OUTSIDE LINKS   Little People of America, Inc. You should definitely write about dwarfs. It could maybe be a cautionary fable about voyeurism. --Mike Srinivasa Ramanujan, ace mathematician and cricket legend, once noticed, while he was seriously ill, that the license plate number of a taxi, 1729, was the smallest number that can be expressed as the sum of two cubes in two different ways (123 + 13 = 103 + 93 = 1729). Me? I notice dwarfs. This uncanny ability came to light last summer while I was in Seattle for a friend's wedding. Many other friends were there, and, in the course of conversation, I mentioned that I'd only been seeing one or two dwarfs a week all summer, as I'd been spending a lot of time at home. One or two dwarfs a week? My friends were shocked. They seemed to think that the average person was lucky to see one or two dwarfs a year, and that I must surely be exaggerating. What could explain such a huge dwarf factor? They patiently explained that not everyone shorter than me was necessarily a dwarf, and I patiently replied that I knew that already, and probably understood dwarfism better than they, seeing as how they lived sad, dwarf-deprived lives. The next day, a group of us went to "A Bite of Seattle," where we were buffeted by the hungry crowd and frustrated by the high cost of apperizers. When we returned to our car, I bared my soul. "Did any of you see any . . . dwarfs?" I asked. "No," my friends grinned, "did you?" Two dwarfs. My claim was met with ridicule turning to awe. Two dwarfs? Yes, and a third person who may have been a dwarf, but looked more like a midget from where I stood. The crowd was silenced. My friends realized that they were in the presence of supernatural powers that they dare not tempt. These incidents in Seattle made me more aware of my precious gift, and soon I began to compile a weekly dwarf total. This total grew and grew, from two dwarfs a week, to three, and finally peaking at four, where it stayed for months. Hmmm. I was walking through a church parking lot one Wednesday night when a man pulled a gun on me. He quickly holstered the weapon when he saw I was harmless: "Sorry about that. You scared me. See, I'm a cop in Camden . . ." I didn't realize he even had a gun until it was back in his holster; I'd been looking at the shape of his head and thinking "this guy is kinda short . . ." Dwarf-lust had seized my heart. I announced to the public that my days of dwarf-spotting were over, but my visual cortex never got the message. My eyes continued to scan everyone I saw for slight signs of deformity. No longer could I enjoy walking the streets, leering at attractive women--their legs and faces couldn't hold my attention unless they provided clear signs of dwarfism. I became less and less interested in going to concerts or movies, preferring to stay outside on the street while my friends had fun. How many dwarfs could I see in a dark theater? My life was out of control. I was obsessed with outward appearances, obsessed with the slight peculiarities of others' lives. One Friday, I made the decision. I was not going out. I would stay in my apartment, sealed off from the world, until I had destroyed the voyeuristic cancer within me. I turned my thoughts inward, looking for the cause of this disease. How could I have such a crude interest in physical abnormality? Didn't I have enough to do without subjecting others to my cold, scrutinizing gaze? I wonder who's playing tonight? Check the paper. Hey, that sounds like a good show. You going into Philly tonight? I saw something interesing in the paper. We should . . . The epiphany came and went too fast for me to mark its passing, and I haven't seen a dwarf since. This is not to say that I haven't seen anyone short, or anyone who seemed to have some skeletal abnormalities. I still notice physical flaws with creepy skill. The thing is, everyone I see seems to have slightly short limbs, or a slightly misshapen head, or a slightly twisted frame. So are all these folks dwarfs? Looks that way to me. This is no cautionary fable, pal. This is the tale of a man who opened his eyes so wide he went blind.

--Mike B.

graphics by Tricia G.