Four Feet Tall and Rising Read Free Page A

fucking teeth?” Mom woke upand whispered to me, “Don’t wake your father.” I knew I was in serious trouble, but I didn’t care. I wanted an answer. I kept yelling, “Mom! Smile! Open your mouth!” until she finally did. Then I knew the truth. Dad had no teeth. When he woke up, I got a serious whipping. It was totally worth it. For the rest of our lives, every time I wanted to piss him off, I’d goad him with a “What’s the matter? You put Preparation H on your dentures this morning? ”
    My parents decided to take me to Little People of America events so I could meet other Little People and their families. These events started back in 1957 when Billy Barty got on TV and made a national public appeal for all Little People in America to join him for a gathering in Reno, Nevada. Twenty Little People showed up and Little People of America was formed.
    The basic mission of that nonprofit group was, and still is, to organize parties and gatherings where people under four foot ten can meet. They also do parent and peer support, adoption, medical education, scholarships, and grants. They also publish a national newsletter so everyone can brag about themselves or gossip about each other. In all, Little People of America has about seven thousand members with some seventy local chapters that meet on a regular basis.
    Dad hated the events, as he was in complete denial about being a Little Person, but Mom must have convinced him I needed a wider community of support. She thought maybe the camaraderie would help me settle down and stop being such a menace. I made a friend named Danny Norvall. Helived in Van Nuys. We went to a Little People BBQ on Labor Day and a Little People Christmas party. My dad drew the line at the annual Little People Convention. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized the convention was a booze- and fuck-fest. If I’d known that earlier, I probably would have begged to go, but by the time junior high school rolled around, I wanted no part of the Little People community. Everybody just sat around complaining about how miserable they were physically or how hard school had been for them. To make matters worse, everybody gossiped about everybody else. If a Little Person farted in L.A., another Little Person in New York heard about it.
    I found no comfort among my people. Where I found comfort was among animals. My sister Janet had a dog named Pepe, a mutt who’d been around before I was even born. Pepe was diagnosed with a tumor, and Dad was too cheap to pay for the surgery, so we buried Pepe in the backyard. It wasn’t a traumatic loss for me. Pepe had always been Janet’s dog.
    Then Mom bought a chocolate brown Doberman and named her Coco. She was a beautiful dog. She had a sleek coat and light brown “boots” on each of her four paws. I loved that she would nuzzle her warm brown nose against my neck and stare at me with her soulful eyes. The fur around her eyes was lighter and made her look as if she had brows.
    Dad may have been too cheap to save Pepe’s life, but somehow he found the money to crop poor Coco’s ears. I was flabbergasted that he agreed to spend that money on a dog. He was so tight; he couldn’t shit a greased BB. We’d go to a restaurantand he’d leave forty-three cents on the table. I knew we’d never be able to go back there, or they would spit in our food. He saved every penny he made, out of fear. He was terrified that medically something would happen, and he’d be broke. So I was shocked when he even willingly paid for Mom to take Coco to obedience training.
    When Dad was around, Coco was never allowed inside the house, though I’d sneak her in occasionally so we could sit on the brown plaid couch and watch TV together. I got close to Coco. I played with her in the backyard. When things got heated in the house, I’d crawl into the wooden doghouse beside her and fall asleep. It was pretty comfortable with all the blankets I put in there for her bedding. Coco