CULTURAL APPRECIATION

CULTURAL APRECIATION

“Look, Liz, the way I see it, I’ve been upholding and advocating for the rights of the dwarf community for years, standing at the door, waving my sign, raising awareness. Did you know I’ve been donating 20% of my pay for years to Little Giants and LPA?”

“But that was all an act, street theatre to steer people into Stiffy’s bar. You’re not even a dwarf, Reginald, you’re just short.” Overly stressed on the first syllable, REGinald.

“Liz, what difference does it make? Neither of us can live above the eighth floor, we can’t reach the higher elevator buttons. I have to wear children’s sizes. Your clothes are tailored for you.”

“The difference is that now it’s real. Your little sign. It worked, your boss is going to offer it in the bar. And you’ll be the hawker, the elbow guy. Not even a real dwarf. Heh. Proud of yourself, Reginald? Proud you’re going to consign our people—both of our peoples, face it, normals don’t know the difference—to risibility.”

“That’s funny, Liz, ‘rise ability,’ isn’t that what we want?”

The argument, billed as a “meeting,” took place on a Sunday in a rented first grade classroom of the St. Barbara and St. Kenneth Latin School on Boston Road in a toney waterfront neighborhood in New York’s Westchester County. The attendees were surrounded by wall posters of proper hand washing and tooth brushing techniques, endangered species, progressive figures through the ages, and the students’ own artwork and essays.

Reginald Larch was a fixture outside of the original Stiffy’s Bar on the Manhattan’s Upper West Side. He would hold up his sign as high as he could. It read, simply, “SUPPORT THE RIGHT OF DWARVES TO WORK.” Stiffy paid Reggie $75 a night plus benefits; well worth it for the additional walk-in trade attracted by the curious sign and its bearer. The awning sign above the bar itself announced, “WE HAVE EVERYTHING BUT DWARF TOSSING.” And they did. A quoits lane, one Rebel and one Yankee pool table, a Karaoke room, a custom-made Jenga set with pieces ten times the size of the regulation set, even a skee-ball machine and a Fascination table Stiffy had picked up in a poker game on Coney Island. Drinks were delivered via a model railroad setup. Eventually, with no small thanks to Reggie’s help, the profits were sufficient to open a location in the high-class burbs, Stiffy’s Dream.

Mamaroneck was not Manhattan; there was plenty of room to fit anything in. The new Stiffy’s had a subterranean bar with a genuine 60’s-style slot car track, a mechanical bull, a Bocce pitch, and, for good or ill, a dwarf-tossing set-up. Reginald Larch, not actually a Dwarf, but with multiple radio, TV, and print interviews, was drafted by a loose association of (mainly unemployed in their chosen profession) professional toss dwarves.

Elizabeth Klein was in attendance representing the Little People of America Foundation. Her brief was to ensure that no element of dwarf tossing would, well, belittle the community. First choice of outcomes was that there would be no dwarf tossing in Mamaroneck or anywhere else. Failing that, she was to lobby for sufficient regulation of the activity to make it economically non-viable. The last-ditch position was public protest and ridicule about throwing human beings through the air for fun. Liz and Reggie had declared their positions. The normals, for whom faculty lounge chairs had to be brought down, began shuffling and laying out papers, charts, graphs, and other implements of persuasion. Liz, as an officer of a foundation, outranked Reggie, an informal advocate, and moderated the discussion. She had the good graces to start with an opposition participant.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Michael Feather of the Hospitality Trades Union, will be our first speaker.”

“Thank you, Ms. Klein. Local 613 would be happy to represent the Professional Toss Dwarf League. Having union representation means having safe working conditions, equitable pay, medical coverage, scholarships for their children, and the right to collectively bargain. These are Americans who want to work in their chosen field and achieve their dreams. Who are we to say they can’t work?”

Liz pointed to one of the posters on the wall. “Dirty hands, Mr. Feather. Your union couldn’t keep Nafissatou Diallo safe from Dominique Strauss-Kahn in that hotel room, could it?”

“That’s completely unfair, Ms. Klein. We don’t live in a 1984-style totalitarian state. Living is a risk. And what you don’t know is my union’s assistance in getting that maid the best possible settlement in the civil suit.”

“Point taken, Mike. But dwarf tossing has already been banned in several states and municipalities.”

“And I would give those political hacks the same speech I gave you, who has the moral right to say that these folks can’t work? As far as I’m concerned, any judge that upholds a ban like that should drop dead in their black robes.”

