been there was a painting of a swirl of frost, thick as whipping cream. An orgasmic explosion, perhaps.
Bill couldn’t help but wonder if you saw the Ice Man in person, you got to see his dick or not. Was he wearing Fruit of the Looms? A jock strap? A towel? Or was he in the raw with a dick the size of an anaconda? Or maybe he had a dick like an acorn. Bill remembered a boy in his PE class like that. A great big burly sonofabitch who spent his time pushing everyone else around, and one day, in the shower, Bill saw the source of the bully’s anger. He had a wart for a dick. Even hard, Bill figured that dude’s hole puncher couldn’t have been much bigger than a baby carrot. A thing like that could give you a pissed-off attitude.
The bully saw him seeing that, and later that day the bully pushed him around. Bill smiled at him, and they both knew what the smile was about. The bully walloped him, but after that left him alone and sometimes didn’t shower, but went to class smelling like the south end of a goat, his dirty little baby pecker tucked into oversized underwear.
Bill walked around to the door of the trailer. The metal steps beneath the door were hoisted up and bolted into place. On the door there was another painting of the Ice Man. He was supposed to be lying down in his ice, but the way the painting looked, filling the door, it seemed as if the Ice Man was standing upright in a block of ice. The hair looked different in this painting, and the art was a little weak in spots, as if the painter had been in a hurry to collect his fee and get drunk. The body was hairier, and the eyes were crossed; they seemed to look at Bill no matter where he stood. It gave him the creeps.
Bill wondered what was inside the trailer. He wondered if the Ice Man was a freak. Or an act. Or if it was some kind of display made of chunks of rubber.
He ambled around the trailer and put his hand on its side. It was cold. It felt good in the East Texas muggy morning, and Bill kept his hand there for a long time, as if drawing energy from it. He leaned his face against the trailer, and that felt even better.
Finally he strolled around and came face-to-face with Rex the Wonder Dog. Or rather crotch to face. Wonder Dog was moving about on all fours.
Rex, or Conrad, was wearing red overalls and he sat back on his haunches, looking at Bill. The dog-man’s shock of black hair was plastered to his head and his little mustache appeared to be oiled; it was shedding water. The hair in his ears was wet and dripping downward, like poisoned plants. At first Bill thought the Wonder Dog, like himself, had been out in the rain, but he soon realized the Wonder Dog’s outfit was dry and his mustache was waxed, and that he had most likely come fresh from the shower.
Bill had a hard time envisioning that. The dog-man in the shower.
The Wonder Dog turned his head to the left and studied Bill. Bill did not like the Wonder Dog’s eyes, which at one moment seemed gray, another blue, and another green. And that face, elongated like that, the lips dark and the chin nonexistent, it was creepy as a masturbating fat girl on a nude beach.
“My name is Conrad,” said the Wonder Dog in his gravelly voice.
“Mine’s Bill.”
“Will you be staying?”
“Well, I suppose,” Bill said. “For a while. Not long.”
“It’s not bad here,” Conrad said. “Things change now and then, but all in all it’s the same, and the same isn’t bad.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good,” said Conrad. He raised up his back legs and dropped his arms to the ground and wandered off. Bill watched him go, surprised he had no tail.
A few minutes later the campground was buzzing. The pointy heads and the meat heads and the fat lady with the beard and some other folks with oddities Bill couldn’t quite categorize were moving about. They seemed to come out of their trailers all at once. A moment later, a big kerosene stove was dragged out of one trailer by folks Bill had not seen before, a couple of black twins connected at the shoulder, with one set of legs between them. The head on the left leaned to port.
The appearance of the two made Bill think of a character on a television show he’d watched as a kid. The Little Rascals, it was called first, but later they changed it to Spanky and Our Gang. The show had been old even when he was a kid. A grown-up Buckwheat, he looked like. They looked like. Double Buckwheat.
Out of another trailer came two long tables, carried by the pointy heads and the meat heads. The midgets, including the one he had seen the day before in the porkpie, appeared, carrying bowls, pans, and silverware. The midgets had an attitude about them that made you think they might break down and start cussing and throwing things at any moment.
The stove was fired up by a fellow that looked to be made of coat hangers and a thin coating of flesh. When Skinny got the grease in the frying pan going, eggs were cracked by the meat heads and dumped into the pan and the pancake batter was whipped by the pointy heads and poured onto buttered griddles. The fat lady with the beard began to flip and cook the pancakes and took over the egg chores from the meat heads. Conrad made an appearance, rearing up on his hind legs to stand at the stove and talk to the fat lady.
Skinny found a camp stool and a pack of cigarettes and began to smoke and look off thoughtfully into the bright damp morning, as if everything he might ever need to do had just been done.
It all went like clockwork. Flipping pancakes, whipping eggs, pouring milk. Soon the table was set and Frost came out of his trailer. Everyone exchanged good mornings, then Frost saw Bill standing near the Ice Man’s trailer and waved him over.
Frost slapped a spot on the plank table’s seat, and Bill sat there and the fat lady with the beard put plates heaped with pancakes and eggs in front of them.
In time more people came out of trailers, and many of them appeared normal, just fat or tattooed or tired- looking.
Soon everyone but the pretty blonde, who had not shown herself this morning, was seated at the tables. A prayer was said by one of the meat heads that sounded as if he were gargling stew, then the eating began. Everything was mannerly and neat. Forks and napkins and pass this and thank you please. Neat except for Double Buckwheat, who Bill now realized were retards. They banged heads and gnawed at the same pancake and were soon covered in syrup and had egg in their hair. Moments later, they were rolling in the dying grass slapping at each other as if attacking flies.
They grunted and cussed and called each other nigger this and nigger that, and kept rolling and slapping. They were ignored by the others, and in time the fighting stopped; the retards, now not only coated in syrup and eggs but covered in grass and dirt and stray ants, returned to the table and went about fighting over a fresh pancake and a glass of milk, which ended up spilled and flowing across the table.
Pretty soon the pair were tumbling across the grass again, cussing, grunting, and calling each other nigger.
The fat lady with the beard produced a towel and mopped up the milk, then wrung the towel out on the ground, coiled it, and popped it at the retards, hitting one in the throat.
“Settle down, now,” she said, and they went at it more slowly for a while, but they didn’t stop.
“One hurts the other,” Bill asked Frost, “does it hurt both of them?”
“Yes,” said Frost, eating a bite of pancake. “They are two but are one. They seem to like fighting. It’s something they do. Every morning. Every meal. And sometimes between meals. You get used to it.”
Bill thought: Not goddamn likely.
Twelve
Bill found the freaks distracting. The two rolling around on the ground, bathed in syrup and eggs and milk and grass, did nothing for his appetite either.
Frost grabbed Bill’s arm and smiled at him. Bill was surprised to find that Frost had a powerful grip. He looked somewhat doughy, and the white hair, blue eyes, pale skin, and occasional flush of red on his face made him seem soft and weak, but he was actually quite strong. A beardless Santa on steroids.
Frost said, “The swelling on your face has gone down slightly.”
Bill had forgotten about his face. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t even itch. Without thinking, he raised a hand to his
