as she could; he almost fell, but recovered
himself and went running down the stairs. When she got to the street,
she heard the tires of his big car squealing as it turned the corner.
Madame Porgorny hailed a cab on the avenue and went back to the
school. The plumber was there, making his usual mess, and the janitor
was not to be found; the clay for the ceramics class had not come;
there was a bill from the electrician that she had already paid. She
had enough to keep her busy all day, and it was not until evening, when
she was sitting down to dinner, that she realized the swelling in her
fingers was entirely gone and that there was no pain.
Chapter Eight
Later Gene Anderson remembered two things about his trip across the
country: the Grand Canyon, and a carnival in Columbus, Ohio. The carnival
was a sort of traveling amusement park, set up in a vacant lot near
the railroad station. He rode the Ferris wheel and the loop-the-loop,
ate hot dogs, corn on the cob, and pink cotton candy. Then the cries of
a sideshow barker drew him, and he went in.
First they saw the Lizard Man. He was about thirty, partly bald, with
expressionless eyes. When he took off his red robe, they saw that his
body was covered with shiny scales that looked like a snake's molted
skin. "His mother was frightened by a boa constrictor before he was born,
ladies and gentlemen. Scientists said it couldn't happen, but here he
is, before your very eyes, ladies and gentlemen, one of the Eight Wonders
of the World, the Lizard Man, condemned to go through life with the skin
of a reptile."
Next was the Fat Lady, and after her the Human Pincushion, who put long
needles through his cheeks and tongue, then lay down on a bed of nails
with a fifty-pound weight on his chest.
After him was the Bearded Lady, who was bearded all over her face (not
just on one half, as in the painting outside). Then came the giant. He sat
in a thronelike chair on a little platform, a pale man in a business suit,
with wispy dark hair and spectacles. His shoes were like anybody else's,
black leather, a little scuffed around the toes, but they were twice as
big as any shoes Gene had ever seen before. He took off the gold ring on
his finger and the barker showed them that two of his own fingers would
fit into it. As he was buying a brass copy of this ring for fifty cents,
Gene saw the giant looking at him with a curious expression: he smiled
faintly, then closed his eyes and turned his head away.
Out in the midway, Gene was stopped by a man who wore tan denims, with
riding boots and a baseball cap. "Hey, kid, how old are you?"
"Twelve," said Gene before he thought.
"Yeah?" The man looked him over. "Well, if you grow another two feet,
come and see me." He handed Gene a card and walked away.
Then he was in New York, and it was like coming home to a paradise he
had only dreamed of. There were miles of shops, bookstores, galleries;
even San Francisco was nothing to this. He rented an apartment in
Chelsea. For weeks he saw a different movie every day. He bought books,
art supplies, a record player, a television set; he bought Oriental rugs
of incredible shimmering colors.
At first it did not bother him that he had no friends or even acquaintances
in New York; he liked the feeling of anonymity, invisibility. As long as
the golden summer lasted, the city was cheerful; in the autumn it turned
melancholy. The first snowfall exhilarated him, but its brilliant whiteness
turned overnight to brown freezing slush.
He bought galoshes, a hat, gloves, an overcoat, and a muffler. The
overcoat was an absurd garment that could not be closed at the neck,
and the muffler did not keep out the bitter wind. Darkness flowed down
the streets, and the raw-nosed people walked bending against it, holding
their lapels together at the neck. Indoors, in restaurants and theaters,
the yellow light made people look feverish. This was not winter as he
had known it; it was a
himself and went running down the stairs. When she got to the street,
she heard the tires of his big car squealing as it turned the corner.
Madame Porgorny hailed a cab on the avenue and went back to the
school. The plumber was there, making his usual mess, and the janitor
was not to be found; the clay for the ceramics class had not come;
there was a bill from the electrician that she had already paid. She
had enough to keep her busy all day, and it was not until evening, when
she was sitting down to dinner, that she realized the swelling in her
fingers was entirely gone and that there was no pain.
Chapter Eight
Later Gene Anderson remembered two things about his trip across the
country: the Grand Canyon, and a carnival in Columbus, Ohio. The carnival
was a sort of traveling amusement park, set up in a vacant lot near
the railroad station. He rode the Ferris wheel and the loop-the-loop,
ate hot dogs, corn on the cob, and pink cotton candy. Then the cries of
a sideshow barker drew him, and he went in.
First they saw the Lizard Man. He was about thirty, partly bald, with
expressionless eyes. When he took off his red robe, they saw that his
body was covered with shiny scales that looked like a snake's molted
skin. "His mother was frightened by a boa constrictor before he was born,
ladies and gentlemen. Scientists said it couldn't happen, but here he
is, before your very eyes, ladies and gentlemen, one of the Eight Wonders
of the World, the Lizard Man, condemned to go through life with the skin
of a reptile."
Next was the Fat Lady, and after her the Human Pincushion, who put long
needles through his cheeks and tongue, then lay down on a bed of nails
with a fifty-pound weight on his chest.
After him was the Bearded Lady, who was bearded all over her face (not
just on one half, as in the painting outside). Then came the giant. He sat
in a thronelike chair on a little platform, a pale man in a business suit,
with wispy dark hair and spectacles. His shoes were like anybody else's,
black leather, a little scuffed around the toes, but they were twice as
big as any shoes Gene had ever seen before. He took off the gold ring on
his finger and the barker showed them that two of his own fingers would
fit into it. As he was buying a brass copy of this ring for fifty cents,
Gene saw the giant looking at him with a curious expression: he smiled
faintly, then closed his eyes and turned his head away.
Out in the midway, Gene was stopped by a man who wore tan denims, with
riding boots and a baseball cap. "Hey, kid, how old are you?"
"Twelve," said Gene before he thought.
"Yeah?" The man looked him over. "Well, if you grow another two feet,
come and see me." He handed Gene a card and walked away.
Then he was in New York, and it was like coming home to a paradise he
had only dreamed of. There were miles of shops, bookstores, galleries;
even San Francisco was nothing to this. He rented an apartment in
Chelsea. For weeks he saw a different movie every day. He bought books,
art supplies, a record player, a television set; he bought Oriental rugs
of incredible shimmering colors.
At first it did not bother him that he had no friends or even acquaintances
in New York; he liked the feeling of anonymity, invisibility. As long as
the golden summer lasted, the city was cheerful; in the autumn it turned
melancholy. The first snowfall exhilarated him, but its brilliant whiteness
turned overnight to brown freezing slush.
He bought galoshes, a hat, gloves, an overcoat, and a muffler. The
overcoat was an absurd garment that could not be closed at the neck,
and the muffler did not keep out the bitter wind. Darkness flowed down
the streets, and the raw-nosed people walked bending against it, holding
their lapels together at the neck. Indoors, in restaurants and theaters,
the yellow light made people look feverish. This was not winter as he
had known it; it was a
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