Chapter 1

I was named Jack Allen Young at birth. That soon became Jay. It's been the only name I've answered to for decades. I'm what's called a proportionate dwarf, or a term less used these days of political correctness, a midget. I'm 34 inches tall.

I thank whatever gods are our there that I'm one of the rare proportionate dwarves, as I probably won't have joint problems or exhibit mental problems due to my deformities as I age. I'd had to get shots of androgenic steroids to force my body into puberty. I wear a beard now so people don't think I'm ten years old. Now I'm a hairy little bastard with a seven inch salami. Proportionally I look like I'm packin' a fourteen inch club!

Pick up a yard stick. Mask off the top two inches. Now take a good look at it. That's how tall I am. Steps are a bitch because they're much too tall for me to use without climbing them using my hands. They're usually filthy, too. I always search out places with bicycle curb cuts or wheelchair-friendly buildings and ignore the rest. It's a real pain in the ass.

I'm lucky to be relatively handsome. Once I had my high school diploma in hand I lit out for California and started making porn movies. Over the ten years I spent in the business I saved up over two hundred and seventy seven thousand dollars. A full-sized male actor could never accumulate such a pile, but a photogenic dwarf had a market draw. I kept the bulk of my funds in a managed index account that usually netted me close to a ten percent return-on-investments per year.

I found it sad that several of the other little people in the business sought me out for comfort and companionship. The business was horribly uncaring and unforgiving. The less said, the better. I managed to stay away from the drugs and didn't dive into the bottle. I also paid my income tax, which many others failed to do!

I desperately wanted out of the business but I also needed a fall-back skill to keep the money coming in and to keep from going mad from boredom. I had always enjoyed writing. I decided to invest in myself and give it a shot. At the ripe old age of 27 I researched which universities were wheelchair friendly and the extent of their commitments. I applied to several institutions. Via an agency I managed to find a grant specific to people under four feet tall. It paid for my tuition, books, room and board. Only my Sunday meals, clothing, grooming and entertainment were my responsibility.

It was the fall of 1985 when I drove into Lexington looking for the University of Kentucky. Right off the bat the housing department and I didn't see eye to eye. My assumption was that they thought my height as written on my application was a typo. When I showed up at their office in all my glory and started to raise a stink, mentioning the Americans with Disabilities Act and unfair housing practices and--God forbid!--lawyers they backpedaled on their hard-assed notions right away. Unlike the other freshmen, I was assigned a parking permit and was given a disability placard to hang from the rear view mirror of my VW Golf. As a freshman I still had to stay in the dorms, but I was assigned to a single room with elevator access. They didn't say anything about it being a coed dorm either.

It was a 'disability-friendly' residence. It had been remodeled to be wheelchair-accessible. Of course, their furniture was fiendishly out-of-scale for my needs. Six of me could have slept on that bed and climbing into the chair was like scaling Mount Rushmore. I bought a very sturdy coffee table that performed nicely as a library table and a child-sized chair, some rugs and two footstools. One was quite wide and would get me into and out of bed when half asleep without falling on my ass. The other was collapsible and made of light plastic so that I could carry it around. What did I need it for? How else was I going to use a public toilet? Piss down the floor drain? I also carried a pocket full of paper towels because once seated on the throne I rarely if ever could reach the toilet paper dispenser.

I didn't have much in the way of personal goods. I had two small boxes of clothes, a little CD player, an alarm clock, three suits, four separate jackets, a couple pair of shoes, a Dopp kit for the bathroom, a nice little Samsonite suitcase with rollers, a Macintosh desktop computer and a laser printer. The last item was so incredibly heavy and unwieldy I paid someone twenty bucks to carry it into the dorm room for me. I didn't put out any of my awards. I might be tossed out the window if anyone read "Adult Film Industry" on one of them.

Two things rarely left my side. They were a 'reacher' that gave me access to shelves out of my reach, and a cut-down bag lady's rolling cart that allowed me to shop and to carry my books about. It had six inch wheels that wouldn't bog down in the winter or get caught on rough ground.

