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r it was； it filled the hole in the middle of him with authority。 Jack thought he could take it to school in bag lunches for a thousand years。
Now that he had managed to shut his belly up…for a little while； anyway…he was able to look about himself with more interest 。 。 。 and although he didn't know it； he had finally begun to blend into the crowd。 Now he was only one more rube from the country e to the market…town； walking slowly between the stalls； trying to gawk in every direction at once。 Hucksters recognized him； but only as one more potential mark among many。 They yelled and beckoned at him； and as he passed by they yelled and beckoned at whoever happened to be behind him…man； woman； or child。 Jack gaped frankly at the wares scattered all around him； wares both wonderful and strange； and amidst all the others staring at them he ceased to be a stranger himself…perhaps because he had given up his effort to seem blasé in a place where no one acted blasé。 They laughed； they argued； they haggled 。 。 。 but no one seemed bored。
The market…town reminded him of the Queen's pavillion without the air of strained tension and too…hectic gaiety…there was the same absurdly rich mingle of smells （dominated by roasting meat and animal ordure）； the same brightly dressed crowds （although even the most brightly dressed people Jack saw couldn't hold a candle to some of the dandies he had seen inside the pavillion）； the same unsettling but somehow exhilarating juxtaposition of the perfectly normal； cheek by jowl with the extravagantly strange。
He stopped at a stall where a man was selling carpets with the Queen's portrait woven into them。 Jack suddenly thought of Hank Scoffler's mom and smiled。 Hank was one of the kids Jack and Richard Sloat had hung around with in L。A。 Mrs。 Scoffler had a thing for the most garish decorations Jack had ever seen。 And God； wouldn't she have loved these rugs； with the image of Laura DeLoessian； her hair done up in a high； regal coronet of braids； woven into them！ Better than her velvet paintings of Alaskan stags or the ceramic diorama of the Last Supper behind the bar in the Scoffler living room 。 。 。
Then the face woven into the rugs seemed to change even as he looked at it。 The face of the Queen was gone and it was his mother's face he saw； repeated over and over and over； her eyes too dark； her skin much too white。
Homesickness surprised Jack again。 It rushed through his mind in a wave and he called out for her in his heart…Mom！ Hey Mom！ Jesus； what am I doing here？ Mom！！…wondering with a lover's longing intensity what she was doing now； right this minute。 Sitting at the window； smoking； looking out at the ocean； a book open beside her？ Watching TV？ At a movie？ Sleeping？ Dying？
Dead？ an evil voice added before he could stop it。 Dead； Jack？ Already dead？
Stop it。
He felt the burning sting of tears。
'Why so sad； my little lad？'
He looked up； startled； and saw the rug salesman looking at him。 He was as big as the meat…vendor； and his arms were also tattooed； but his smile was open and sunny。 There was no meanness in it。 That was a big difference。
'It's nothing；' Jack said。
'If it's nothing makes you look like that； you ought to be thinking of something； my son； my son。'
'I looked that bad； did I？' Jack asked； smiling a little。 He had also grown unselfconscious about his speech…at least for the moment…and perhaps that was why the rug salesman heard nothing odd or off…rhythm in it。
'Laddie； you looked as if you only had one friend left on this side o' the moon and you just saw the Wild White Wolf e out o' the north an' gobble him down with a silver spoon。'
Jack smiled a little。 The rug salesman turned away and took something from a smaller display to the right of the largest rug…it was oval and had a short handle。 As he turned it over the sun flashed across it…it was a mirror。 To Jack it looked small and cheap； the sort of thing you might get for knocking over all three wooden milk…bottles in a carnival game。
'Here； laddie；' the rug salesman said。 'Take a look and see if I'm not right。'
Jack looked into the mirror and gaped； for a moment so stunned he thought his heart must have forgotten to beat。 It was him； but he looked like something from Pleasure Island in the Disney version of Pinocchio； where too much pool…shooting and cigar…smoking had turned boys into donkeys。 His eyes； normally as blue and round as an Anglo…Saxon heritage could make them； had gone brown and almond…shaped。 His hair； coarsely matted and falling across the middle of his forehead； had a definite manelike look。 He raised one hand to brush it away； and touched only bare skin…in the mirror； his fingers seemed to fade right through the hair。 He heard the vendor laugh； pleased。 Most amazing of all； long jackass…ears dangled down to below his jawline。 As he stared； one of them twitched。
