Emily stood in the middle of the midway, and looked up and down the rows of tents one last time. She had enjoyed the privileged experience of seeing a small-town traveling circus without the crowds of customers. Of course, there was plenty of hustle and bustle as folks got the place ready for another day. The gates were going to open in thirty minutes. Soon, the tents would be filled with the residents of Libertyville and other neighboring towns. But for now, she was the only non-carny on the premises. Emily felt the sense of satisfaction that comes from a job well-done. She had done it; showed up as a stranger, a woman no less, and managed to get interviews with everyone she had wanted to talk to. It had cost her two dollars—a fortune to her—but all in the good cause of science and progress. Now, she was ready to head back to the train station, and from there, home to Chicago.
She was halfway to the exit when the resident barker, a small fat man in a bright checkered vest stepped out from one of the tents in front of her. Her first thought was, no, sirree; that ten was all you’re going to get.
The barker smiled, and boomed in his too-loud voice, “The Wild Man asked to see you.”
“But I did not ask to meet him,” she said as evenly as she could.
The barker laughed a big laugh that matched his barker’s lungs. “You should see your face! Don’t worry. He’s already had his breakfast,” he said.
Emily Beaumont, aged 22, a trained volunteer field worker for the Eugenics Record Office (headquarters: Oyster Bay, Long Island), did not appreciate being laughed that. She had had enough of that at home from her girlfriends, when she announced her intention to join the eugenics movement and devote her free time to improving the future of the human species. She had joined the year before, in 1926, which struck her as especially fitting, it being the start of the second quarter of this indubitably bright and scientific century. Remembering the adversity she had faced gave her the courage she needed. “I’m not worried,” she said. “Where is he?”
The barker pointed to the last tent, farthest from the entrance. “The one marked ‘Private, Employees Only.’ Just knock on the door.”
Emily nodded, and walked by him. As she passed the tent where The Wild Man performed, she looked for a second time at the crude but effective banners advertising for the brave and foolhardy what they lay within. They were decorated with grotesque images of a monstrous beast with long black hair and fangs, and huge letters which read, “Wild Man! The Teutonic Beast Straight from The Black Forest! Eats Live Rats Whole! Enter If You Dare!” She had not been frightened, of course, but neither had she asked to interview him. There was something about the look of the paintings that, as crude they were, reminded her of childhood fears of what might live in the shadows in abandoned houses and passing alleys.
She stopped outside the employees’ tent, took a deep breath and willed herself to lift the tent flap. He can’t be any worse than the pinhead or the bearded lady, she thought. Can he? If he looks anything like that illustration…. She thought of turning and leaving. After all, she had already gotten five interviews, and four of the subjects had agreed to be photographed. They would be impressed by that at the main office in Oyster Bay. She was sure of it. Ever since the president and board members of the ERO had visited Coney Island, they had encouraged field workers around the country to inspect sideshows wherever they were. “Fertile ground for our cause if ever there were any,” the article in the Eugenics News had stated. So, when she saw the advertisement in the paper for the traveling circus with a sideshow passing through Libertyville, she had made sure not to miss it. She was confident that this time her work would merit a short mention in the next issue. She lifted the flap and entered.
The inside of the tent was dark and its glowing walls made strange silhouettes of every object in the room. Emily couldn’t see anyone or hear anything, just the noises outside as the circus started gearing up for the day. “Hello?” Her voice sounded small, frightened. Her irritation upon hearing that emboldened her. She spoke loudly to the shadows. “Hello. Is anyone there?”
She heard the sound of something big moving somewhere in the shadows. Then, suddenly, he was there, standing in the glow of the light from outside. He was tall and stooped, his hair was a wild black mass, like a terrible storm, and his eyes were lightning. He looked filthy, covered in layers of dirt, his arms were long and his nails were long and sharp. He was standing barely eight feet away, looking directly at her. She had never been so revolted, so disgusted, so frightened in all her life. She suspected that she had made a noise—a scream or a gasp, she had no idea which. She only knew that she had stopped breathing and that her hands were shaking, and that she very nearly…but she was fine. She was, she would be fine. She was a field worker for the Eugenics Record Office, and as such, she was trained to deal with all kinds of…what? Challenging conditions. Yes, that was it; that was what it said in the training manual, which she had memorized front to back: challenging conditions.
