My take on an old joke...

You'll recognize the punch line:

Joey the midget was having a bad night. He was part of the regular crew at Flannery's, an old-school bar that was the sort of place that would have been called a gin joint years ago. There was a TV that no one really watched, and a dusty jukebox that still had 45's, a real antique. Maybe it still worked, but no one was interested. Flannery's was the last stop before that long walk home, a place for drink and smoke. My kind of place, where you could learn real lessons about the American Dream.

Joey was drinking whiskey, always a bad sign, since whiskey took him to the dark places inside, places no man should have to go alone. It was still early, so I decided to pull up a stool next to his, see where his ride was taking him tonight.

"I see you're still a house brand sort of guy," I said, offering him a cigarette.

"The top shelf stuff is for fools," he said, taking the smoke. "Cheap stuff takes me where I'm going just the same. What once was taste is now economics."

"You're a cheap bastard, Joey." I lit my own smoke, looking around the bar. Slow weeknight, too early for the strippers who came in for nightcaps after their shifts at Alley Cat's and The Carousel up the street. Just the regulars in a place where everyone knew your name, but never really spoke it aloud.

"I am the very model of a modern major drunkard," he said, a little more bitter than usual, and I could see that the whiskey already had him well down that path, another long, dark night.

Lou the Bartender wandered up, freshened the midget's drink without a word. I admired his efficiency.

We sat and smoked, listening to the clink of glasses, murmurs of conversation coming from the dimly-lit booths against the far wall. Joey then looked up. "Doc? I ever tell you I used to be in show business?"

"Maybe. Talking about when you used to work at the adult arcade, selling stroke books and peep show tokens?"

"Not that shit. I'm talking about when I was a kid. The whole family was in the business. We had an act."

"What kind of act? Singing, dancing, that sort of thing?"

He knocked back his drink in one gulp, turned to face me a little. "Nothing like that. It was something else." He shook his head. "I didn't know how fuckin' sick it was at the time. I was a kid, you know. The old man had some weird ideas about entertainment."

"Your folks were immigrants, weren't they?"

"Grandparents were from the old country. That's where the act started, back in one of those old Communist bloc shitholes." He signaled to Lou for another round. "Want that Chivas freshened?"

"Yeah." I motioned for the barkeep to make it two. "So what was this act?"

"Let's wait for the drinks."

The drinks came, then another round. More cigarettes. Joey was hunkered down now, sitting low over his glass and ashtray, gathering his thoughts. I was starting to lose a little patience, but I wanted to hear about The Act.

Finally, he looked up again. "The family left the old country...fled the old country...hit the United States with the clothes they were wearing. Only other thing they had, only other thing they knew, was The Act."

"Pop was just a kid then, him and his sister, my Aunt Sofia. Gramps and Nana used them in The Act. Barely knew any English, but they traveled all over, performing for anyone who'd give them a few feet of space and access to some farm animals."

"Farm animals?" This sounded like it might be taking a weird turn.

"When they were lucky. If there were no animals, it was up to the kids. After me and Silvio, and later Annie, were born, it was up to us."

"What kind of twisted shit are you talking about, Joey? I'm a Doctor of Divinity, you evil troll..."

"I'm getting to it," he growled. "I'm telling you about The Act. Gimme another smoke."

"Okay, but no more drinks for you. You're losing grip."

"I lost my grip a long time ago, you fucking hillbilly. Anyway...Gramps and Nana got too old to do The Act anymore, so Pop and Mom and Aunt Sofia got us kids into the biz. And since I was born like this..." He gestured to himself, wobbling a little on his stool. "Well, our little freak show had a real freak. I was a fuckin' meal ticket, the star of The Act."

"Enough," I said, turning to face the drunk midget. "This Act...are you gonna tell me what it was?"

Eyes watery, barely focused. "Yeah. I'll tell you what it was..."

Joey told me the whole story, a tale of depravity I couldn't have prepared for. The children, the animals, all those bodily fluids...it was a nightmare of sickness, an American Dream gone terribly wrong. And it starred Joey the midget, the young King Hell freak who barely understood the things he was doing to his baby brother, later a baby sister, and all those chickens. I thought the monkey was a cruel, but inventive, touch. He found out years later that he and his siblings were all inbred, born to his father and his Aunt Sofia. The woman he believed to be his mother was left unable to bear children after the nasty plate-spinning routine was added to The Act.

The Act broke up for good after Joey's father added a horse to the show. The beast was a natural performer, but Joey's old man just wasn't as ready as he thought he was. By then, Gramps was dead and Nana too far gone in senility to take stage direction, and everyone simply drifted away.

I lit a fresh smoke, motioned to Lou for my tab. Joey was quiet now, staring at the bottom of his empty glass as he dug in his pocket for a few bills. I stopped him. "This one's on me."

"Appreciate it," he mumbled as he slid from his stool.

We stood there for a moment. The strippers from up the street were starting to filter in, tough and tired-looking women with almost as many issues as Joey. No one really noticed them anymore.

I slid on my coat. "Need a ride?" I asked.

"Naw. Think I'll hoof it, Doc."

"Up to you," I said, taking my cigarettes from the bar. "You know, I got one more question."

"Sure. What the fuck, eh?"

"This act...what was it called?"

He smiled a little, the smile of a man who has seen things that would peel apart the strongest dream, strip it bare and reveal the ugly inside that we all have and try to hide. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out an old business card, placed it on his barstool as he walked away. I picked it up.

In fancy cursive script, the card read simply "The Aristocrats." I didn't get it.

I shook my head as Joey walked out the door without looking back.

Slipping the card into a jacket pocket, I followed him out.

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