Eyes with too much white in them stare out from under a vast brow, on which brown tufts of hair grow like a treeline on a frozen mountain. Not a handsome man but he has a strong back and a ready will. No enemies and few friends. He's learned to eat sour lemons. Not unhappy but never satisfied, he is a tired soul who wakes before dawn without knowing why.
Andrei Ilyko is his name, and he stands under a noontime sun in conversation with a dwarf. The dwarf lounges in a tiny chair made of tin, while a toucan perched on his shoulder pecks at almonds balanced around the brim of his dusty top hat.
"What's your problem, fella?" implores the dwarf. "I can't get you. You got an education, I can tell by the way you talk. You got a good job, too, down there at the steel mill. I bet you got an old lady sweet as mince pie waiting for ya in a house with apple trees in the backyard. Now what in the hell do you want to go and fight that monkey for? Why do you want to risk your life? He's just gonna clobber ya."
A cool breeze blows a cowlick free of the top of Andrei's carefully coiffed scalp.
"The beast's very presence is an insult. It is an aberration, an anachronism. His odor and his appearance offend me."
"Why? What did he ever do to you?"
Nostrils flaring, "If you have to ask, sir, then you would not understand even if the skies were to open and the Almighty himself descend to inscribe my sentiments in clay tablets," cheeks flushing, "with lightning bolts cast from his fingertips! If you'll excuse me."
Andrei pulls his coat in around him and strides past the miffed dwarf, dropping a nickel in his lap. As he parts the gaudy green and yellow flaps of the main circus tent, the dwarf makes this remark to the toucan:
"He's nuttier than a fruitcake."
But through the wind Andrei hears,
"Reminds me of Don Quixote."
and his heart is bolstered by the compliment.
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