The whole time she was thinking this—she knew it had only been a few moments, but it felt like hours—he was staring at her, but not in the way she would have thought a “wild man” would stare at a woman of her age and (she had been told) attractiveness; he didn’t seem to notice her in particular very much at all. It was all very frightening and very confusing.
“You, lady…questions?”
“Yes…” His teeth! His teeth were horrible. She couldn’t stop looking at his teeth, which were long and yellow and jagged, saliva dripped from his open mouth down his chin. She tried to focus. “Yes.” She wanted to say more, to explain that she had permission to be here, that she had spoken to the owner of the sideshow, and that she had already interviewed and photographed the pinhead and the bearded lady and the creature—that was the wrong word, of course, but she didn’t know if it was a man or a woman—with no arms and legs, just a torso and a head—she had never seen anyone like that in her life, never even thought it was possible.
The Wild Man swung his arm toward a chair near her. She looked at the chair for a moment, as if she weren’t quite sure what it was, and then walked over slowly and sat down. He pulled up another chair and sat down opposite her. Emily took her notebook and a sharpened pencil out of her purse. “Do you mind if I take notes?”
The Wild Man shrugged. A bottle of beer had materialized in his hand. He took a drink from it, almost like an ordinary man. She tried to collect herself and reminded herself to make sure to get a photograph of him before she left. That would certainly get the attention of readers of the Eugenics News. Suddenly, there was a banging sound from outside, and the Wild Man growled, a low rumbling growl that seemed to come from some primordial place deep inside of him, which his humanity—for she saw, even in that dim light, that he did still retain much of the appearance of a man, albeit a very wild one—had never touched. And yet, there was something in his eyes that suggested intelligence, not merely animal cunning…and were those…? Yes, they were—to whom did that pile of books belong, if not to…no, it wasn’t possible.
“Why…you…here?” asked the Wild Man haltingly.
Emily spoke slowly and carefully, as she would to a small child or a family with evident significant defective mental traits. “I work for the Eugenic Records Office. I’m interviewing sideshow fr—”. She stopped herself from using the word, although she wondered if the Wild Man would even know what it meant, let alone find it offensive. She resumed. “—sideshow performers to learn more about their backgrounds and how they came to work in that profession.”
The Wild Man smiled, or at least it looked like a kind of smile, if a face with those teeth could smile. She tried hard not to look directly at them. “Prof-prof-eshin?”
“I’m sorry. It means job. How you make a living.”
“Living. And the other…? You said…genicks.”
“Eugenics. It’s a new science, very important. I am a field worker. It’s my job to collect information about all kinds of people that might help make society better.” Talking about it helped get her over the shock of his appearance and put her in a professional frame of mind.
She wrote down: “Can speak, but difficult for him. Seems harmless.”
“How long have you been part of the sideshow?” she asked.
The Wild Man’s brow furrowed. He didn’t seem to understand.
Emily spoke louder and began to use her hands to try to convey meaning. “How long—you—show?”
“Many,” said the Wild Man.
Emily waited for him to say more. “Many…years? How many years?”
The Wild Man didn’t answer.
“And where are you from, originally?”
“Black For-est.” The Wild Man gestured toward the distance, far beyond the walls of the tent.
“So, Germany, then.” She wrote it down in her notebook. “When did you come to America?
“Black For-est. ”
Emily sighed. “It says on the poster that you grew up in the wild. Of course, that’s just a story made up by the owner to create interest in the act. Can you tell me about your childhood, your parents?”
The Wild Man tapped his long incisors, then frowned and fiercely extended his lower jaw. “Boar. Boar.”
