The Egress
by M. J. Pettit
July 12, 1865
Dear Mister Barnum,
It's time for the American Prometheus to head toward the egress. Yes, I know the sign pointing "this way to the egress" only leads to the exit. I've watched the museumgoers disappear through that doorway as they search for your latest wonder. I've decided to join them, except I won't feel cheated when the barred door prohibits my return.
Please accept this letter as my official resignation.
I suppose you're surprised to discover I can read and write. Don't know why I kept silent all these years. Never quite knew what to say. Haven't sought the limelight. I have a bad history with fire.
Before I forget, let me express my appreciation for rescuing us from the Arctic. If your expedition hadn't come along when it did, Vic and I would have been goners. Felt like we'd been wandering through the ice for decades. As a duo, we've always gotten ourselves into bad spots. Getting chased north of Helsinki was the worst. As we warmed ourselves under Hudson Bay blankets devouring your rations, Vic described our act. Traveling city to city, restaging the story of my creation and our early disagreements. A wolfish smile took over your face. "A most impressive humbug," you said. "We'll make a fortune together, I swear."
"You misunderstand," Vic explained. "It isn't a fake but a genuine hybrid."
I must confess it bothered me when you kept the "Prometheus" name for my solo shows. Dandy title and all, but that was Vic's role in our original production. Best straight man in the biz, old Vic. I don't know why we always fought. Still miss him even though I understand now why he enlisted. Should have joined him when I had the chance.
However, I remain grateful for the opportunities you provided. Like how the scientific committee you organized declared I was a man, my assembled parts notwithstanding. My mixed heritage always caused problems back in the old country. Not sure your doctors needed to do their poking and prodding in front of so crowded a theatre. Played along because I'm a professional and know somebody needs to pay the bills.
I tolerated posing before Matthew Brady the daguerreotype-man and allowed the Fowler brothers to read the bumps on my borrowed skull. After our meeting, Walt Whitman marveled, "I contain multitudes, but you're a true congress of Europe."
Don't get me wrong. I have found much happiness during these past six years. You have probably forgotten about Joice. Told me she played President Washington's nanny in one of your earliest schemes. Took great care of me when I arrived at the museum catatonic from my misadventures. She snuck down at night to coax me out of my deep slumber then made the introductions to all the hidden memories haunting this place. I immediately bonded with Myrtle the mermaid over our stitches and mummified parts. Promised to take her to Fiji one day.
I returned to the stage with some reluctance. Always ended with us getting run out of town whenever the locals figured I wasn't an ordinary actor. "No problem," you said. "This is America. It's different here." You convinced me of the important work I had to do.
