Mr. and Mrs. Blanton hoped that their boy, Arnold, would grow up - not in any sense of maturity but just physical. stature. He was marked for shortness at birth, was always below average as he moved through his toddler years, and seemed to have stopped growing when he was ten.
Somehow the boy's abnormal size twisted his other senses of proportion, and he became overweight - fat and ungainly. With every year he gained even more weight until he was unfittable - the sizes for older boys flapped on him like a tent but cinched him tight in the waist. As hard as Mr. Finkelstein the tailor tried, altered garments looked like clown suits, bunched at the knees, far too short, and accentuating the boy's Jabba the Hut neck.
Worst of all, the boy was ugly. God had been unjustly unkind when he created little Arnold, for there were no redeeming features in the child's face. Even as a baby, friends, family, and neighbors could not gin up any thing more than a ‘What a baby!' when shown the infant. As he grew older, the hoped for moderation in his features never materialized. His eyes stayed too close together, his mouth too large, his ears floppy and elephantine, and his nose....
It was some consolation to the Blantons that the boy was smart, a whiz with numbers, and an uncannily logical mind. He was making sense of Fermat's Last Theorem when other boys were still on the nine times tables. The little tyke was a genius, said his third grade teacher, and must be given all the support his parents could muster.
And so it was that Arnold benefitted from tutors, the Russian School Of Advanced Mathematics, and a fast track through the public school system.
Now, children being what they are - nasty, cruel, horrible little blighters - Arnold was teased mercilessly. Even the constant reminders of inclusivity did nothing to mitigate the taunts of his classmates.
Of course, this was all par for the course - human society is built to marginalize 'the other', to assure that its average is not lowered, that the gene pool remains intact - but because poor Arnold was a trifecta of 'the other', short, fat, and ugly, he was a particularly easy target.
His parents commiserated with him and gave him all the love and the support they could. He would make his way despite God's unfortunate measure. Besides, Robert Reich, a Cabinet Secretary in the Clinton Administration, was an ugly Jewish dwarf but went on to become a notable progressive and Harvard professor. Danny DeVito, a fat, ugly, and short Hollywood actor had not let his physical appearance stop him; and neither one of these men had Arnold's genius.
As with many particularly endowed people of high intelligence, Arnold became quickly bored with purely intellectual pursuits, and by the time he graduated from Harvard (the university in its halcyon years of diversity were delighted to check many boxes upon his matriculation), he was on his way financial success.
His ease and familiarity with mathematics, statistics, and the most complex accounting procedures allowed him to penetrate the inner workings of the market and come up with innovative financial instruments of which Jefferey Skilling of Enron would be proud.
Who was this Harvard geek that was making so much money, Wall Street wondered? but Arnold kept his own counsel and a basement apartment on Harvard Square and cranked out sophisticated financial algorithms that few could understand.
Few knew that this ugly clot, crabbing his way up the stairs to the street, shopping only from the bottom shelves of the supermarket, and wearing outrageous clown suits, was making money hand over fist. So much so, that his Aruba and Bimini bank accounts were overflowing.
'A sucker is born every minute', said Arnold, repeating he famous words of P.T. Barnum, circus impresario, and so it was that Arnold's legal financial wizardry turned into a somewhat less respectable variety.
Flying under FTC, SEC, and Treasury Department radar, he reaped millions before he was twenty-five. He was Skilling, Madoff, and Kurniawan (the brilliant Indonesian wine fraudster) all rolled up into one and then some.
He of course could not see over the steering wheel of a normal Porsche or touch the accelerator or brake pedals, so he special ordered his Carrera with all the gizmos which would enable him to tool around town just like any normal man. Arnold wanted a Lamborghini, and he certainly could afford one, but the Porsche offered him style, performance, and cachet while not attracting too much unwanted attention.
There were not a few women who, like many, were quite willing to overlook Arnold's peculiarities for his money. The Porsche and some nicely tailored clothes did not scream wealth, but suggested it, so there might be something in it for these women after all.
Not exactly tarts, but certainly open to a sexual libertinage if it meant some financial gain, these women proved the right kind of consort for the upwardly mobile Arnold who was not out for intelligence, class, or sophistication in a woman, but sex.
