Riffing on Stuart Dybek's "Little Oscar"

(Note: riff on the subject matter, rather than some of the language)

The fleamarket's dirt floor had turned to mud and the dollar in my backpocket itched against my ass. Mom, having one of her good days, pointed toward a glassware booth and her hand floated to my shoulders. It's a midget, she whispered (almost like a child), he's so cute. His back faced us, a large torso covered witha  Pantera T-shirt. I could imagine my mother asking the midget what Pantera was and why he wanted antique glassware, but then, I just wanted a hot dog. Acquire the desire to buy Oscar Meyer.
Later, when I was grown, I saw midgets wrestle in the Mt Zion gymnasium, the Baddest Little Show On Earth. The police chief hollered through the PA that the midgets would be late, like Barney Fife beneath those moldy stars and bars. I didn't see Pantera there.
But I have a goldfish.