JUST BIG ENOUGH TO CARE
by Poco
Chapter 1
In the late 1990's, certain technologies advanced at a rate that would have made
a graphic depiction zoom almost straight up, off the scale. And no one really
wanted to see the scale. Depending on your perspective, computers were quite
workable for most purposes in the late 1970's. Then they doubled in power and
speed 4 years later, then again 2 years later, and today the "double a penny
every day and be a millionaire in a month" game applies to the little box on the
desktop, or the palm of one's hand.
How much computer? Well, the one that overloaded on the Lunar Module, causing
Neil Armstrong to have to hand-fly the beast the last few hundred feet down to
the Sea of Tranquility, had less power than today's pocket organizer. And that
was cutting-edge science in 1969, using components that wouldn't even be
mainstreamed for most of a decade after that. Don't even look at the graph.
You'd only be confused...
Daria Morris was never confused, at least not by simple science. Although
relatively unknown, in her own way she outshone the "Ellie Arroway" character
portrayed by Jodie Foster in "Contact," a screenplay adapted from the novel by
the late Carl Sagan and his wife. Daria loved that movie, had it on DVD, and
wished she could accomplish something so dramatic. She had the education, she
had the knowledge, she had the talent for things few men could even comprehend.
Daria Morris was a brilliant person, a wonderful person, a charming person, a
person you would be proud to call a friend. A person you would brag about
knowing.
Something always stood in the way.
She was a "little person."
They used to be called "dwarfs" or "midgets" or other things even less
complimentary. Last century, any adult less than 4 feet tall could be a "Barnum-esque"
side-show attraction, but, like General Tom Thumb, could aspire to little else.
Daria measured exactly 31 inches.
Ironically, at twice her height, she'd have been considered a "babe." Daria was
perfectly proportioned, even her head, which bore a captivating face complete
with deep brown eyes. She was living proof that brain mass has little to do with
brain capacity.
She hated her life.
It didn't matter how intelligent you were, or how captivating you were. You were
the size of a baby just learning to walk, and that's how full-grown people
treated you.
"Aren't you just the cutest little thing?"
"Climb up into my lap, little lady!"
"Whoops! I almost stepped on you! "
"Want something big to fill you up? Got it right here!"
The huge insults from huge idiots swirled in Daria's thoughts constantly, even
when she wasn't subjected to them. More than once her ribs hurt from being
grabbed and tossed into the air. The "bigs" weren't deliberately trying to be
cruel, but if they only knew.......
One gorgon-male named Dick (how appropriate) fancied himself a chess-player.
"I'll take you on any time, little lady. You can be the White Queen."
On the Internet, where no one can see your laughable size, Daria had acquired
the rank of International Grand Master three years before. She politely declined
his offer, and, even more politely, said nothing about his lack of deoderant.
Daria did use the Internet, though, in her ongoing search to find her
intellectual equal. That search was an ongoing frustration, as the chat rooms
and newsgroups were filled with people who, while they might have been mature
enough in person, became adolescent jerks when their faces and names were
removed.
In the meantime, she wrote cheesy romance novels. This she did mostly for money
-- it was hardly an intellectual challenge. It paid her bills and slowly filled
her savings account. (What was she going to spend money on? Nights on the town?
Dancing? Yeah, right.)
Daria had a car, heavily modified to allow her to drive it. It wasn't driven
much. Her groceries were delivered, ordered and billed online. It was probable
even her literary agent and publisher didn't know that this writer of tall,
strong heroines needed a step-ladder to get into bed.
All of Daria's fictional heroines were tall and strong. Living vicariously
through the likes of Allison Camden in "Last Train From Paris," or Tamara
Mitchell in "The Princess Pretender" tended to ease the boredom and lonliness a
little, and make the fact that she was getting paid to write this stuff a little
less, well, silly.
"Lonliness" was an operative word, impossible to ignore in quiet, private
moments. Daria was beautiful, and knew it. She was a Mensa-category genius, and
knew it. But she had been betrayed by some Higher Power. Again and again, the
thought of her lot came crashing through, usually in Faulkner
stream-of-consciousness.
"Why me? I'm a good person; I have so much to offer the world, but I'm a joke!
Never taken seriously...never appreciated for who I am...no one to love me...no
one to care...I could love...no one will let me...it's not fair...isn't there
someone for me...somewhere...?" Right about then, the tears would start to flow.
Daria had a fair amount of self-esteem, so it was all the more frustrating when
her mind suddenly threw these little "pity-parties" for herself. Intellectually,
she knew she was above this sort of thing. Physically, she was below just about
everything. Emotionally, she still had the need of a child her size to be held
and told that everything would be all right.
"Shake it off, Daria. Write something. Become 'Katherine, Mistress of
International Intrigue,' or some such tripe."
"Oh, the hell with it. Have a drink."
A shot glass was the size of an old-fashioned when Daria's tiny, perfect hand
held it. Stoli rocks was her drink; two shots was enough to send her flying.
Today, she had three.
Nobody knows, da trubble I seen...
Nobody knows my sorrow...