He thought suddenly： I HAD one of these！
And on the heels of that： In the Daydreams I had one of these。 Back in the regular world it was 。 。 。 was 。 。 。
He could have been no more than four。 In the regular world （he had stopped thinking of it as the real world without even noticing） it had been a great big glass marble with a rosy center。 One day while he was playing with it； it had rolled down the cement path in front of their house and before he could catch it； it had fallen down a sewer grate。 It had been gone…forever； he had thought then； sitting on the curb with his face propped on his dirty hands and weeping。 But it wasn't； here was that old toy rediscovered； just as wonderful now as it had been when he was three or four。 He grinned； delighted。 The image changed and Jack the Jackass became Jack the Cat； his face wise and secret with amusement。 His eyes went from donkey…brown to tomcat…green。 Now pert little gray…furred ears cocked alertly where the droopy donkey…ears had dangled。
'Better；' the vendor said。 'Better； my son。 I like to see a happy boy。 A happy boy is a healthy boy； and a healthy boy finds his way in the world。 Book of Good Farming says that； and if it doesn't； it should。 I may just scratch it in my copy； if I ever scratch up enough scratch from my pumpkin…patch to buy a copy someday。 Want the glass？'
'Yes！' Jack cried。 'Yeah； great！' He groped for his sticks。 Frugality was forgotten。 'How much？'
The vendor frowned and looked around swiftly to see if they were being watched。 'Put it away； my son。 Tuck it down deep； that's the way。 You show your scratch； you're apt to lose the batch。 Dips abound on market…ground。'
'What？'
'Never mind。 No charge。 Take it。 Half of em get broken in the back of my wagon when I drag em back to my store e tenmonth。 Mothers bring their little 'uns over and they try it but they don't buy it。'
'Well； at least you don't deny it；' Jack said。
The vendor looked at him with some surprise and then they both burst out laughing。
'A happy boy with a snappy mouth；' the vendor said。 'e see me when you're older and bolder； my son。 We'll take your mouth and head south and treble what we peddle。'
Jack giggled。 This guy was better than a rap record by the Sugarhill Gang。
'Thanks；' he said （a large； improbable grin had appeared on the chops of the cat in the mirror）。 'Thanks very much！'
'Thank me to God；' the vendor said 。 。 。 then； as an afterthought： 'And watch your wad！'
Jack moved on； tucking the mirror…toy carefully into his jerkin； next to Speedy's bottle。
And every few minutes he checked to make sure his sticks were still there。
He guessed he knew what dips were； after all。
3
Two stalls down from the booth of the rhyming rug…vendor； a depraved…looking man with a patch askew over one eye and the smell of strong drink about him was trying to sell a farmer a large rooster。 He was telling the farmer that if he bought this rooster and put it in with his hens； the farmer would have nothing but double…yolkers for the next twelve…month。
Jack； however； had neither eyes for the rooster nor ears for the salesman's pitch。 He joined a crowd of children who were staring at the one…eyed man's star attraction。 This was a parrot in a large wicker cage。 It was almost as tall as the youngest children in the group； and it was as smoothly； darkly green as a Heineken beer…bottle。 Its eyes were a brilliant gold 。 。 。 its four eyes。 Like the pony he had seen in the pavillion stables； the parrot had two heads。 It gripped its perch with its big yellow feet and looked placidly in two directions at once； its two tufted crowns almost touching。
The parrot was talking to itself； to the amusement of the children…but even in his amazement Jack noted that； while they were paying close attention to the parrot； they seemed neither stunned nor even very wondering。 They weren't like kids seeing their first movie； sitting stupefied in their seats and all eyes； they were more like kids getting their regular Saturday…morning cartoon…fix。 This was a wonder； yes； but not a wholly new one。 And to whom do wonders pall more rapidly than the very young？
'Bawwwrk！ How high is up？' East…Head enquired。
'As low as low；' West…Head responded； and the children giggled。
'Graaak！