“Yes, I know the poster says you were raised by wild boar. I’m sure that helps sell tickets. What I want to know is—”
“Boar.” The wild man nodded his wild maned head and repeated, “Boar.”
“O, for Pete’s sake…”. The fear that Emily had felt initially had been replaced by a growing sense of impatience. She took a deep breath and reminded herself that she was a professional furthering the cause of science and a better society. “I need to know about your parents. For example, did they look like you? Or were they norm—? Can’t you tell me what they were like?” The Wild Man stared at her blankly. “Maybe you never knew them? I suppose that must be it.” Emily added more notes in her notebook.
“You? Parents?”
Emily looked up. “Me? Do I have parents?” The wild man nodded his shaggy head. “Yes, I have parents. They’re not too happy with me at the moment, but, yes, I do have them—parents.”
“Why…not…happy?”
Emily smiled and shrugged. “I suppose they don’t want me to work. They want me to be married. Do you know ‘married’?” The wild man nodded. “So, yes. They don’t understand why I want to do this.”
“Why…do you…do this?”
“I want to help people. I want to help make society better.”
“You want to…help me?”
“No. I want to understand how you and the other…performers…it’s hard to explain.”
“Gen…icks?”
“Yes, that’s right. Very good. Eugenics.”
“What…is…genicks?”
“It’s the science of improving the human race by encouraging desirable characteristics and eliminating undesirable characteristics from the population.” The Wild Man stared at her with a blank expression on his dirty, hairy face. “You don’t understand a word I am saying, do you? I wish you could remember your parents…”
“I remember: Boars. I remember: Black Forest.”
“Yes, I know,” said Emily, a little curtly.
The Wild Man frowned and leaned forward in his chair. “You think…Wild Man lie?”
“No,” said Emily quickly. “Of course, not.”
“Okay. Good.” The Wild Man smiled. His horrible teeth glowed faintly in the half-light of the tent.
“Well, I think I have enough,” said Emily, closing her notebook. “Thank you very much for speaking to me.” She reached into her purse and pulled out her camera.
“Do you mind if I take your picture?” It was dark in the tent, but she needed to try.
The Wild Man frowned uncomprehendingly. “Pic—ture?”
“Yes. This is a camera. It will take an image of you, which would be very helpful for my files.”
The Wild Man nodded. Emily started to raise her camera to her eye. “Like this…?” The Wild Man bared his teeth and scowled ferociously at her.
“That’s perfect.” Looking through the lens, Emily began to focus the camera.
“Or would you prefer…?” The Wild Man slowly lifted his taloned hand to his mouth.
“If you could just stay still for a moment—I can’t…” What was he doing? She lowered the camera to get a better view. The Wild Man reached into his mouth and grabbed ahold of his teeth and ripped them out of his mouth!
Emily screamed and almost dropped her camera. The Wild Man was holding his yellow fangs in his hand and smiling at her. Emily was too much in shock to move, to run from the tent, which is what she desperately wanted to do. The Wild Man raised his other hand to his head and yanked off his long unruly black hair, revealing an ordinary cut of average-length brown hair underneath. Emily gasped. The Wild Man was grinning from ear to ear. She saw that he had a normal set of teeth now, too.
“I don’t—I don’t understand. You’re—you’re not a freak?”
“No more than most men,” he replied.
“And you can speak too?”
“Sure. Why not?” The Wild Man sat back in his chair and took another sip of beer.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “You’re normal.”
“Am I?”
“Why would you pretend?” asked Emily. Why would you do this?”
He shrugged. “Why does anyone do what they do?”
She looked at the bottle of beer. “Is it the drink that did it to you?”
He smiled. “Next you’ll be asking me if my father was an alcoholic.”
“Was he?”
“Let’s leave our families out of it. You’re too young to know that you never know what road you’ll wind up on. For instance, how did you come to be a field worker in the employ of the Eugenics Records Office?”
“I have always been interested in science.”
“Right,” said the Wild Man. “‘Science’.”
“Why did you ask to see me?” asked Emily.