I had no idea what crime was like in the dorms. To be safe I bought a steel plate with a small (1/2 inch) hole in one corner. I epoxied it to the bottom of my coffee table. With the aid of a steel cable, a good padlock and a borrowed drill I fastened the computer and printer to the table. Each room had a telephone. I carefully dissected mine and added a four-wire jack to the side of it. That's where I plugged in my modem. It was only 9600 baud but it got me out the door. I found quite a bit of local BBS action. [Ed: The Internet wasn't around yet. The BBS relay nets were in their prime at that time.]

First semester. I registered for a fairly standard freshman class load of Calculus 1, English composition, Microeconomics, Chemistry 1 and Spanish 1. I located the cafeteria and library then found the closest gym. Don't let anybody blow smoke up your ass--sexual performers are actors and athletes. Let's see you hump your ass off for a solid forty-five minutes without stop. I could do fifty inverted pushups. I couldn't swing a bat or throw a ball worth a damn because the leverage supplied by my short little arms wasn't up to the job. Likewise my vertical jump sucked. However, I was a tumbler, an acrobat. I needed to keep up my muscle mass and tone so I lifted weights every morning before classes unless I was sick and ran around the track for a couple miles after classes finished. If the weather was bad I tumbled on mats in front of a mirror. Occasionally I mixed it up and ran in the morning, especially if it would be hot that day.

Most of the kids wore tee-shirts, blue jeans and fashionable sneakers. I wore a dress shirt, dress pants and a jacket. My hair was kept short and my beard was trimmed. The professors noted and approved of my professional appearance. Occasionally the fraternities had a 'dress-out' week but it was rare.

I had a healthy work ethic. This carried over into my study habits. I didn't fluff off morning classes. I read ahead in my books. The math damned near drove me to distraction until I found a study group. I'd always been a reader so the courses in English, Spanish, world history and micro-economics weren't bad. It was that damned calculus class that had me by the balls. I gritted my teeth and held on for the ride.

One evening I took a break from studying for a much-needed bathroom break. While doing my business I heard the sound of a man-made waterfall followed by a very female-sounding sigh! I grinned like a fool. It reminded me of a couple theatrical sets I'd been on back in the bad old days. Watersports! I finished my business, got down and picked up my foot-stool. I opened the door to find a beautiful blonde girl with lots of curves and a pair of ... let's just say that if a rainstorm came along all I'd have to do is stand close in front of her to stay dry. Wow.

"What--who the hell are you?"

I was dressed in a pair of sweat pants and had on huaraches. I grinned. "I'm Jack. Call me Jay."

She just stared and stared. I walked out of the bathroom convinced that she just knew that someone had put something in her mashed potatoes at supper...

That was Tuesday. By Wednesday evening the news was all over the floor. Most of the girls thought I was 'cute'. The consensus among the guys that could be forced to offer an opinion was that I was a leprechaun. That worried me. That sort of persecution was real. So was dwarf-tossing and a lot of other mean, potentially harmful shit. I headed for the lobby where the phone books were kept. I looked up a couple of likely stores that sold unarmed combat supplies. If they thought that I was a leprechaun then I'd start carrying a caber, by damn. I hoped that would be enough. I didn't want to carry knives or pistols. I was there to get an education, not to give someone else an 'education' or come under the watchful eye of the constabulary.

Between classes on Thursday I contacted several shops, the numbers of which I'd harvested the previous evening. I found a place that sold proper three foot cabers fashioned from blackthorn wood with a three inch solid burl at the end. They were kiln dried and treated with linseed oil. I grinned and ordered two for next-day delivery. One I'd cut down to two feet long to use as a proper walking stick for a gentleman of my stature. By noon on Friday I felt a lot safer. The weekend fraternity and sorority beer bashes were coming up. I didn't want to be taken out in a drunken frolic. After my classes ended for the day I spent some time in the gym whacking the heavy bag, getting some moves down. Knees and ankles were close targets, but I'd take wrists and elbows too. If anyone managed to pick me up I'd go for the jaw or temple. From then on I worked to improve my grip. I used a dog's solid rubber exercise ball to squeeze as I read.

I kept a small fridge in the room for iced tea, and a shelf with some snacks and cookies as a larder. I had an electric pot and fixings for hot tea. The dormitory admin people really didn't want anybody cooking in the dorm rooms. Candles sent them into a dire frenzy.

