Authors: C.D. Payne
MONDAY, September 12 – Vrsula Herczegh (Kardos’s beautiful sister) and I went through the line together this morning, then switched trays. When she fished a cigarette butt out of her oatmeal, she complained loudly and indignantly to Mr. Patsatzis. The complaints of a performer (even in unintelligible Hungarian) count way more with that Greek than some lowly janitor’s. They didn’t have to call in Sherlock Holmes to figure out whose butt it was. Only one dirtball on our team smokes Kools, and that was the Randroid behind the counter. He got his skinny ass chewed by the big boss himself, and I enjoyed a pristine and hearty breakfast in the company of Hungary’s prettiest 16-year-old. Too bad she’s not fluent in German like her brother. We could only converse at toddler level employing the simplest of English words. We didn’t get very far socially, which is just as well as Miren was directing some nasty looks at us from down the table. Once we’re married, I expect she will be keeping me on a very short leash.
After breakfast I walked into town and bought the various items I need for tonight’s major felony. I’m doing it tonight, because if allow myself any more time to think about it, I’m sure I’ll chicken out. And that’s just not in the Twispian Creed.
11:49 p.m. I feel a little lightheaded. I expect it’s from extreme nerves or too much smoking. Anyway, during tonight’s bust out (when the clowns entertain the arriving townies), I sneaked into their tent with my new bolt-cutters concealed under my coat. Its carbon-steel jaws snapped through Señor Nunez’s $6.99 padlock like it was so much cheese. I know how much his lock cost, because after I fished out his key ring from his pants, I slapped on an identical padlock that I had purchased yesterday. That should keep the clown busy for a while.
Two minutes later I was sneaking unobserved (I hope) into his trailer. I closed all his blinds and switched on my borrowed flashlight. Pretty creepy. That guy may be the world’s shortest lousy housekeeper. Really, if you’re going to live full-time in a trailer, you have to make an effort to be a little neat or things quickly descend into chaos.
I started in the front living room. I found a small plastic shampoo bottle in the cupboard where he stored his booze. I screwed off the cap and sniffed. Not shampoo, but some clear, odorless liquid. Date rape anyone? I slipped the bottle into my jacket pocket. Under a pillow on the messy built-in sofa I found a scary-looking blue steel handgun. Perhaps he had planned to use it on me if the knockout drops hadn’t worked. The weapon I also pocketed, reasoning that Alfredo was one guy I didn’t want packing heat. Besides, I figured the gun might help even the odds if I ever found myself going up against Randy’s knife. In another cupboard I found a stack of
Little People
magazines–some sort of lifestyle journal for dwarves. Kind of interesting, but I had no time for light reading.
The kitchen was too disgusting for more than a cursory going over. Despite the hearty meals served in the cookhouse, it appeared that Señor Nunez liked to snack. The bathroom yielded nothing but an involuntary shudder. On to the rear bedroom. Not surprisingly, slovenly Alfredo did not make his bed or hang up his clothes. I found a big stash of personal papers in cardboard boxes under his bed. Lots of scrapbooks filled with press clippings about the noted Mexican clown. The guy had received laudatory reviews all over the world, yet here he was entertaining retired copper miners in Butte, Montana. Seemed like something of a comedown, but I suppose at his age he was regarded as over the hill. Yet I can testify he still convulsed audiences at every show.
Big piles of dusty sheet music, but under them I found a bound packet of old letters; most of them in Spanish and nothing that looked like it came from Aunt Sheeni. Certainly nothing mentioning Sarah Nunez or her death, and I checked through all the papers carefully. In another box I found an envelope of old photos, and as I was going through them I heard a key turn in the front door.
Damn!
I switched off my light, pocketed the photos, slid the box back under the bed, and peered forward around the bedroom door. I watched alarmed as Randy switched on the overhead light and scratched his balls. Apparently the Randroid had his own key to Alfredo’s trailer. Cozy for the redneck, but unanticipated by me.
