THE CLOWN — A Short Story

Streams of chocolate drizzled down the churros as she lifted a long piece to her mouth. Crunch. Her tongue cleaned up the chocolate drips and sugar crystals that had stuck to her lips.

Nothing.

She picked up the cup of chocolate, swamped her mouth with a swig, and set it down again. Damp in her hand she fondled a cigarette she had stolen from her father. She flicked it to her fingers, lit it, and hauled in the toxins with a long, tired breath.

The teaspoon rattled on the saucer announcing the arrival of a text message.

Mum: “Are you okay? Didn’t want to wake you this morning.”

She promptly sent back a thumbs-up.

Mum: “Okay, well, good to hear! Good luck today!”

She took a tiny bite of churros that burned down her throat to sit heavy in her stomach. Should she put out the cigarette, shove the plate of churros in her mouth and then throw it up? Get clean again. Reset the shitty day.

Another message — Anna: Where the hell are you? Are you sick? Do you want me to take notes?

She ashed into the chocolate to make certain she wouldn’t be tempted to do anything as irrational as taking another bite.

Anna: I’m sorry, Charlie…

Another text message: But I don’t think it’s fair if you get a resit. NONE of us have had time to study, NONE of us. This is selfish and unjust, and you know it!

The beginning of the pre-trials had all the students mooing and stomping like cows certain of slaughter. Charlie had worried herself to the point that nose bleeds had become a regular occurrence. She would be sitting at home, carefully accounting for every single minute, slamming hard information into her head like rocks when suddenly a gush of blood would flood over her. The black-red full and fast sent her into a panic that only made the bleeding worse. And this morning, after waking up late, a mere zombie of exhaustion, she walked up to the school gates, and, as though it were a crystal-clear pane, Time froze and shattered before her eyes. Walking through the gates would be wading into a sea of broken glass.

She slowly turned around, noting her audible breath, and walked away.

Through the graveyard, past the pubs, the cafes and real estate agents, all the way to the centre of the city. Each step a push against the awful resistance that she was walking away from herself.

As she walked, she wandered through her years, noting how with each Happy Birthday the joy in the day to day had dissolved so slowly it was almost impossible to detect. Last year she had quit dance. This year she had left the drama club even though it was her turn to play the lead. And two months ago she had said goodbye to the basketball team; the two-training sessions a week took up too much study time to be justified.

She walked her mind all the way back to primary where everything about school was colourful and made her laugh. The teachers’ high socks, the boy who never wore underpants which resulted in his dick rolling out of his shorts at reading time. Even the day she got sick from eating too many unripe mulberries from the school tree — all of this was hilarious if you thought about it.

With fifteen minutes for recess and half an hour for lunch, a childlike mind can design an entire universe bustling with a multitude of mini-worlds. She and Anna had made the paper factory, the pie shop, the frog collectors club, the postcard club where they would make and write each other postcards pretending that they were off on some fabulous adventure in South East Asia or were supermodels on a location in Spain. How different things had been. When the two girls had been separated for real holidays with their respective families she had carefully selected thoughtful gifts; necklaces of broken gold heart halves that joined up to make one. But now the only thing that brought her comfort in relation to her best friend was beating her. Keeping her one comfortable step behind.

At 15 a girl gets a good idea of her physical currency and the two of them had simultaneously concluded that their exchange rates were quite low. They were going to have to add as many strings to their bow as humanly possible.

School ratings were the only clear way to keep track of these bows and being first. First in History, first in Science, first in English. First in everything. The girls tenderly pushed and pulled each other up, but when it came to the crunch, and these crunches were becoming more regular, more crushing, there could only be one first. During these crunches Anna’s light that had once warmed and illuminated Charlie became ultraviolet, exposing all the things that she was not. The competition was so unashamedly fierce and open they had broken into the English staffroom together, starving to see which one was slightly better than the other. To know in black and white whose ultraviolet light was right.