It was rare that I'd get a guest. I didn't socialize much and I supposed that I was unusual enough to put people off. I entertained a couple of ladies, however. Kim, the statuesque blonde that I'd met in the bath, came over to visit and satisfy her curiosity. She'd seen the small bearskin rug that covers my chest so she was convinced that I wasn't a kid that was passing as an adult. I heard a knock.

"A moment!" I pulled on a dark green tee shirt and opened the door.

Kim stood there in athletic shorts and a tee. "Hi! care for a visitor?"

I motioned her in and propped the door open. It was only proper. "Have a seat? I'm afraid that it's the bed or the floor. You wouldn't fit on my other furniture."

She grinned and flopped down on the end of the bed, then did that woman-thing of sitting on one foot. She looked around curiously. "No posters, no TV, a nice rug on a clean floor, no pizza boxes--this place looks like an office with a bed in it!"

I shrugged. "I burned all that nonsense out of myself years ago." I thought, then asked, "How old do you think I am?"

She looked at me as if coming in to my room suddenly was a mistake. "Umm, twenty?"

I shook my head. "Try twenty eight. I've been working steadily since high school, though."

She brightened. "Oh yeah? at what?"

I felt a bit uncomfortable with that one. "West coast. Film industry." Shit. I shouldn't have said anything.

"Wow! You were in movies?"

"Well, yeah. As a dwarf I was a shoe-in for some parts. Mostly fill-ins." Shit. I actually said that?

"What were you in?"

Think quick, asshole. "Aww, you wouldn't know any of 'em." I hoped like hell that she'd never hear of John Biggs! I kind of waved my hands to drop the subject. "So where are you from?"

"Oh, Mayfield, near the western tip of Kentucky. You?"

"A little town just north of Minneapolis, Minnesota. Whatcha here for? What year?"

She replied, "I'm a sophomore in Sports Medicine."

I nodded. "Let me know when you take Anatomy and Physiology. I did pretty good in it at Cal State."

"What are you taking? by the looks of those", she motioned at my pile of textbooks, "You're a freshman, taking the drudge courses."

"Yeppers. I'm here to learn how to write. I expect to wear out my poor keyboard. So, whatcha do around here for fun, exercise, terrorism--you know, the regular stuff."

"I go to the games, I run and I'm an archer."

"Archery! Cool!"

She screwed up her face and grabbed her oversized tits. "Not with these in the way. Imagine getting whacked with a bowstring."

"Hey, careful with those! They're national treasures!"

She laughed, a bright and clear noise.

I told her, "Look They've got to have the same problem in the Olympics. Don't they wear some sort of saddle-leather contraption that holds one side flat, kind of like a wrist protector for the chest? If your coach hasn't said anything about it then it's time for a new coach."

She stood up, hugged me hard enough to lift my feet from the floor then dashed out the door, trailing behind a "Thanks!"

I closed the door, bemused. Well, that was interesting.

The next monday I was out running early. The sun was still below the horizon and there was a low fog on the field. I was dressed in running shorts, socks and trainers. I carried a belt pouch with my wallet within and had my long shillelagh strapped to my back. I pounded past the early morning joggers as if they were standing still. Soon enough I'd done my ten laps and was walking a cool-down lap. A squad of ROTC trainees in olive drab and combat boots took the field and was running in time when I left. I thought to myself, "There, but for the grace of God, go I".

I returned to the dorm to shower and dress before packing my books and heading for the cafeteria. I carried the short caber in my book carrier. I joined the line waiting for the doors to open. I was jostled just a bit too hard so I responded. "Hey! I'm walkin' heah! I'm WALKIN' heah!" Someone yelled out "Taxi Driver! Robert DeNiro!". I grinned.

The line people knew that when two dismembered hands pushed a tray down the line it was me. I called out my choices and showed my ID with its food service stamp on the back. I put my tray on a mostly-empty table then set up my foot-stool. I clambered up and chowed down. Afterwards I sat back to finish my drink and contemplate the day, gearing up as it were. It was my normal ritual and I felt comfortable with it. However, that day something changed. I soon found myself surrounded by some eight young ladies that lived on my floor.

"Now I know how Custer felt." They laughed a bit.

"You've become the distraction of the moment. We're all dying to find out what movies you were in."