Daria laughed at herself, at the incongruity of trying to sing a spiritual in a
voice more reminiscent of "Alvin and the Chipmunks."
"You're a drunk little lady, you know that Daria! Ha ha ha ha! Where's the great
big pillow on the great big living room floor? Ker-plunk! Ha ha ha ha ha! Now
what was that song Grandpa used to sing?"
Mairzy doats
And dozey doats
And little lamsey-divey!
A kiddley-divey too,
Wouldn't you?
The big, soft cushion on the floor was home for the night.
Phrases that describe Daria now include: terrifyingly intelligent, stunningly
beautiful, fascinatingly tiny, painfully lonely, and TOTALLY SWACKO.
chapter 2
Little Daria had a big girl's headache when she awoke 9 hours later. The sun had
risen, but she was still struggling to follow its example. Luckily, the
coffee-maker was also on "automatic."
A cup and a shower later, her head was almost clear. The e-mail indicator was
flashing on her computer. Probably something from the publisher.
Hardly that.
03:47 gmt
TO: Dmorris@ wishingwell.com
FROM: [email protected]
RE: Please, let's talk
MESSAGE: Daria, we share much common ground. Will you write me back? Please?
Jerry
Daria read the message in 2 seconds, but stared at it for several minutes. She
knew no Jerry or Jatwell. What could he want? What was he selling? Probably a
variation on the pop-up ads that were now more numerous than ants at a picnic.
14:01 gmt
FROM: [email protected]
RE: Response
MESSAGE: Who are you, and why are you contacting me? I'm busy. Do you want to
buy some books? The stores are full of them. I do not attend book-signings.
Don't waste my time again.
Jerry wouldn't give up that easily. Further e-mails were more insistent. An
abbreviated sample:
Jatwell: I'm shrinking!
Dmorris: This is getting ridiculous
Jatwell: Not kidding! Was 6'2" a month ago, now 5'4" and diminishing!
Dmorris: Even if true, why are you telling me this?
Jatwell: Because we don't live very far apart. A friend of a friend told me
about you, your situation and how smart you are. I thought you might understand.
Daria, I'm scared!
Dmorris: Be easy, Jerry. I'll talk to you, but I have no idea what to do for
you.
Jatwell: Please, Daria, may I visit you? Please?
Dmorris: I'll have to think about this.
Daria did think about it. Possibilities turned over in her mind, including: He's
a kook, he's a huckster, he's a tabloid writer/photographer looking for a scoop,
he's trying to saisfy a bizarre sexual fantasy, he's a criminal looking for an
easy mark, he's telling the truth.
The last possibility moved from the rear to the forefront over the next 72
hours. In the same 72 hours, her computer's mailbox was bulging with messages
she had not responded to.
Jatwell: Daria, what can I say to convince you? PLEASE ANSWER!
Jatwell: Had to buy smaller clothes, plus boys' clothes that I'll probably be
wearing very soon. Please talk to me!
Jatwell: Had to put a phone-book on the chair to reach the keyboard. Daria, I'm
not lying to you!
Jatwell: The shrinking process is accelerating. I won't be able to drive a car
much longer. I'm scared to be alone! Daria? Oh, please answer, Daria! I've
nowhere else to turn...
Jatwell: I'll give you anything I have! All my money, all my possessions,
anything! Talk to me, Daria. I'm begging. I'm begging.
Jerry was either a talented con-artist or was truly in a desperate state of
panic. But which? Daria was not insensitive to his supposed suffering, but she
was also human enough to have a petty thought or two.
"Well, well! One of the bigs isn't so big anymore. How does it feel to have a
level of human dignity based on something as shallow as physical size, then have
it stripped from you, a little at a time? Some of us NEVER had what you had, and
maybe we're a trifle bitter about it. Can you blame us? We're people too, you
know. There's as much joy, and sadness, and fear and frustration in us as there
is in you. They laugh at us. We don't deserve it! We just want to be accepted!
Stop laughing at me! Damn it! Damn all of you!!"
Daria took measures to calm herself, then re-examined the situation. An hour
later, she had made a decision.
0115 gmt
FROM: [email protected]
RE: Your request
MESSAGE: I'm still not sure about this, but if you must visit me, I live at 3725
Wallingford. You should know that I have a gun, and will use it at the slightest
provocation.
The "gun" was real. An antique 2-shot .22 Derringer, capable of ruining a
Chihuhua's day, but little else. It was the only pistol Daria didn't need both
hands to lift.
It's hard to glean emotions from an e-mail, but the one Daria received minutes
later seemed to have an air of relief about it. "Thank you, Daria!" it said. "As
fast as I can make it there!"
There were few knocks at Daria's door, but there were enough for her to know
that this one originated a full foot lower than most of the rest. She took a
deep breath, double-checked the tiny firearm in her right hip pocket, then threw
the bolt and turned the knob.
Maybe she hadn't been lied to. Jerry was standing there on the stoop, and Daria
was pleased to see she finally reached a man's chest, instead of his crotch.
