Typecasting Read Free Page A

them. Her last few steps were a trot. She hugged Louise and then Bill. “Sometimes I forget there are people as big as you, Daddy,” she said.
    â€œHere I am, such as I am,” Bill said. “Sometimes I forget there are people bigger than I am. I was looking up to the Yeti Lama every which way last summer. He’s the only really holy person I ever met—and he’s six inches taller than me.” Maybe that had to do with the great-grandmother he’d never met. Maybe yetis averaged taller than their North American cousins. Or maybe the Yeti Lama was just a great big fellow and Bill not so much.
    His daughter pointed toward Gepetto’s front door. “Let’s eat,” she said. “They do pretty good burgers, and their wontons are great.”
    â€œWorks for me. I bet I could eat one ton of them all by myself.” Bill pronounced the weight so it sounded like the Chinese dish. Louise and Nicole both groaned. They knew that, tall as he was, he had a low taste for puns. He had to work hard not to let it out where it could alarm his constituents.
    â€œGovernor Williamson!” exclaimed the middle-aged woman at a lectern who seated people. “You’ll want a table set up for big people, won’t you?”
    â€œYes, please, if you have one,” he said.
    â€œWe sure do. Right this way.” She scooped up menus and led them to a table and chairs that suited their size. No trouble with the Equal Accommodations Act here—and Bill wouldn’t need to worry about where to put his knees.
    The waitress who took their orders was short even by little-people standards. Bill needed a moment to notice that; all little people, even basketball players, seemed short to him. He saw she was cute right away. Living in the wider culture his whole life made him as much aware of attractive little-people females as his own kind. He was happy with Louise, so he’d never done anything more than notice. The waitress’ head hair almost matched his own russet pelt, which was interesting and uncommon among her kind.
    When the food came, they spent a while giving the hamburgers and wontons and fries and shakes the attention they deserved. After a while, happily replete, Bill asked, “How’s the play coming along?”
    Louise shot him a warning glance. Like most such, it arrived too late. Nicole’s face clouded over. “Pretty bad,” she said. “You know I’m one of the best at the school.”
    â€œUh-huh.” Bill nodded. He did know that. Quietly and without any fuss, he’d made it a point to find out. He also knew it would do his daughter less good than she hoped once she left the friendly confines of Jefferson State Ashland. He ate a few more french fries. Then he said, “So?”
    â€œSo we’re doing The Tempest , right?” Nicole spoke to him as if sure he was none too bright: the tone that always did so much to endear the rising generation to its elders. “So I was hoping they’d cast me for Miranda. But the director isn’t a JSA guy. The Shakespeare Festival brought him in—he’s from Pittsburgh , for crying out loud.” She stopped, too disgusted to go on.
    â€œSo what part did he give you?” Bill asked, fearing he knew the answer before he heard it. And he did.
    â€œCaliban!” His daughter spat out the name with so much venom, several little people’s heads whipped around. In a slightly—but only slightly—softer voice, she went on, “Talk about stereotyping! My God!” She made as if to clap her hands to her head. But her fingers were greasy, so she didn’t.
    â€œYou see what I mean,” Louise said.
    Bill nodded unhappily. “Who’s playing Miranda, then?” he asked.
    â€œJackie van Herpen,” Nicole replied.
    â€œShe any good?”
    His daughter turned her right thumb toward the floor. Vespasian couldn’t have done it with more imperial