Of Midgets, Cigarettes and Lost Professions

Of Midgets, Cigarettes and Lost Professions

On a sidewalk somewhere in the Lower East Side, where brown abandoned buildings scratch empty grey skies and lettuce is sold at half price, a small crowd has gathered around a midget juggling knives. Or dwarf, or gnome, or little man, I don’t know what the politically correct term is anymore. The crowd is entertained as much by the danger of his feat as by the fact that he’s not quite as tall as they are. I stand behind them all, smoking a cigarette I rolled a few moments back.

The people come and go and I find myself coming closer and closer to the front as new red, puffy faces rubbing hands together to ward off the cold take their place behind me.I soon come to the realization that even this spectacle isn’t that new or special in this day and age, when every form of media imaginable is a few taps on a little screen away. What I realize is that they’re expecting him to mess up and cut himself. It’s no good though: the little man is a professional. Coins are dropped in the little black felt hat at his feet and the layers of the crowd are broken and reformed. I watch over all of this like a tiny God. I don’t have anything better to do.

It’s until the midget says thank you, grabs his hat and lies back against the cold red bricks of the apartment building behind his back that I realize I was waiting to talk to him.

“That was great,” I say, setting myself to his left. I take out another rolling paper and the bag of tobacco from my pocket.

“Thanks,” he says. His voice is gruff. It’s more or less the voice you’d expect from his beard, but it’s also a bigger voice than you’d expect, seeing as his body’s so small and all. I sprinkle what looks like pencil shavings on the transparent paper in my palm. This is what’s going into my lungs.

“I don’t have any money to give you,” I say as I struggle with keeping the wind from flinging the tobacco out of my skinny little fists.

“Good to know” he says.

“Do you smoke?”

“I used to.”

“There’s no nicotine in this, so it’s not addictive or anything. I’ll share my home-made cigarette with you as a token of my gratitude for the show, seeing as I have no cash.”

“I don’t smoke anymore.”

“Suit yourself then.”

I lick the paper and seal it with years of experience. I light it and breathe out fire.

I have a feeling that the little man wants me to leave. I have no real intention of moving, though. He just stands there with his hands in the pockets of his jacket, and I just stand here, smoking.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“What does it matter to you?”

“You’re not very polite. One hundred percent New Yorker, aren’t you?”

“What do you want from me, anyways?”

“I’m not sure, really. I guess maybe I assumed you would be an interesting person to talk to or something. How exactly does someone of your stature get into the juggling business, anyhow?”

“You’re really getting on my nerves, buddy.”

“It’s not my intention” I say, “or at least originally it wasn’t. Fuck man, all I wanted to do was talk.”

Bored faces ignore us on their way to nowhere. Yellow taxis carrying strangers honk at empty, polluted air.

“What are you doing right now, anyways?” I ask.

“Waiting for new people.”

“Hey, I noticed that too. The people get bored really quick, don’t they?”

“Yes, they do.”

“So you wait for a whole new batch of customers to surprise with your magic. You make a living out of this?”

“I get by.”

“That’s fantastic.”

“I don’t make a fortune. If rent keeps going up, I’ll have to start juggling chainsaws.”

I laugh at that. I rub my naked hands together and stuff them inside the pockets of my jeans.

“I’m Jorgen, by the way” I say awkwardly with the cigarette between my lips.

“Greg.”

“You look and sound like a Greg, you know?”

“You mean Greg sounds like a dwarf name?”

“Dwarf’s the politically correct way to say it?”

“Yeah.”

“No, you just look like a Greg. It’s the beard and blunt facial features, I don’t know.”

The wind gusts and the cigarette slips out from between my lips. The little orange light of its flame is extinguished by a careless sneaker.

“Fuck” I mutter.

“Why don’t you just buy them ready in a box like everybody else?” asks Greg.

“I like the act of rolling and smoking. I can’t roll a joint on the street, so this is a safe alternative.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

“I know it doesn’t.”

We’re both silent for a moment.  I’m considering rolling another one, when he breaks the silence and says, “I think I’m getting to get back to it.” He bends down and grabs the knives. I don’t really want to, but I unglue my back from the wall.

“I guess I’m going to go see if there’s a three breasted woman with a beard down a few blocks then. Nice meeting you Greg.”

“Sure” he mutters.

I carry on with the wind, my hands still in my pockets. Who knows where it’ll take me? Who cares? I don’t see, but feel him to start to throw the knives into the air. I’m not really sure if I want him to cut himself or not, to tell the honest truth. It’s a job I wouldn’t mind too much though, if I were him.