started again. He was crying. For a minute there was another voice, softer and smooth — quick. I couldn’t tell what she was saying. Then McGurk again, desperate, almost shouting, “Don’t you see? There’ll be nothing left of you that I can get a grip on!” Then the soft woman’s voice drifted monotonously among McGurk’s ugly sobs. I got down and went away from there.
There were promotions scheduled for the next morning. Four women were due to “complete their liberation.” All had abandoned their legs entirely and were left with arms only from the elbow up. They were ready to shed their arms at the shoulder. These liberations were supposed to take place between 8 and 11 A.M. Dr. Phyllis would spend the afternoon whittling on fingers and toes.
I figured McGurk’s lady had to be one of those who were doing arms. I thought about going to the line outside the infirmary early to try to figure out which one it might be. I decided against it. I didn’t want to know.
McGurk seemed the same as usual that day and every day afterward. That’s why I say I may have misunderstood or imagined the whole thing.
Up on the roof of the van, Arty flopped in exhaustion. “Hey, oil me, Oly. Will you?”
It was scary to have him ask. I crouched over him, rubbing my fingertips into the knotted tension of his neck and shoulders.
“You’re ugly, brother, and you’ve got rigor mortis from the nipples up.
His eyes closed and his face relaxed slightly.
“Silence, anus,” he responded ritually. He took a long, slow breath and held it before he spoke again. “I think Elly’s coming back some, don’t you?”
“She doesn’t flop as much. Maybe not as limp as she was?”
“Yeah. I think she’ll come back some. Not like before, though.”
“Maybe Iphy’s just learning to handle her better. Balance and support.”
He shook his head against the mat, eyes clenched shut.
“No. She’s coming back. Just takes time. She’ll be able to help take care of the baby.”
“Maybe. You know, Chick could help you sleep nights. You look about three hundred years old.”
“Chick doesn’t like me. I wouldn’t want to tempt him.”
“He’s still sore about Elly.”
“And other things. Another chore. He’ll do it, though. And Papa’s mad at me. He says we’ll kill the whole outfit by hanging it all on one novelty act. That’s what he’s calling my show lately. A novelty act. He says my ‘fans’ will pass away when some new fad hits the air. Mama is mad too but she pretends not to be.”
“You’re a creep, I guess.”
“Did you ever wish you were dead?”
“Not lately.”
“Guess it’s you and the Pin Kid, hunh?”
I stopped kneading his spine and looked at his shadowed profile. He looked like a sleeping hieroglyph against the blanket. I forced my thumbs to rotate so he wouldn’t notice.
Down the line I could see Mama outside the Chute. She was folding a dust cloth and talking to someone still inside the door of the Chute. It was Iphy, walking out huge and awkward. Elly’s head tucked into Iphy’s throat, the cloth billowing around the frail legs beneath them, the belly balanced in front of them.
“I can see Iphy. She looks like an old car.” Mama and Iphy tottered out of sight.
“The Pin Kid seems O.K. You could do worse. Do you reckon you’ll leave?” His eyes were open now, his neck twisting to let the eyes touch me. His eyes were grey, very pale. I pinched his round, hard buttock, slapped his back sharp and loud.
“Trash! Stuff it, Arty.”
He closed his eyes again. “I’m gonna cut down to three shows a week. Saturday, Sunday, Wednesday, eight P.M. Flat.”