“I saw you talking to my friends—”
“Friends?” she asked.
“Yes, they are friends,” he said, “the only decent friends I’ve had since the war. In your neat trim dress, talking to them as if you were a different species, I thought you were a reporter. They come around from time to time, looking for a sensational ‘story’.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“No. You’re not. You’re a ‘eugenicist’,” said the Wild Man with a smirk.
“I was very polite to them,” said Emily.
“I’m sure you were. But I could see in the way you held yourself how you saw even your politeness as a gift, something you were bestowing upon the unfortunates as a queen might bestow her presence on an adoring public.”
“You’re wrong,” she said heatedly. She suddenly felt very angry.
“Often enough,” agreed the Wild Man. “But not about this.” He jabbed his talon at a nearby mirror. “Take a peep in my looking glass if you don’t believe me.”
“I don’t see why you should mock eugenics. Maybe you’re not a freak, but you are reduced to working here,” she said. “Eugenics would have something to say about that.”
“For example?”
“You are a degenerate.”
“Am I?”
“Yes,” she said with confidence, recalling the ERO’s literature on the subject. “You are not a productive member of society. And eugenics can explain why and make sure that other people won’t become what you are.”
The Wild Man looked at her for a moment without expression. “That’s very enlightening.”
Emily’s face turned red. “I don’t expect someone like you to understand,” she said.
“Maybe you’re right about me,” said the Wild Man. “I suppose the Great War did a number on me, like it did a lot of people. But I can tell you one thing about the others here. They haven’t hurt anyone. Except maybe themselves, and that, only when it was absolutely necessary. That makes them less of a degenerate than some.”
“Don’t you want to do something with your life, to be somebody?”
“I am. I’m the Wild Man from the Black Forest, raised by wild boar, who eats rats whole. Don’t ask—it’s a trick of the trade. I can’t tell you how we do it. Anyway, the crowd seems to enjoy it. A lot, in fact. You should see their faces, the way I do. Maybe you should be interviewing them. Now, if you don’t mind…”. The Wild Man reached over and picked up one of his books. “I have things to do. Degenerate things.” He took a pair of reading glasses out of his pocket and put them on. Then, he opened his book and began to read.
Emily stared at him for a moment. She started gathering up her belongings, her hands shaking slightly as she put her notebook back into her purse. She started to get up.
“Wait,” said the Wild Man. “Didn’t you want to take my picture?”
Emily hesitated for a moment. She took her camera out again and fumbled with the lens.
The Wild Man removed his glasses and set down his book. He put his wig back on and shoved his sharp yellow teeth back into his mouth. “Okay. Take pic—ture.”
Emily raised her camera slowly to her eye. The Wild Man grimaced fiercely, striking a pose close to the one was painted on the outside of the tent. Emily pressed down on the button. The camera clicked and the flash lit up the tent for an instant. When she lowered the camera, there were tears in her eyes.
“Now—you go,” said the Wild Man.
Emily stood, turned, and slowly exited the tent.
As she walked back along the midway, Emily could see a group of people gathering at the front gate to enter. A few were watching her with idle curiosity. She wiped the makeup under her eyes, and looked at the passing tents. She tried to begin to formulate her report in her mind. The ideas that had seemed so urgent and important, now, for the first time felt remote, as if they belonged to someone else. She recalled the ERO’s various slogans admonishing the central role eugenics had to play in saving mankind from itself. But for the moment, at least, all she could think about was getting past the crowd and the gate, and what she most wanted was to be back on the train, heading home.
Nathaniel Lachenmeyer is a disabled author of books for children and adults. His first book, The Outsider, which takes as its subject his late father’s struggles with schizophrenia and homelessness, was published by Broadway Books. Nathaniel has new/forthcoming work with ANMLY, Subtropics, The American Poetry Review, Poetry International Online, Midwest Quarterly, North Dakota Quarterly, Red Rock Review, Permafrost and DIAGRAM. Nathaniel lives outside Atlanta with his family. www.NathanielLachenmeyer.com.