Jerry was well-dressed, except that his clothes were far too loose on him, even
for a little man. Daria could see that he was also well-built, muscular, no
perceptible fat, with a pleasant face topped by sandy-blond hair. The face
maintained a smile, but his blue eyes (blue in this lighting, at least) were
showing a combination of hopefulness and anxiety.
"Miss Morris?"
"It's Daria. Jerry?"
"Yes ma....I mean yes, Daria. May I come in?"
The small "big" seemed so apprehensive that Daria relaxed a little. "Yes, come
in. How about a drink?"
"Whatever you're having will be fine."
Daria decided that a little more Stoli would not be out of place, given the
moment. She served them both, in the appropriate glassware. Then she climbed
into a special chair that let her see eye-to-eye with her rare, full-size
visitors. She found herself actually looking down at Jerry. He was anxious, as
if he feared she would throw him out at any moment.
"Have a gulp, Jerry. There's more where that came from." She waited a moment.
"Feeling better?"
Jerry was at least feeling calmer. He wasn't much of a drinker, but these days
he was willing to learn. "Daria, please believe me. I'm not lying to you. I AM
shrinking!"
Daria's doubts were fading. "Do you know how, or why?"
"No, I don't! Six weeks ago, I was in a nightclub, having a great time. I like
to dance. I felt strange on the way home, and the process, this, started the
next day, slowly at first, but much faster now. Daria, they say you're very
smart, like a genius or something. Is there anything you can tell me, anything
you can do?
Daria the genius was at a loss. "Have you seen a doctor?"
"Hell, no! Ever see that "shrinking man" movie from the '50's on TV? He was
poked and prodded, and treated as a sideshow attraction until they thought the
cat ate him. This is bad enough, without all that. Daria, I just thought that,
even if you couldn't help me, you'd be the one person who'd understand."
"Because I'm smart, or because I'm tiny?"
Jerry was embarrassed, but at least he was honest. "Both, I suppose. Oh Jeez,
it's happening again!"
Jerry had shrunk a full inch during their short conversation. It was visible,
even to Daria. His voice had that desperate quality again. "Daria? May I stay
here, please? I'll sleep on the couch. I've got some smaller clothes in the car.
Please, Daria, don't send me away now!"
There were no more doubts left in Daria's mind. Her earlier angry thoughts
changed to sympathetic ones. She did understand.
"I won't send you away. Get your things. You can bed down here. "
Daria slept late that morning. So did Jerry. Curled in a fetal position on the
couch, he looked even smaller than he really was. The real shock came when she
awakened him and he stood up. He was barely a head taller than Daria, making him
roughly 3 foot 6.
Jerry panicked, and started sobbing. "Stop it!! Stop it!! Oh, God oh God, why is
this happening?" He cluched Daria, holding her tightly, afraid to let go.
Once she was disentangled, Daria managed to make some coffee and microwave a few
waffles. Jerry wasn't hungry, but Daria's orders had taken on new meaning.
"EAT!"
She kept him supplied with water, assuming that dehydration on top of all of
this couldn't be a good thing. He sipped, and they talked, for most of the day.
By 3 pm, the smallest clothes Jerry had brought no longer fit.
By 7 pm, he and Daria were the same size.
Jerry broke down again, crying his much smaller eyes out for a full 15 minutes.
Regaining some of his composure, he said "Daria, thank goodness I'm here with
you. It won't stop! Please don't leave me!
"I won't leave you, Jerry. Never. Come down here with me."
"Huh?"
"Don't talk. C'mon."
His loose clothing literally fell off. She took him by a hand that now swallowed
his, and led him to the comfy cushion on the floor. Again, and again, and again.
Fantastic.
Daria found some Ken clothes from her Barbie collection for Jerry to wear the
next morning. By the afternoon, those, too, were ridiculous.
Daria could now hold her new friend in one hand. "There's nothing left for you
to wear, Jerry, unless you'd like a handkerchief or something."
By now, Jerry had resigned himself to it all. "It doesn't matter, Daria. Please,
just hold me, keep me warm and safe. It won't be much longer now."
Daria knew that, too. She closed her fingers gently around her now palm-sized
boyfriend. "If I had known what was coming, I'd have gotten a better manicure!"
Her fingernails were fine. Jerry's voice and face told her so while they were
still big enough to hear and see. He lay in the hollow of her hand now, unclad,
but still smiling. Daria brought the inch-tall figure to her ear to listen to
his last.
"Daria, I'm not frightened anymore. Honest I'm not. It doesn't hurt, and I've
made a new friend, and I think I made her happy, at least once. You're
wonderful, Daria. Keep writing those stories, and don't let anyone get you down!
He shouted the last words, to be heard. When Daria lowered her hand to her eyes,
all she could see was something barely recognizable as a human form, about the
size of a grain of rice. She reached the nail of her left index finger into her
right palm, scooping up the little dot. She brought it as close to her eye as
she could focus, watching it shrink to the size of a grain of sand, then
disappear altogether.
Daria sat in silence for a long time. Then she got up and put on some water for
a cup of tea. She thought about writing another story, this time one about a
small woman who overcame obstacles. She'd have to e-mail her agent about this.
Poco
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