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It was recently necessary that I send the following e-mail to a friend of mine:
Well, that explains it.
When I got off the subway this morning, one of the first things I noticed was that fully ninety percent of the people around me were scarcely over three feet tall. This 90% rate of hyper-dwarfism (“hyper,” because most little people are around four, not three, feet tall) is definitely not the norm here. But what was clear to me even then was that the rate of occurrence was only the surface of the odd vibe of this morning.
For instance, they were neither what you, Arthur, might think of as dwarves (those with regular-sized torsos and heads but truncated legs) nor midgets (proportionally “miniaturized” humans), but rather a sort of inverse dwarf – as in, their legs and arms were as long as most people’s, but their bodies and heads were severely pinched and stunted.
(I know a little bit about this inverse-dwarfism, incidentally. In the dwarf community, these types of dwarves are known as Imperials, and they were extremely popular in London in the 1920s. Imperials are like regular dwarves in that they are “normal” in terms of life expectancy, intelligence, emotional capacity, etc. Imperials are unlike regular dwarves in that they look ridiculous in suspenders.)
At any rate, what else seemed odd about the Imperials – beyond their preponderance – was how drawn we, the regular-heighted, were to be nice to them. Many of us complimented them on their suit jackets outright. I, personally, allowed four of them to pass ahead of me to the stairs, giving each a knowing nod as if to say, “Oh, obviously, you should go first – I’m sophisticated enough to know that.” (I, of course, am not nearly that sophisticated. In fact, I gawked like a yokel at how rapidly they seemed to get up those stairs, an illusion of speed due merely to proportion.)
It wasn’t simple politesse, though. When I got up the stairs, I noticed five specific storefronts had immense lines of the regular-heighted in front of them. The stores were: three banks, an antique dealer, and a jeweler. And the regular-heighted coming out of these businesses were handing over merchandise by the armload to the nearest Imperial. I considered how much I, personally, could afford to donate. (Thinking – obviously – as I did, “Donate?”) The figure eleven per cent took form in my head. 11%… So elongating… 11%... the ones of it, the percent sign that finishes it; all of it so… tall.
And then I had it! The oddness of the vibe was made complete by the fact that if you took the pinched and stunted faces of these Imperials and somehow stretched them out, they would look exactly like you, Arthur! Every one of them, the spitting image of you except that they each wore a different anchorman’s wig!
Reading your e-mail this afternoon explained to me how this all came about. Yes, when you happened to mix that wart that fell off your foot, that spider and your hair and blood in the toilet, you did inadvertently perform a voodoo rite on yourself. This is very dangerous, Arthur, for while this army of Imperials laden with 11% of New York’s personal holdings marching west to Seattle might seem like a good thing, I can’t help fearing that it might not be. What if when they get there they just keep placing goods and cash atop you until you are crushed? What if your severe mega-wealth makes those close to you a target for kidnappers? What if it’s not just New York where this is happening? What if it’s also in places like Tokyo, where the currency is difficult to read?
Keep in touch, Arthur. You’ve always been a good friend and later I might want to borrow some antique jewelry full of money.
Yours,
Cosimo Kwako
When I got off the subway this morning, one of the first things I noticed was that fully ninety percent of the people around me were scarcely over three feet tall. This 90% rate of hyper-dwarfism (“hyper,” because most little people are around four, not three, feet tall) is definitely not the norm here. But what was clear to me even then was that the rate of occurrence was only the surface of the odd vibe of this morning.
For instance, they were neither what you, Arthur, might think of as dwarves (those with regular-sized torsos and heads but truncated legs) nor midgets (proportionally “miniaturized” humans), but rather a sort of inverse dwarf – as in, their legs and arms were as long as most people’s, but their bodies and heads were severely pinched and stunted.
(I know a little bit about this inverse-dwarfism, incidentally. In the dwarf community, these types of dwarves are known as Imperials, and they were extremely popular in London in the 1920s. Imperials are like regular dwarves in that they are “normal” in terms of life expectancy, intelligence, emotional capacity, etc. Imperials are unlike regular dwarves in that they look ridiculous in suspenders.)
At any rate, what else seemed odd about the Imperials – beyond their preponderance – was how drawn we, the regular-heighted, were to be nice to them. Many of us complimented them on their suit jackets outright. I, personally, allowed four of them to pass ahead of me to the stairs, giving each a knowing nod as if to say, “Oh, obviously, you should go first – I’m sophisticated enough to know that.” (I, of course, am not nearly that sophisticated. In fact, I gawked like a yokel at how rapidly they seemed to get up those stairs, an illusion of speed due merely to proportion.)
It wasn’t simple politesse, though. When I got up the stairs, I noticed five specific storefronts had immense lines of the regular-heighted in front of them. The stores were: three banks, an antique dealer, and a jeweler. And the regular-heighted coming out of these businesses were handing over merchandise by the armload to the nearest Imperial. I considered how much I, personally, could afford to donate. (Thinking – obviously – as I did, “Donate?”) The figure eleven per cent took form in my head. 11%… So elongating… 11%... the ones of it, the percent sign that finishes it; all of it so… tall.
And then I had it! The oddness of the vibe was made complete by the fact that if you took the pinched and stunted faces of these Imperials and somehow stretched them out, they would look exactly like you, Arthur! Every one of them, the spitting image of you except that they each wore a different anchorman’s wig!
Reading your e-mail this afternoon explained to me how this all came about. Yes, when you happened to mix that wart that fell off your foot, that spider and your hair and blood in the toilet, you did inadvertently perform a voodoo rite on yourself. This is very dangerous, Arthur, for while this army of Imperials laden with 11% of New York’s personal holdings marching west to Seattle might seem like a good thing, I can’t help fearing that it might not be. What if when they get there they just keep placing goods and cash atop you until you are crushed? What if your severe mega-wealth makes those close to you a target for kidnappers? What if it’s not just New York where this is happening? What if it’s also in places like Tokyo, where the currency is difficult to read?
Keep in touch, Arthur. You’ve always been a good friend and later I might want to borrow some antique jewelry full of money.
Yours,
Cosimo Kwako