When they flipped open the large record of student grades for that year and Charlie saw her name with the number one written next to it she had almost fainted from relief. She spent the rest of the day comforting Anna, “It doesn’t matter who is first, it doesn’t matter at all.” She had begun to wonder if adulthood was just one small lie after the next…

The waiter awoke her from her thoughts asking about the bill. She pulled out 10 dollars, turned off her phone and slipped it into her bag. She had been brave enough to ignore today, but would she have the courage to just never show up to school ever again?

Of course not.

She just had to get through this year, her teachers said. Then she would be in what they called the gap year. Is it called a gap year because you might fall into it and never come out again? She longed to fall into the gap. To go on the never-ending travels that she and Anna had invented and sent postcards from. To live the gap life; a world where nothing was measured with numbers and contests but by heartbeats and bike rides. But even though she longed for the gap, she had no plans on taking it. How could she miss out on a minute of measuring herself? How could she miss out on the chance of being somebody, no matter how enticing the idea of nobody might be?

As well as sporadic nose-bleeds, the heaviness of school, parents, best friends and the world had been causing her sleepless nights, weight loss, brittle hair, and tired skin, but she had coped. She had been holding it all up, until The Boy.

All the overwhelming affection that she once had for her family, school, and her female friends had to be funneled into something, someone, some boy. She had never had much interest in them, but decided it best to take an optimistic perspective. To see past the bad skin, the off jokes, the board shorts.

There was one who seemed safe enough, handsome enough, popular enough, and she had mentally blanked out the time he had incorrectly corrected her use of the word “vivid”, so, intelligent enough. An average boy with one year of university under his belt. She didn’t want to be the first to lose her virginity, she wasn’t one of those girls, but she most certainly didn’t want to be the last, she wasn’t one of those girls either.

She had considered her age — seventeen. Time to grow up. More for this reason than any sexual craving she took herself along to The Party, drank as much alcohol as possible and placed herself encouragingly in front of The Boy. She knew nothing about what she was supposed to do. Was she really expected to do what those women on the internet did? Surely not. The whole thing seemed barbaric — angry. A horror show. A slaughterhouse.

Though each sip of blue vodka made the whole ordeal appear possible, almost promising. She had no idea where she was meant to put her hands let alone anything else, but after a little more blue vodka she forgot that she had hands which made the dilemma of what to do with them disappear entirely.

She awoke the next day with a dry mouth and a sore-head, naked. She quickly searched for her clothes having no idea how she had made it to this strange house and what had happened. Was she still a virgin? Had she cleverly slipped through the transition from girl to woman? What had she said? She could tell from the greyness dusting the summer morning that it had not gone well, but the worst thing was she did not know. What had she done? How she had been seen? The Boy walked her to the door and half-heartedly kissed her goodbye, doing his absolute best not to look her in the eye. A keen whiplash jolted through her as she was suddenly slung from interesting to in the way.

As the days went by she felt terrible when he didn’t text, foolish when she did and was ghosted. She wondered at the modern-day verb to ghost. Why did anyone need to die to say goodbye?

At parties she never heard her name but was certain it had been turned upside down as it bounced from one wagging tongue to the next. She had become the brunt of the joke, the laughing stock, the thing for people to scoff off and chew on as they sipped beer. And even though months passed and fresh news was laid and hatched she could not shake the feeling that the world was laughing at her.

Once the class clown, the joker, nothing could summon a small smile from her lips. Her funny bones had petrified to point that they were impossible to tickle. Her fury had melted her microorganisms like a hot metal that she had quickly cooled into a impenetrable armour. She had seen past The Boy’s short-comings, yet he was not willing to see past hers. How could she have been so stupid? All the firsts she had collected seemed as frivolous and as common as basketball cards. She had not been first with The Boy, not even second, to be honest, the position didn’t feel like third, fourth or even fifth. She had not been noticed even when she had let him inside her skin.

The goal of small now sat up stiff next to the goal of first. Smaller than that. Smaller than a featherless baby bird. However, the gold-platinum goal that was like a god that loomed over the other objectives echoed inside everything she did: do not cry. Crying was something women and children did. All the geniuses she had learned about and looked up to in English and art history were men, ambitious, selfish and driven. That is how she would be. No crying.

