Read Online A Bad Man by Stanley Elkin - Free Book Online

runners scrape briefly sideways, and the animals dragged the load five feet.
    The announcer called the brothers up to collect their prize.
    “Just a minute. Hold your oxes,” a voice called. It was his father, standing in front of the judge’s stand looking up. “Your Honor,” he called, “Your Honor.”
    The crowd recognized him, laughing. The boy heard his father’s name repeated like a rumor up and down the grandstands.
    “What is it?” the announcer asked over the loudspeaker.
    “Your Honor,” Feldman said, “the contest ain’t over.”
    “Of course it’s over. What do you mean it’s not over?”
    It sounded like a routine. The son wondered if it was. “It’s part of the show,” he turned around and told the woman behind him. “It’s part of the show, Miz Johnson.”
    “Now what’s the meaning of this interruption, Isidore?” the announcer asked.
    Yeah, Izidore, what? the son thought. Vat iz diz?
    “These Leggings brothers are waiting for their check,” said the announcer.
    “It’s not fair,” Feldman shouted. “Anyway, the little one pushed from behind.” The crowd roared. “Let it stand, but give a man a chance, Your Honor.”
    “What are you saying, Isidore? You mean you want to be in the contest too?”
    His father flexed his arm, and the crowd laughed harder than before.”
    “Do you folks think Isidore Feldman here should take his turn?” They cheered. “All right, Isidore, let’s see what you can do then,” the announcer said.
    Feldman walked past the sled and looked at it for a moment but did not stop. “Cement,” he called roughly, pointing to the massive blocks chain-belted to the sled. “Cement for sale. Cash and carry.”
    “Make your hitch there, Isidore,” the announcer called. He seemed annoyed. The son had an idea now it might not be an act.
    Alarmingly, Feldman suddenly began to run. As he ran he shouted up to them, blowing out his phrases in gasps. “Wait, wait—while you’re here—I’ve got—something to show you.” He ran across the small stadium and pushed open a gate in the low wall. Feldman’s son recognized the wagon, piled incredibly high. His father placed himself inside the long wood handles and bent far forward, like one in a storm. A tarpaulin had been spread over the load, so that it looked like a mountain. He seemed heroic. The people gasped as the wheels began slowly to turn and the wagon, the mountain inside it, began to move. He came steadily forward. “Talk about strength,” he intoned as he came, “heavy as earth, terrible tons, see how I pull it, drag it along, I break all the records, an ant of a man, prudent as squirrel, thrifty as greed, they’ll be a winter, who’ll make me warm?”
    He brought the wagon to rest a few feet from the grandstand and straightened up. He turned around, and grabbing one corner of the tarpaulin, pulled at it fiercely. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, shouting, “ THE INVENTORY! ”
    “Things,” he called, “things here. Things as they are. Thingamabobs and thingamajigs, dinguses and whatsits. Whatdayacallits, whatchamacallits. Gadgets and gewgaws. Kits and caboodle. Stuff. Stuff here!” He stood beside the pile, studying it. “What’s to be done with the unsalable thing?” He pulled at his sleeve like one reaching into dishwater for a sunken spoon and slipped his hand with gingerly gentleness into the center of the pile. “Teakettle,” he said. He pulled out a teakettle.
    “We will trade together,” he said seriously. He advanced to the railing at the foot of the stands, the small kettle swinging like a censer before him. “Diaspora,” he called. “America, Midwest, Bible Belt, corn country, county fairgrounds, grandstand. Last stop for the Diaspora, everyone off.” He recognized his son in the stands and winked hugely. “All right,” he said, “I just blew in on the trade winds, and I’m hot see, and dusty see, and I’m smelling of profit and smelling of loss, and it’s