Maybe the Moon by Armistead Maupin Read Free Book Online Page B

Ithaca before she would tell him yes. Luther hocked his watch so he could buy her a ring, and they were married and sharing a room at the Culver by the time they got to Oz.
    When I asked Irene what they were paid as Munchkins, she just smiled and said: “Not as much as Toto.” This was the literal truth, it turned out, but she and Luther had been so enamored of the experience and each other, she said, that the money hadn’t mattered. She’d never counted on being an actress, anyway, so the whole thing had been gravy. She and Luther were really business people at heart, she insisted, which was why they’d done so well with their mail order service. And would I like to see their citizenship award from the Kiwanis Club?
    The Corsos knew only a handful of the surviving Munchkins. Three or four lived right there in Phoenix and showed up for LPA gatherings on an irregular basis. One was on their shit list: an old guy in a nursing home who’d boasted for years to anyone who’d listen that he’d been the Mayor of Munchkinland. He’d only been a soldier, Irene said, not the whiskered fellow with the big pocketwatch we all remember. This seemed a tame enough fib to me, but Irene said it had caused her great embarrassment, since reporters were always calling to ask about him. The real Mayor had been a friend of hers, she said, and he’d been dead for several years.
    The Corsos were even more annoyed at Judy Garland, though they still kept an autographed photo of her on their mantel. Irene said Judy had appeared on the Jack Paar show one night and made cruel remarks about the Munchkins, calling them drunks and lechers and generally getting a lot of cheap laughs at their expense. Their feelings had been hurt by that, she said, because Judy had once been so nice. The stories weren’t even true, but the myth of the degenerate Munchkins became so entrenched that Hollywood eventually made an unfunny movie about it, Under the Rainbow . They had to hire dwarfs to play the Munchkins, though, since, due to the miracles of modern science, there were no longer enough midgets to fill the roles.
    We spent about two hours in all at the Corsos’. As we were leaving, Irene gave me a ceremonial kiss and a framed poem about little people called “Small Blessings.” Afterwards Mom and I bought peanut butter milk shakes and took a long drive in the desert. She didn’t ask for my impression of the Corsos, so I stayed off the subject, knowing how easily her feelings were hurt. She was onto me, though, which was why she hadn’t asked, presumably, and she seemed gloomy and withdrawn for the rest of the trip.
    Looking back, I guess she’d expected me to bond with Irene and Luther, to exchange some secret tribal handshake and become their fairy godchild for life. At the very least she’d wanted me to feel less alone. Mom was like that. God knows I’d tried to oblige her, but the chemistry just wasn’t there. I felt more real kinship with the stoned Indian hippie who sold us the milk shakes at Dairy Queen than with those sad, oversized has-beens back at the tower.

    I bit the bullet and called the guy at PortaParty to make arrangements for my first gig. His name was Neil Riccarton, and hesounded friendly enough, though he had a twerpy little voice that reminded me of Kevin Costner. He told me to join the troupe (I liked the ring of that, so theatrical) in the parking lot of the shopping center at Sunset and Crescent Heights. From there we’d proceed to the party in the official PortaParty van. I couldn’t miss it, he said; there were clowns and balloons painted on the side. The gig was in Bel Air, at the home of an obstetrician.
    After some deliberation, I decided on a sort of Pierrette effect—black polyester with white ruffles at the neck and sleeves and big red buttons down the front. This would be eye-grabbing yet durable, good for repeat performances. I scrapped the traditional whiteface, sticking with my own makeup, since I knew it