When she was disrespectful to her father and he had reacted with an open-hand smack to her face she could not quite believe how much it stung. The aching jaw bone, the prickly hot blood needling through her skin, the black words she had meant and voiced putrefying her internal organs. But she was proud. First in not crying, she thought to herself as she was sent to her room and her father wept in the kitchen.

The early evening on the street established itself with a few cold gusts of winds. Lights faded up like little moons making it impossible for her to think of anything but tomorrow. She should rush to the library, cram for science exam followed by the art history exam. Memorize that essay she wrote on Picasso, hammer those big words that had done her so well last time. She saddled her school bag on her back and began walking in the direction of the city library.

Suddenly a tricycle with a large box and gramophone attached to its front began circling the square. Honk. Honk. Honk. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

After stealing the attention of everyone rushing by, the tricycle-cart parked in front of large statue of the man that founded the city. A clown wearing a tailed vest, a crisp white collared shirt, oversized shoes, and glasses jumped off the toilet-tricycle- seat and began setting up markers and bells. His energy and purpose sucking everyone’s attention in as he went about his bizarre business.

With his red nose, a comically tiny top hat that sat diagonally at the front of his head The Clown was both utterly ridiculous and devastatingly dashing. Clowns are goofy at best, terrifying at worst, but not this clown. No stark white make-up but tanned, young tight skin, high cheekbones, dimples and muscular arms that stretched out the fabric in his shirt. Intoxicating large brown eyes lined with jet black. He must be an acrobat she thought to herself as the children began creeping closer, delighted that amid the day of shopping something for them was about to unfold.

Quite a crowd had gathered now, and The Clown took the centre of the stage he had made and waited… Standing statue-still for an uncomfortably long time until the sound of the children rose and Charlie thought to move away. 5.03pm. Time to…HONK!

A woman squealed, a child cracked a cry, and The Clown beamed before taking a few more horns from his bag. He placed them underneath his armpits, in his mouth, between his thighs, knees, and the last one he lifted high in his left hand and then began tensing his muscles separately to hit honks to the tune of Mary Had a Little Lamb. This took the children completely, garnered some adult giggles and once done, The Clown put the horns away to applause and asked for four volunteers.

Charlie hated it when street performers did this, absolutely mortifying the audience. Everyone itching with pure fear for a moment that someone might see them out of control. 5.07pm. The Clown glanced up through his wisps of black hair. His eyes settled on hers, she stepped back, gulped, and looked away. The Clown steered his stare elsewhere, selecting those whose arms were flying out of their sockets with enthusiasm.

The four volunteers stepped into the circle and The Clown handed each of them a cowbell. He stood in the centre pointing at them to ring their bells to the tune of the Blue Danube.

It was a simple act but Charlie felt the corners of her mouth turn up — it was funny. She scanned the crowd; faces lit, every single soul under the spell of the stunning Clown. He thanked the volunteers, let them go and they floated back to their families like helium balloons.

5.10pm. Really, now, it was time to be getting back. Preparing the lie to tell her mother about how well the exam went.

As she crouch-crawled her way through the front of the crowd to find a clear exit, The Clown requested more volunteers. A bald man, a man with a mustache, a woman and a small boy were selected and settled into the space.

The Clown counted them and snapped his head back to the audience. He needed one more. Charlie’s gaze flicked down to her watch again, in an additive panic now, as though Time may have jumped since the last time she checked it.

5.10pm. No minutes had moved but realising this only made her feel more rushed. She lifted her head —and suddenly in front of her, a white-gloved hand opened like a lotus flower.

The Clown and the audience’s eyes pinned on her every move. She shook her head and apologised, explaining that it was impossible. The Crowd looked on with hunger, needing more of the magic, NOW. Sweat pricked through her pores. She shook her head and scoffed, “No, I’m in a rush”. But The Clown didn’t move his hand away, did not flinch. He kept it out and open, patiently demanding it be taken up.

