DURKS
New Jersey, in the early spring of 1968.
Because this would be my first interview with a professional freak, I was more than slightly confused about a proper approach, as well as reluctant to ask such personal questions as I might have tossed lightly at politicians, murderers, prostitutes and even witch doctors. A brief conversation with Slim, held an hour before my date with Mr. Durks, set my doubts at rest and solved my problem.
"Ask him anything you want," Slim advised. "There can't possibly be one question every freak's not been asked a thousand times before. And I'll tell you something else; don't show them sympathy. That's what they definitely don't want. If you do they'll withdraw into themselves.
"Regard them, if you can, as men and women who are making an honest living the best way they know how to, in what they like to think of as show business. Treat them just as you'd treat a normal person. Remember, when people are staring up at them on the platform, they're staring right back. Whatever contempt marks feel for freaks, freaks return their own opinions double.
It takes a considerable amount of poise to regard Mr. Durks as normal and treat him accordingly. Even when you are able to control your shudders at the two noses and the fissioned lip—far more easily done when he is on a stand high above and six yards off than sitting opposite you a few feet away—you still must contend with that third Cyclopean eye staring at you unblinkingly from deep within its socket in the center of Mr. Durks's forehead.
Mr. Durks was born on a farm near Abilene, Texas, about fifty-seven years ago and has been in show business since he was fourteen. He's never had any formal education, a fact he appears to regret sincerely.
"None of the kids or the teachers could ever look at me, and my mom and pop didn't have no money to give me a private education. So what could I do?"
Mr. Durks did his best and, everything considered, he's not done too badly. Since he left home as a carnival sideshow "Single-0" in 1924, not only has he supported himself but also has sent money to less fortunate brothers, sisters, cousins and aunts.
"We pay him $100 a week," reported Mr. Sutton, "and at the end of the season we give him a cash bonus so he won't have to worry about money when he's not performing. That's the arrangement we have with most of our people. Besides, he makes quite a few dollars selling his picture to the marks for two bits. This dough he keeps for himself. A couple of our other attractions, like Sylvia Jackson, the girl with the big feet, do the same thing.
"Freaks like Bill have very few outside expenses. He doesn't drink or smoke and he never goes to the movies; I don't think he's been to one in his whole life. Even with three eyes he still doesn't see too well, so TV is no good for him either. The only time he leaves the lot during the season, I guess, is when he goes out to buy his groceries."
I looked at Mr. Durks, gulped, and asked him what happens when. he walks into a store. I believe he smiled, but with that dreadful lip fissure it's difficult to tell.
"Well," he said, "when I go off the lot I pull my cap down so far it covers my face to the chin. I got a couple slits cut on the top so I can see what I'm doin'. And I keep my head bent down, too, when I get in a store.
"Most of the people don't pay no attention to me, just think I'm some sort of peculiar person when they see me walkin' through the aisles picking up groceries not lookin' up or around, mindin' my own business.
"But once't in a while there'll be a fresh clerk or a nasty checker at the cash register. They don't know who I am; I'm a stranger in town; there's a carnival playin' nearby and they figure I'm a carny so they can say whatever they want to me.
"They'll yell out, 'Hey you! I can't understand what you're sayin' with that cap over your head. Ashamed or sumpin'? Pull it up so I can see you.'
"I think to myself, 'All right, you marks. I'm not ashamed of nothin'.' So I pull off the cap and shove my face right next to theirs and stare at 'em with all my eyes. They take one look and get white. Many's the time I seen 'em faint dead away and hit their damned heads on the floor. I seen great big men turn around and puke. Serves 'em right!"
Despite this brief but understandable display of temper, Mr. Durks is a gentle, peace-loving man, deeply grieved by the recent death of his wife.
"She was a fine woman," Durks reminisced, "and we was very happy. Never had a real fight in twenty years."
He sighed.
"She made a good home for me right in this here trailer. Every night we used to kid around and laugh over the funny things that happen every day. We traveled all over the country together, last eight-ten years as performers with Slim and Whitey on the Strates lot. They're all nice people and it used to be fun workin' for 'em. But it ain't no more. This is gonna be my last season in show business."
I asked him what he'd do then.
"Gonna live with one of my stepsons in Florida. My wife was married before; husband died. She was the crocodile-skin lady, you know?"
I nodded.
"Had two sons, both good boys, and they treat me fine. Oldest one wants me. Don't need my money neither; got a nice little business of his own goin'. Last time I seen him was at Dotty's funeral at Cherry Hill, New Jersey. That's where the other boy lives.
"Well, the oldest boy—that's the one's in Florida—says, 'Pop, you come live with us. Ellie wants you; the kids want you; and I want you.'
"So that's where I'm goin'. Boy'll pick me up when we fold November 2 at Albany, Georgia. I'll never be on the road no more."
At this, Durks's current trailer-mate emerged from the rear of their living quarters and laughed.
"You'll be back, Bill," the Anatomical Wonder said. "The only way any of us leaves show biz is when they have to take us out horizontally. I been in it around forty years and I know."
