Free Imperfections by Bradley Somer Page A

thing,” someone in the crowd said.
    â€œLike a real person,” came a reply, “only smaller.”
    There was some snickering.
    The Mighty Mite must have been able to hear the comments but gave no indication. He glanced at the television, reached out with his stubby fingers and took the cigarette from the ashtray. He brought the cigarette to his lips and took a long drag. He coughed a high squeaky noise.
    â€œWeird,” Leonard said breathlessly, sounding amazed.
    A creeping, uncomfortable feeling overcame me. It was the sense of voyeurism, the crowd of people gawking. It was the Mighty Mite, seemingly oblivious, doing his job just by being stared at. It was how hard I found it not to stare at him. It was the apparent dignity with which he did his job, the apparent strength with which he ignored all the eyes and the derogatory comments. It was almost as if we, the gathered crowd, didn’t belong here, like we were invisible and watching him go about his life, alone in his home. It was a complex mixture of shame, empathy and wonder. We were the ones who were out of place here, not the little man. The Plexiglas acted to keep us out more than it did to keep him in. It was almost as if we, the crowd, were caged. We were the intruders, the freaks.
    I glanced at the towering shadows around me. Eyes glistened in the weak light, intent upon the Mighty Mite. Even as whispers were exchanged, fascinated eyes did not stray from the Mite. This was a human zoo.
    â€œThat’s the teeniest freak I have ever seen.”
    â€œIs all of him small?”
    â€œDoes he get ID’ed when he buys his smokes?”
    The Mighty Mite looked at his wristwatch, stretched and put down his cards. He reached under the table and pulled out a sign to place on the top: Back in 15 minutes.
    The Mighty Mite stood, grabbed his cigarettes and wandered out of the circle of light. As he left, someone took a picture. The flash fired, almost audibly, blinding me in the dark.
    â€œHey, I tell you clowns, no pictures.” It was the carnie.
    There was a scuffle in the crowd. The carnie snatched the camera from the shadow, opened the back hatch and pulled the film out.
    â€œWhat the hell?” the shadow said and shoved the carnie.
    â€œLet’s move.” Leonard pulled me out of the intensifying scuffle centred on the shadowed man and the carnie.  
    The voices grew loud and angry behind us. Once we were clear of the fray, we wandered, pausing once at a wax figure, the top half a naked woman and the bottom half a big fish.
    Leonard read the sign aloud, “Mermaid: this specimen was caught in a fishing net off the coast of Montserrat.” Leonard tilted his head. “She died three hours after being caught. She suffocated to death out of the water.”
    â€œShe doesn’t look real,” I said.
    â€œOh, I’m sure she’s real.” Leonard gave me a strained look before taking off toward another group of people crowded around a spotlight.
    We worked our way through a forest of legs ornamented with belt buckles topped by cowboy shirts with pearly snap buttons. When we arrived at the front of the crowd, we were confronted with the most confusing mound of flesh I had ever seen: overstuffed, billowing pillows of skin, segmented by deep folds and creases, bruises on the flesh, crusted sores and sprouts of seemingly random, greasy hair. My eyes, wide in wonder, roamed the mound trying to make sense of the expanse of skin. The mound was on a slowly rotating pallet and in half a turn, it was obvious I had been staring at the ass end of the fattest man in the world. The pallet was set on an industrial weigh scale that displayed a red, illuminated, 1,021 lbs.
    The fat man had a boyish face, large as a pumpkin, set in one side of his body. He smiled as he spun by slowly. It may have been a grimace, I couldn’t be sure.
    As his side slid by, someone reached across the rope barricade and slipped a pen in