found the three dogs, each in its own room, and
each dog had eyes bigger than the one before. The last dog had eyes
as big as saucers, and that had always stuck in Barney's mind,
though he had never been able to visualize what that would look
like. This hare had eyes as big as that, bigger. He thought the
soldier got the treasure at the end of the story and killed the
witch, but he couldn't re-member. He and his buddy were real drunk
at the time, and his buddy had told him, "Go kill some gooks and
bring back the treasure!" Those hare's eyes were staring at him,
watching . . . .
"Eyes as big as saucers," he said, using it
as a litany to break the oppressed feeling in his head. He moved
away from the merry-go-round, down the path he had been following.
Nothing was quite in focus anymore. He felt feverish. He passed a
sherbet stand in the shape of a monkey, and a Guess Your Weight
cart. He bumped into something solid and thought someone had
grabbed him by both arms, but when he pushed away, he saw that he
had run into a strength tester—a long pole with a bell at the top
and a pad at the bottom to hit with a sledge hammer. The pole bore
gradations all the way up, from a caricature of a man having sand
kicked in his face near the bottom, through a series of muscled
animals, to the top—a huge, grinning beast that looked like a bear
but had a horn in the middle of its forehead and flame issuing from
its long-toothed mouth.
He went on, feeling now as though he had been
drugged. He fell down once; when he arose, he saw that it had grown
dark. A string of bulbs hung above him, leading ahead, and when it
lit, he felt compelled to follow it. There was darkness all around
him. He looked to one side and thought he saw in the dimness the
face of another hare with enormous eyes, and as he stumbled past
it, it seemed that the eyes followed him until the creature was
swallowed by darkness.
The bulbs, clear glass that showed the
filament, threw scant illumination on the ground. Blinking against
the night blindness that had come upon him, he looked off to the
other side to see vague, dinosaur-like outlines against a darkening
sky: a long spire with a cage at the top, its gate swinging open;
the bony grid of the roller coaster, a tiny string of cars
precariously perched at the summit of its first drop; and, seeming
to dominate, the huge erector-set Ferris wheel, its hinged seats
swaying like eyelashes around its perimeter. "Eyes as big as
saucers," he muttered once more, but now he couldn't tell if he had
really said it or not.
He was drunk; he didn't
know where he was. He didn't remember getting drunk. He had done it
often enough, at home in front of the television or occasionally,
when the loneliness of cabin fever had gathered inside him to the
point that he would burst, at one of the old-man bars in town where
they'd leave you alone with your beer if you wanted, letting you
get as rowdy as you liked and always providing companionship
(pointing to the television: "Some ball game, eh?"), if not
friendship. But now he was drunk on the street. He hadn't done that
in a long time—got sick with the DTs and awakened in jail. And what
a strange street—dark and darker still, with only a faint string of
overhead lights to show the way. Where was he? How did he get here?
No matter how many times he blinked his eyes and shook his head, he
couldn't clear his mind; his head was so confused and reeling that
he didn't know if he was on his feet or on the ground. He was hot,
so warm that he felt he must remove his sweat shirt. He fumbled
with it, found that he was indeed on the ground and that his sweat
shirt was soaked. His pants were soaked too. Had he wet
himself? Where am I?
He remembered wetting himself once, when he
was five years old. He was sitting in class, and Sister Margaret
was talking, and he wanted so desperately to raise his hand, to beg
to leave, but he did not dare. No one was allowed to leave before
the end of class. Sister
each dog had eyes bigger than the one before. The last dog had eyes
as big as saucers, and that had always stuck in Barney's mind,
though he had never been able to visualize what that would look
like. This hare had eyes as big as that, bigger. He thought the
soldier got the treasure at the end of the story and killed the
witch, but he couldn't re-member. He and his buddy were real drunk
at the time, and his buddy had told him, "Go kill some gooks and
bring back the treasure!" Those hare's eyes were staring at him,
watching . . . .
"Eyes as big as saucers," he said, using it
as a litany to break the oppressed feeling in his head. He moved
away from the merry-go-round, down the path he had been following.
Nothing was quite in focus anymore. He felt feverish. He passed a
sherbet stand in the shape of a monkey, and a Guess Your Weight
cart. He bumped into something solid and thought someone had
grabbed him by both arms, but when he pushed away, he saw that he
had run into a strength tester—a long pole with a bell at the top
and a pad at the bottom to hit with a sledge hammer. The pole bore
gradations all the way up, from a caricature of a man having sand
kicked in his face near the bottom, through a series of muscled
animals, to the top—a huge, grinning beast that looked like a bear
but had a horn in the middle of its forehead and flame issuing from
its long-toothed mouth.
He went on, feeling now as though he had been
drugged. He fell down once; when he arose, he saw that it had grown
dark. A string of bulbs hung above him, leading ahead, and when it
lit, he felt compelled to follow it. There was darkness all around
him. He looked to one side and thought he saw in the dimness the
face of another hare with enormous eyes, and as he stumbled past
it, it seemed that the eyes followed him until the creature was
swallowed by darkness.
The bulbs, clear glass that showed the
filament, threw scant illumination on the ground. Blinking against
the night blindness that had come upon him, he looked off to the
other side to see vague, dinosaur-like outlines against a darkening
sky: a long spire with a cage at the top, its gate swinging open;
the bony grid of the roller coaster, a tiny string of cars
precariously perched at the summit of its first drop; and, seeming
to dominate, the huge erector-set Ferris wheel, its hinged seats
swaying like eyelashes around its perimeter. "Eyes as big as
saucers," he muttered once more, but now he couldn't tell if he had
really said it or not.
He was drunk; he didn't
know where he was. He didn't remember getting drunk. He had done it
often enough, at home in front of the television or occasionally,
when the loneliness of cabin fever had gathered inside him to the
point that he would burst, at one of the old-man bars in town where
they'd leave you alone with your beer if you wanted, letting you
get as rowdy as you liked and always providing companionship
(pointing to the television: "Some ball game, eh?"), if not
friendship. But now he was drunk on the street. He hadn't done that
in a long time—got sick with the DTs and awakened in jail. And what
a strange street—dark and darker still, with only a faint string of
overhead lights to show the way. Where was he? How did he get here?
No matter how many times he blinked his eyes and shook his head, he
couldn't clear his mind; his head was so confused and reeling that
he didn't know if he was on his feet or on the ground. He was hot,
so warm that he felt he must remove his sweat shirt. He fumbled
with it, found that he was indeed on the ground and that his sweat
shirt was soaked. His pants were soaked too. Had he wet
himself? Where am I?
He remembered wetting himself once, when he
was five years old. He was sitting in class, and Sister Margaret
was talking, and he wanted so desperately to raise his hand, to beg
to leave, but he did not dare. No one was allowed to leave before
the end of class. Sister
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