I found myself aghast. I pushed back from the table. "Please! Don't take this any further. I regard your probing as a breach of privacy. Look, I've done things that I'm not very proud of, for the money. I performed for the camera and got the hell out without turning into a drug addict. That's all I want to say about it."

"But, but..."

"Look, I'll say one more thing then expect you to drop it. What segment of the film industry requires weekly STD testing?"

I climbed down, folded my stool, gathered my tray and headed for the service line to drop it off. I hoped that I hadn't opened Pandora's box. If I had to leave the college because of this I would not at all be happy and would let it be known far and wide just how unhappy I was.

I managed to get through the day while keeping a cap on my temper. In the gym I practiced a floor exercise that I'd cribbed from a film of the previous Olympics. I stood there cooling off, wiping myself down with a towel when I noticed one of the women's coaches watching me. I nodded and headed off for the showers. I had dinner and studying to do.

I got some strange looks as I passed down the hall towards my room, dragging my book carrier behind me. I unlocked the door, rolled the carrier in and unloaded it onto my desk. I was well ahead in most of my courses but still had that damned calculus to work over. Practice, practice, practice. I'd found an old textbook in the library on 'editing for the professional publisher' which I was assiduously consuming.

I heard a quiet knock at the door. I sighed. I was still dressed for the outdoors so I rose and opened the door. There stood Barbara, one of the more private people on the floor. She was all of five foot three, slender and straight as a stick. She had luxuriant dark red hair and eyebrows, and a translucent complexion. I invited her in and offered to make tea. She smiled and nodded. "Please be seated. The bed is the only option, I'm afraid. I'll go fill the kettle and be right back."

When I returned she'd sat down and was examining the book on editing. I put the kettle on to boil. "Editing?"

I nodded. "An author needs to examine their work with a critical eye lest it be rejected out of hand for its flaws."

She nodded. "I plan to specialize in technical writing, myself."

I grinned and noted, "Please refrain from the urge to write in the center of alternating pages "This page was intentionally left blank". She giggled. IBM documentation was infamous 'world round'.

The water was hot. I unplugged the pot, prepared the cups and poured. I offered her the sugar and sour salt (citric acid--an unreasonable excuse for fresh lemon as it has no scent) then prepared my own cup. "Now, what's this about?" I took a sip of tea while bracing myself for the worst.

She put down her cup and folded her hands. "They are saying you were an adult film actor."

I agreed. "Yes. I was. It's a filthy business that ruins lives. There is no honor, pride or glamour in it. It drives most to drink, drugs and suicide. I'm well out of it and wish many others I know were out as well."

Her shoulders drooped. "It's what I expected. When my sister left she told me she was going to the SAn Fernando valley for an acting job I had a bad feeling."

That was a place to which I wanted never to return. "The Valley". You'd never know just from driving down the street. It was filled with hopefuls, suitcase pimps, chicken hawks and greedy agents. The agencies were the worst. They pushed everything the law would allow and pushed that line as well. I knew that as a good looking dwarf I had participated in plenty of pseudo-child porn. I'd had to shave my tackle and Nair my ass more often than not. When God gave California its final flood that's where the enema hose would go. "Do you know what her stage name is?" She shook her head 'no'. "Then there's no way in hell to find out who she's working as. With theatrical makeup and a good color rinse she could be anywhere but on a black-only set." I reached for a 3x5 index card and wrote my working name and my phone number on it. "Let absolutely nobody see this name. If you ever hear from your sister give her this name and number. Tell her I'm out of the business and working the other side. Ask her to give me a call. If she needs to get straight I'll help her." I gave her a long hug and sent her away. I slowly took the tea cups and flatware to the bathroom to wash up. I once again had a lot to think about. A lot of memories to face, then once again lock them away. It was a rough night.

I ran in the rain. I had bought a skin-tight runner's jersey that held in a bit of heat. I was nearly alone as I pounded out the miles, awake and aware. There was no 'runners buzz' for me. Lexington was dangerous and I had to keep my wits about me. As a small person I tended to draw predators like a field mouse draws the hawk. It was Saturday. I had no classes, so after breakfast I decided to do something different. I hit the hock shops. I'd never attempted to learn to play a musical instrument as my hands were too small to bridge a bar chord on a guitar. I'd heard that there were some guitars with necks that were made for smaller hands. I was out looking.