Randy helped himself to a beer from the frig, turned on the TV, and slipped in a DVD. He flopped down on the sofa and fast-forwarded with the remote. The screen was pointed away from me, but the low-grade synthesized music and sounds of rhythmic grunting suggested he was not viewing a highbrow film. Sure enough, he proceeded to pull down his trousers and grab hold of his disgusting privates. A beer can in one hand and his dick in the other–what more could a redneck want?
Double damn!
I hoped he’d get it over quickly, but Randy wasn’t that kind of guy. He just pawed himself enough to keep things aroused and tingling while what sounded like 14 people and a donkey went at it on the screen.
Fuck!
I looked at the illuminated clock on Alfredo’s nightstand. Time was moving on, even if Randy wasn’t. And how come all those cigarettes hadn’t stunted that guy’s growth? Very bushy too, suggesting a genetic link between extreme obnoxiousness and an overabundance of pubic hair.
I contemplated the bedroom windows. The rear one might have been big enough to climb through, but there was way too much clutter on the vanity desk to get at it. My only escape was out the front door.
Fortunately, the trailer I’d chosen to break into was the home of a clown with packrat tendencies. It took me about five minutes of silent searching to find everything I needed.
When I was ready, I composed myself, took a deep breath, uttered a piercing scream and ran toward the oafish masturbator with a large (albeit plastic) hatchet raised over my head in a most threatening manner. He turned white with fright and dove toward the floor, while I hurtled out the door and dashed madly toward the ostrich truck. There I quickly ditched my hatchet, blond fright wig, satanic skull mask, and colorful Mexican serape. I then ambled casually into the back entrance of the big top and blended in with the departing townies. Randy rushed in about a minute later for a hurried conference with you know who.
A half hour later Mr. Patsatzis knocked on my roomette door. Lurking behind him was an indignant dwarf. I denied any knowledge of the incident and invited them in to look around. Somehow they all squeezed into my tiny home, and a thorough search was conducted. I was found to be in possession of none of Señor Nunez’s personal property. Mr. Patsatzis apologized for the intrusion, and suggested to his star clown that he withdraw his accusations. This he declined to do and made what I assumed were threatening statements in rapid Spanish. They left, but the threats are continuing.
These are being uttered by my sexually unfulfilled neighbor across the partition.
I’ve responded by suggesting repeatedly that he blow it out it ass.
It’s amazing how the ownership of a handgun can change one’s attitude toward these ruffians.
TUESDAY, September 13 – A beautiful morning under a big blue Montana sky. The air is so clear and crisp you just want to suck in as much of it as you can. My plan worked very nicely, thank you. Kardos met me by the cookhouse tent and handed over the small items I had given him yesterday for safekeeping (he is concealing several other items for me as well). These I distributed to fellow conspirators when they arrived for breakfast. After everyone went through the line, we sat down at our usual table. Soon a loud commotion was raised as victim after victim scooped a nasty cigarette butt from their oatmeal. It was the final straw for Mr. Patsatzis. Randy–vainly protesting his innocence–was dragged out from behind the counter, stripped of his hairnet and soiled apron, and discharged on the spot. He has been paid off in full and kicked off the lot.
Yes, it was well worth all the trouble I went to tracking down a convenience store in Butte that would sell a pack of Kools to a 15-year-old. And then having to smoke all those ghastly menthol-laden cigarettes down to Randroid-length butts (he doesn’t let any of his valuable tobacco go to waste). Toward the end of the pack the nicotine was starting to feel pretty good, like one more drag and I’d be addicted for life. Still, even a nasty death from lung cancer might have been worth it to see the back of that repulsive cretin. Things are looking up!
10:47 a.m. A major setback. Mr. Patsatzis has relieved me temporarily of all bounce house duties and “promoted” me to acting assistant kitchen helper. Yes, I’m to do all my regular cleaning tasks, plus Randy’s old job. At no increase in pay!
I didn’t dare protest much, since the boss man reminded me that I was still on employee probation. He did say I probably wouldn’t have to do both jobs for long. Just until the next kid shows up who wants to run away to a glamorous life in the circus.
1:26 p.m. The lunch rush is over. I have 14 seconds to rest up before dinner preparations begin. This morning I sneaked out of the commissary trailer to phone Veeva. She whispered she was in French class and couldn’t talk. I told her to get her ass out into the hallway as it was urgent. A minute later she called me back.
