suggestion. In all, a wonderful illusion.
Other tents could less be described as “wonderful”; indeed, impressively grotesque was more along the mark. There was Betty, the Human Blood Vessel, or a relatively well-proportioned young woman wearing only tin cones over her nipples & the tiniest triangle of glittered fabric over her privates. What made her remarkable was this: a veritable outbreak of venousness, so complete that every square inch of exposed skin was webbed by beating blue veins; the deliberate coverage of her skin with oil intensified the effect to a gleaming hideousness. Next was a man who impossibly ejected both eyeballs from their sockets & switched them; & next, a woman billed to have been pregnant for seven years, her bare belly protruding no smaller than the volume of a medicine ball (Bliss later informed me that a benign tumor was responsible for her excessive abdominal girth, not pregnancy); & next, another performer I recalled from the advert: Cadaveressa, Revived From the Clutches of Death By African Magic! Espying this unfortunate woman in reality was far more disturbing than the sketched replication on the poster. She was literally a living skeleton, pallorescent skin stretched over bones, & a head like a skull dipped in pale waxen paint. The image was worsened by complete nudity, revealing emptied skin-flaps for breasts, & painfully jutting pelvic bones buttressing the fleshless groin & grim folium that could only be her sexual access-way. To Bliss I expressed my doubt that African Magic had anything to do with her condition but more than likely a willful abstinence from the consumption of food. “Oh, but, Howard,” Bliss explained. “Her real name’s Mary and she eats like a pig. It’s just that she upchucks it all afterwards.”
Charming.
Hence, the show’s promised “oddities of nature.” But then Bliss added as she crutched along, “You said you like weird things, Howard—”
“Weird tales of imagination, yes. It’s curious to ponder exactly why such things are fascinating to some.”
“Well, I just wanted to say, there’s more”–she seemed to be smiling crookedly, as though hesitant–“but for that, you’d have to go to the Red Walk.”
“The Red Walk?” I queried.
“The adults section. It’s where I work.”
We stood aside from the flow of boisterous passersby. Bliss pointed to a larger tent egress guarded on either side by stolid-faced musclemen. RED WALK — 25-CENT ADMISSION. This must be the part of the show which housed the peep tents that Nate had referred to. & prostitutes & other lewd displays. Where Bliss does her own show, I sadly recalled.
“But please don’t come to my tent, Howard,” she appended. “I wouldn’t feel right.”
“I would never circumvent your wishes, Bliss,” I assured her, remembering all-too-well Nate’s brow-arching description. “And as for the other attractions . . . well, weird or not, I’m afraid they’d rupture my financial situation.”
Her hand disappeared into a pocket, then she slipped me a lengthy strip of tickets.
“Why, Bliss, I could never–”
“Take them!” she whispered. “You’re quite a gentleman but still a man. I want you to have a good time, Howard. Just . . . don’t go to my tent.” She batted her luxuriant lashes. “And I’m so hoping you’ll stay awhile. I hope you can stay and see me again after my show’s over.”
“I shall do exactly that–”
Her expression intensified. “I’ll only be an hour.”
“Then an hour it is, Bliss. I’ll meet you here at that time.” The information seemed to elate her, while I was already more than elated by her desire to see me one last time. Before more parting words could be uttered, she kissed me quite passionately on the mouth, then ambled off on her crutches, disappearing beneath the canvas transom of the sinisterly named Red Walk.
Suddenly I stood alone behind the clamourous human tide, unnerved. Without Bliss’s company I
Other tents could less be described as “wonderful”; indeed, impressively grotesque was more along the mark. There was Betty, the Human Blood Vessel, or a relatively well-proportioned young woman wearing only tin cones over her nipples & the tiniest triangle of glittered fabric over her privates. What made her remarkable was this: a veritable outbreak of venousness, so complete that every square inch of exposed skin was webbed by beating blue veins; the deliberate coverage of her skin with oil intensified the effect to a gleaming hideousness. Next was a man who impossibly ejected both eyeballs from their sockets & switched them; & next, a woman billed to have been pregnant for seven years, her bare belly protruding no smaller than the volume of a medicine ball (Bliss later informed me that a benign tumor was responsible for her excessive abdominal girth, not pregnancy); & next, another performer I recalled from the advert: Cadaveressa, Revived From the Clutches of Death By African Magic! Espying this unfortunate woman in reality was far more disturbing than the sketched replication on the poster. She was literally a living skeleton, pallorescent skin stretched over bones, & a head like a skull dipped in pale waxen paint. The image was worsened by complete nudity, revealing emptied skin-flaps for breasts, & painfully jutting pelvic bones buttressing the fleshless groin & grim folium that could only be her sexual access-way. To Bliss I expressed my doubt that African Magic had anything to do with her condition but more than likely a willful abstinence from the consumption of food. “Oh, but, Howard,” Bliss explained. “Her real name’s Mary and she eats like a pig. It’s just that she upchucks it all afterwards.”
Charming.
Hence, the show’s promised “oddities of nature.” But then Bliss added as she crutched along, “You said you like weird things, Howard—”
“Weird tales of imagination, yes. It’s curious to ponder exactly why such things are fascinating to some.”
“Well, I just wanted to say, there’s more”–she seemed to be smiling crookedly, as though hesitant–“but for that, you’d have to go to the Red Walk.”
“The Red Walk?” I queried.
“The adults section. It’s where I work.”
We stood aside from the flow of boisterous passersby. Bliss pointed to a larger tent egress guarded on either side by stolid-faced musclemen. RED WALK — 25-CENT ADMISSION. This must be the part of the show which housed the peep tents that Nate had referred to. & prostitutes & other lewd displays. Where Bliss does her own show, I sadly recalled.
“But please don’t come to my tent, Howard,” she appended. “I wouldn’t feel right.”
“I would never circumvent your wishes, Bliss,” I assured her, remembering all-too-well Nate’s brow-arching description. “And as for the other attractions . . . well, weird or not, I’m afraid they’d rupture my financial situation.”
Her hand disappeared into a pocket, then she slipped me a lengthy strip of tickets.
“Why, Bliss, I could never–”
“Take them!” she whispered. “You’re quite a gentleman but still a man. I want you to have a good time, Howard. Just . . . don’t go to my tent.” She batted her luxuriant lashes. “And I’m so hoping you’ll stay awhile. I hope you can stay and see me again after my show’s over.”
“I shall do exactly that–”
Her expression intensified. “I’ll only be an hour.”
“Then an hour it is, Bliss. I’ll meet you here at that time.” The information seemed to elate her, while I was already more than elated by her desire to see me one last time. Before more parting words could be uttered, she kissed me quite passionately on the mouth, then ambled off on her crutches, disappearing beneath the canvas transom of the sinisterly named Red Walk.
Suddenly I stood alone behind the clamourous human tide, unnerved. Without Bliss’s company I
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