Altamont

It was nearing the end of summer in upstate New York. August was upon us, breezes signaling the slow emergence of fall, teasing, begging for one last adventure. I was spending the month in Albany at Rich’s, after giving up on looking for a summer job sometime in July when I had realized that they were all taken and I was shit out of luck. I spent most of my days on his couch watching TV and eating way too much, while he worked at the local tattoo shop downtown.

On his days off, we tried to escape the small town monotony of Albany and its surrounding suburbs to more exotic places, like Thatcher Park for picnics and Indian Ladder Trails or Lake George for Frankenstein Wax Museums and excellent omelets at small cafes. We had just returned from some day-long excursion, but instead of our usual settling down to watch a movie and snack until our bellies burst, we decided to see if we could make the last day of the Altamont Fair. This was a big deal in upstate New York. Rich had been many times but I never had, and always wanted to. The fair came through every year around the same time, giving hick parents a place to drag their screaming mullet-headed children, and love ridden “city” couples to share caramel apples while holding hands.
The sun was already close to setting as we drove up to Altamont, which was 40 minutes away. I got excited as we arrived under the huge FAIR awning, and drove into the giant parking lot, which was really just a big muddy field, smelling of livestock.

Not long after we had walked around the grounds a bit, I began to get disappointed. Everything was wet from the rain earlier that day, and many of the rides were aimed at little kids, not little kids in the bodies of adults. We stopped to watch part of the Demolition Derby, which was so white trash I could not believe it actually existed in real life. A bunch of fully grown men and a few women, grasping giant plastic cups of cheap beer, sitting on bleachers watching rusted out shells of cars crash into each other in a muddy ring. It was depressing. We stood there long enough to see a car catch on fire, a highlight to me, who had wondered if the three fire trucks parked along side the ring were actually necessary (apparently they were, although I think one would have sufficed).
On our way to the fair, Rich had told me of his previous experiences there, one of which consisted if him going at the Freak Show, getting to see The Smallest Woman In The World and Snake Girl. This interested me because I had never been to a Freak Show and spending quite a bit of time that year watching the TV series Carnivale, I had become curious. Where did the Freaks come from? Were they happy that they were Freaks?
Rich told me that Snake Girl was fake and that it was just a normal girl’s head poking through the floor of a tank with a snake body painted on it. When he had seen her the last time, she talked to him and his friends. Regardless, it sounded freaky to me. But The Smallest Girl In The World was real, and she had sat there in her little box, watching TV while people paid to look at her, him being one of them.
So when we passed the sign for The Smallest Girl In The World, Rich turned to me and asked “Do you want to see her?” and of course I said yes. Rich paid a sketchy looking man 4 dollars for each of us, and he let us pass without saying a word. We walked towards a small wooden box on a pillar, looking almost like a giant birdhouse from the back, and as we rounded the corner, I realized that she was sitting in it. The Smallest Girl In The World was a foot away from my face, staring at me and looking annoyed. She was a tiny black woman, smaller than any little person I had ever seen before, counting real life and TV, and she was dressed in blue and white ruffly doll clothes. She did not have a TV this time. She just stared at us.
Before entering the tent, I had the impression that we would be far away from the actual girl, and that it would be somewhat like a zoo-the attraction in some sort of tank, like Snake Girl, while people oogled her from a few feet away. This was not the case. This tiny person was as close to me as people are on the subway, and I could’ve reached out and touched her.
She looked at me with sad eyes. She looked like she felt pathetic, but at the same time, as though she thought we were as well. Her eyes seemed to say that she was human too, no better or worse than someone who pays to look at Freaks. This lasted only a second, and then it was gone.
My reaction was almost instantaneous. I was horrified by myself, paying 4 dollars to stare at a sad someone dressed in doll’s clothes, and I tried to hurry away, walking straight into Rich who was standing in front of me, almost knocking him over. He moved and I moved, and we got out of there as fast as our embarrassed legs would carry us. We didn’t speak. We didn’t talk about what had just happened, we just kept walking until we were far away from The Smallest Girl In The World. I grabbed his hand, and we walked by Snake Girl without even stopping to glance in her direction.
Rich tried to make the situation better (or just go away), by offering to get us some fried dough, which is my favorite fair pastime, and so I agreed. We split it, devouring the white sugar, as the wind tossed the loose powder everywhere. We couldn’t finish, our stomachs ached, and he pitched the remains in a nearby trash can.
The fair had lost some of its glamor then, not that it had much to begin with. Everyone seemed sad to me. Was this what was supposed to be enjoyable? Rickety rides? Bad food? Mud covered cars crashing into each other as drunk men cheered? Rudely staring at a Freak, as though it wasn’t insulting and humiliating?
It got dark and we walked toward the exit, when we realized there were rows of stables with all kinds of animals in them. I love animals, and dragged Rich through every single one, stopping to pet the sheep’s fluffy coat and touch the horse’s soft nose. I wanted to forget about The Smallest Girl In The World and the way she looked at me. Furry bunny rabbits and leopard spotted cats did the trick.
We left Altamont before the fair even closed, tired of walking around in mud and smelling manure. Jumping over the puddles in my newly dirtied canvas shoes, we found the car and followed the line of tail lights out of the fairgrounds.
I’m sure I forgot about The Smallest Girl In The World on the car ride home, and we probably watched a movie on Rich’s couch while eating ice cream and making out, once we got home. But her face never left me. I still wonder what she was thinking, perched in her wooden box, watching people pay 4 dollars to rudely gape at her. Was she embarrassed that she was dressed in doll’s clothes? Did her manager make her do that? What did she think of all the people who gave their money to look at her, merely inches away from her sad face? And what part of that money did she receive? Was it worth it?
I wish I could go back and bring her some fried dough, talk to her, make her feel like a human being. Because I’m sure no one else has.

There’s always next year.