“
OK, Noel, what’s so damn important?”
I brought her up to speed on my adventures in Señor Nunez’s trailer, and told her that I found a photo under his bed that was rather puzzling.
“
What photo?” she asked.
“
Well, it’s a wallet-size photo of a little blond girl holding a stuffed animal. On the back someone wrote in pencil ‘Veeva S. at 19 months’.”
“
That’s bizarre. What kind of stuffed animal is it?”
“
Uh, it looks like a monkey or something.”
“
That would be Gilbert my gorilla. He was my favorite toy when I was a kid. I think I know that photo. Do I have a pink ribbon in my hair?”
“
Yeah, you look kind of retarded.”
“
Jesus, Noel, that’s creepy. Why would that dwarf have my picture under his bed?”
“
Well, I’ve been giving it some thought, Veeva. I’ve come up with one possible explanation: Sheeni had her baby and her own brother adopted it.”
Silence on my phone. I gave it a shake.
“
Veeva, are you there?”
“
I’m here, Noel. I think . . . that’s . . . preposterous.”
“
I don’t know, Veeva. It explains a lot. Who’s your one relative you most resemble?”
“
My aunt Sheeni?”
“
That’s right. And who is the only female relative with whom you have any rapport?”
“
My aunt Sheeni?”
“
So you yourself have said. And the reason you get along so badly with your mother is because–.”
“–
she’s actually my wicked stepmother?”
“
You guessed it. That could be why she didn’t let you go back to France this summer. She doesn’t want you to get too close to your real mother.”
“
That sounds like her, but I don’t know, Noel. The time line’s all wrong. Sheeni’s baby would be at least six months older than me.”
“
Well, parents have been known to fudge birth dates. You know, so it doesn’t look like the kid arrived too soon after the wedding. You could be older, Veeva. You seem pretty mature for 14.”
An understatement, if ever there was one.
“
Jesus, Noel, that would make Nick Twisp my father. But he’s never acted very fatherly toward me.”
“
The guy’s in the dark, Veeva. You can tell that from the letter Aunt Sheeni wrote to him.”
“
God, Noel, this is too much. Too much to deal with. Now I wish I hadn’t sent that letter.”
“
What letter?”
“
I wrote a long letter to Reina Vesely last week outlining all the reasons she should dump Nick and marry my father. I could be wrecking my actual father’s happiness!”
“
Well, perhaps it won’t change her mind.”
“
Jesus, Noel, I’ve been screwing my own uncle. That’s incest!”
“
Is it, Veeva? I thought uncles could marry their nieces.”
“
Well, perhaps in places like West Virginia or Mississippi. In those states they’re probably just relieved you’re marrying someone besides your own brother. Christ, Noel! Tyler is my first cousin!”
“
Yeah, I guess you’ll have to lay off that guy too.”
“
I can’t talk any more, Noel. I have to go to the restroom and have a nervous breakdown.”
She hung up before I could point out that the reason she liked her father so much was because he wasn’t actually her dad. And that was the linchpin in my whole case.
Tyler is my nephew, Veeva is my niece, and I’ve fooled around sexually with both of them. Jesus, maybe I am just a piece of poor white trailer trash.
8:47 p.m. I may be peeling potatoes in my sleep tonight. Mr. Povey learned his trade in the Navy, and doesn’t believe in convenience foods. Everything in his kitchen is made from scratch. Did you ever peel potatoes for 87 ravenous circus employees? Thank God the commissary trailer isn’t set up for large-scale dishwashing; everything is served on paper plates. Still, there are countless pans, trays, cutlery items, coffee urns, etc. to be scrubbed and scoured. Not to mention all the counters, steam tables, sinks, stove, and grill.
No wonder Randy had such a bad attitude. He had the worst job on the planet.
At least now I can pick out the choicest chops and biggest slices of pie to deposit lovingly on the plates of Miren and her scowling parents. (They appear to hate my guts.) My darling has promised to meet me again later tonight in the swamp-cooler truck. How I look forward to her sweet lips!