“Thank you for your candor, Mike. If your side prevails, I’m sure the League will be in good hands. And I’m sure your actual, physical hands are completely clean, as are your teeth.”

“Alright then, our next speaker is Andrea Paulson, Director of Communication for Little Giants. I should disclose that LPA and Little Giants frequently work together.” There were a few shocked faces when it was evident that the director was a normal.  “Andrea?”

“Thanks, Liz. Let me ask some of you a few questions. Starting with you, Liz. You’re African-American. How do you feel every time someone in not-too-distant memory gets busted for having made up in blackface? How do you think your children would feel about that? And you, Mr. Feather, you’re of Irish ancestry. How do you feel whenever you’re in the cereal aisle at the supermarket and you come face to face with a box of Lucky Charms? What message does that send to children?”

Mike would have burst if he didn’t respond to the political correctness gambit.

“I can answer that. One of the most popular entertainments in the country is professional wrestling This is a sport, to be charitable, in which contestants are frequently picked up and tossed in the air. Professional wrestling is one of the most diverse sports there is. Nobody seems to complain about this treatment applied to any particular racial or ethno-linguistic group. Why should achondroplastic dwarves be an exception?”

Reggie opted to query the remaining participant.

“Our last guest is the Honorable Boris Horton, state legislator for this area. Mr. Horton, if this comes to a vote in Albany, after what you’ve heard from the other speakers, could you tell us what side you would take? Freedom, or coddling Nanny State?”

“I’ve done some reading up on this topic, particularly the cases in the Florida bars. We seem to be in an ethical quandary, a complex situation. For example, we may need to have two sets of rules, one for the achondroplastics, who exhibit less strain on their shorter limbs when they are stressed, as opposed to ordinary midgets…”

“Cut the shit, Legislator. This is not an ethical question. Ethics are rules people accept in order to function within a specific group. This is definitely a moral issue, maybe a grey area. Basic human to human interaction. We have our act together, Mr. Horton, and we want to take it on the road, starting with Stiffy’s. We want the freedom to earn our keep the way we want to. We expect that parents can explain what happens to a child when some member of their particular group is mocked, or when someone pretends to be a member of the group. There’s one way to solve this. Let’s go over to Stiffy’s and see what’s what in dwarf tossing.” That was Big Napoleon, informal speaker for the dwarves.

Reggie agreed immediately, he had anticipated this and reserved the school bus. Liz had no choice but to agree as well. Midgets, dwarves, and normals boarded the bus for the 15-minute ride to the bar. Stiffy led everyone down to the lower level and opened the door to the dwarf pit. The performers sited up and checked each other’s safety equipment in the buddy system.  Then Mike, Andrea, and Boris lined up to pick their dwarves. Mike and Andrea’s tosses went off without a hitch, injury, or complaint. But on the politician’s toss, even though Absalom land perfectly on the mat, the rear wall of the pit burst inward. On the other side was another crew of dwarves carrying picks and shovels, total Ho Ho, Hi Ho stuff. They were wearing protective suits with “Massey Energy/Yo-Yo-Dyne” logos. Their fore-dwarf stomped into the pit.

“Laird Tunderin Jaysus, who put this here? It’s not on any of the maps, yer in the middle of our claim, ya ijits.”

“When was the last time you checked the surveys?” Boris, as the only lawyer present, was obsessed with legal detail.

“Last month. Things don’t really change that much down here.” ‘Doc,’ as the man in charge preferred to be called, was doing the talking for his crew. And what are all you little’uns doing down here if yer not diggin’ the rocks?

Napoleon answered for his friends. “This is a brand-new dwarf toss pit. And what about you folks? Why are you all dwarves?”

“Ijit. Doncha knows yer own history? This is what dwarves do. We can get in smaller spaces, we need less oxygen. Tossin’ dwarves. Feh. Ijits,” Doc spat. Then he handed Boris a Department of Defense contract for the procurement of a list of six rare-earth elements.

“Don’t just stand there, we have to get back to work, and it looks like your guys are wantin’ to get back to make their salt getting’ tossed, whatever this is. On orders from the Pentagon, this basement is closed for the next week while we tunnel around. We all want to be doin’ what we’re supposed to be doin’, An’ iffin ya don’t mind, after we finishes the detour, we sure could use a place like this fer pit stops and stuff.”

“Not only that,” Stiffy chimed in for the first time, “first drinks for your crew are free every night.”