Such financial wizardry cannot for long be unnoticed by those in the business who were as canny about their creative instruments as Arnold, and it was soon he was courted by the country's greatest snake oil salesmen - men who, like Arnold, had figured out Wall Street equities, investment, and operations and done marvelous end-arounds to make semi-legal millions. A partnership with him could pay vast rewards.
In a series of clandestine, very well-guarded meetings, these Wall Street operatives made their pitch to which Arnold demurred. He was better off on his own, more independent, operating with more flexibility, and less apt for discovery. He knew that by refusing these magnates' offers he would become their adversary if not their enemy, but confident of his intelligence and innate capabilities, he was not worried.
Arnold became The Man To See, a man of canny, financial genius - able to make millions under the noses of the feds and the pukka investment banks on Wall Street. He was at once admired, feared, and emulated. If this fuckin' dwarf could do it, why not them?
Ironically it was Arnold's physical misfortune which propelled ordinary-looking bankers to unsuspected enterprise. Whenever Arnold was seen rolling - for that was exactly what it was, this undersized, misshapen, poorly-dimensioned freak bobbing and weaving his way - into 21, Max's Kansas City, Chez Benedetto, or any of the other New York watering holes, observers felt nothing but jealousy, fierce intimidation, and competition.
A triumph for inclusive multiculturalism! suggested one of Washington's progressive claques who valued diversity over honesty, such was Arnold's successful chicanery and the marvelously fabulist ideology of the Left.
In a way, it was indeed a triumph, for whatever grotesque, malformed, morbidly obese, ugly American could have possibly done what Arnold had? His freak show grotesquerie disappeared in a flood of dollars, euros, renminbi, and yen.
When was it time to emerge from the penumbra, Arnold wondered? While he enjoyed the favor of his harem of concubines, he had not yet reached the bigtime. Only marriage with one of Boston's finest young heiresses of old money would do - a Park Avenue penthouse, homes on the islands and a winter retreat in Gstaad, in-laws descended from the dukes of Northampton and Gloucestershire.
Only when his shorts bunched in his crotch, or when someone had put the foie gras on the top shelf of the refrigerator, or when he caught sight of himself in the hall mirror, did he have doubts about his future.
When would the scrim, the ornate Victorian curtains, the fabulously operatic stage settings be struck to leave him alone, fat, and ugly in the wings? Wasn't it all a charade? Didn't he have to pay the fiddler for his untimely and surprising success?
With his investments on autopilot, millions pouring in to his offshore accounts, his equities hitting near record levels, and his tax liability down to zero thanks to an equally canny accountant, Arnold still felt unsatisfied. Was he so common as to look for a marriage dwarf? Someone as misshapen, bloated, and fish-head ugly as he?
No, he was destined for a tall, blue-eyed, beautiful maiden of impeccable credentials who so far had eluded him. It was his due, his legacy, his fortune.
If this story were true progressive fantasy, then Arnold's physical misfortune would make no difference to women who would love him. Inclusivity means total, abject, unquestioning acceptance.
Unfortunately, the reverse is true - nobody loves a dwarf, a cripple, or a retard no matter how much money they have; so Arnold had to do with the finest of commercially available women.
Madame Stoner's establishment on K Street had been in business for years, catering to the Congressional trade, and so Arnold was never without a consort - women who had been trained not to wince and grimace when the likes of him crawled on top of them. On the contrary, they saved their best moans and groans for him, and the suspension of disbelief being what it is, both partners walked away happy.
So, a misshapen, ugly, fat dwarf can indeed make his way in America and do quite well; but there are limits for even the most devoted inclusivist. Arnold by any measure was at the very bottom of the human genetic chain, and the fact that he had a lively brain didn't matter in the least.
When he died many years later and left a significant estate to no one in particular, leaving it to probate lawyers to squirrel through the codicils and clauses since he had no heirs nor named legatees, few were surprised. He did the best he could in life, and no one should feel sorry for him.
'May the crows feast' were the words etched on his gravestone, an indecipherable epitaph which many regarded as a 'Fuck you', but others thought a pithy reflection on life.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.