She had to study. There was no time to… a rustling at the bottom of her jacket. She looked down to a little girl — electric with excitement — egging her on with her over-sized eyes.

Ugh.

Charlie took a big, bitter breath in and placed her hand on the warm white palm and before she had a moment to feel it land The Clown pulled her into the centre and raised her arm. Applause rained down on her like hailstones; no one should get applauded for nothing, she thought, she had always hated it when people did.

The Clown placed her at the side of the circle and explained to the audience that he was going on a mission… for a kiss. He snapped his head to Charlie with “kiss”. A rollercoaster of red ran down her throat to her toes and then shot back up to her cheeks. The Clown insisted that in this mission there would be some obstacles and that each hurdle had a sound effect. The cold winter air would have his teeth chatter, so The Little Boy would need to wind a metallic contraption made from a bicycle pedal— zeez, zeez, zeez, zeez. When The Clown lost his watch crossing the mime bridge over a crocodile-infested river, The Man With The Mustache had to plop a stone into a bucket of water and snap his hands together like gnashing croc-teeth. When The Clown was knocking on Charlie’s invisible door, The Bald Man had to tap a small drum that The Clown had strapped to his hairless head. And finally, when Charlie opened her imaginary door The Woman would thump her hand against her chest to the beat of an overcome heart.

The Clown ensured everyone understood their role while sporadically looking to Charlie with comical but sometimes serious seduction.

Moving to the top of his mission he began stretching, preparing for his difficult journey. Long lunges, push-ups, sit-ups, twisting his lips around like rubber, dropping his head to the side and batting his eyelids. A smile spread over Charlie’s face so wide that it hurt. What was he going to do? Was he really going to kiss her in the middle of the crowd? Was she going to be kissed by a handsome stranger in a clown suit, in front of the entire city, on a Tuesday? The day could not get any stranger and the sense of surprise, anticipation and absurd left her light-headed.

The Clown set out about his way, but with each attempt one of the volunteers would forget their cue. He would feign fury and grumpily show them how to do it again. Every time something stopped The Clown from making it to his sweetheart, suspense simmered inside Charlie. The spectacle in chivalry, the forgotten art of the gentleman appealed to the young woman she was, and the silliness tickled the sullen girl inside.

For his final attempt, The Clown sighed and went on his way. His teeth chattered through the wintry cold, his expensive watch plopped into the crocodile-infested river, the door knocked perfectly after he anxiously approached Charlie’s door, and his heart thumped so loud that the whole city stopped. He had arrived.

In a flash, he took Charlie’s hand and ran with her to climb up and behind the huge statue of the man who founded the city and he thrust her back. She lay there in his arms, her face safe from the audience. His confident breath huge waves of air that filled up his toned muscles. He raised his finger to his lips, flicked his gaze away and silently counted the performance beats before bringing his dark brown eyes inches away from hers.

It could have only been seconds, milliseconds maybe, but that motion that sits between the ticks of the clock stopped. The city sounds and scents shot around her like falling stars. The smell of roasted chestnuts, aftershave, eyeliner, and clean sweat. Something said to Charlie, that maybe for a moment, it could be okay, just this once, to maybe…let go.

Her eyes fell shut and the thing pulling all her muscles tort together released. Her bones crumpled liked a let-go marionette and her neck cricked with a sound. The Clown’s eyes went wide with alarm, but when he realised what the crack was, his grin dug deep into his dimples. He slowly raised her up and she blinked back to the world as The Clown swiftly switched his massive glasses for a pair with large, hot-pink, star-shaped frames. He walked her drunkenly to the centre of the stage where he dramatically passed out, intoxicated by the intimacy.

The audience bellowed and hooted, overwhelmed that their Hero had achieved his goal and let them live out love and stupidity for one day more.

Charlie was an orange glow in the navy- blue evening as The Clown led all the volunteers for their bows. He thanked them, showing a small suggestion of The Man underneath. And people turned out their pockets to find enough money to pay for such magic.

She was unable to move until most of the audience had dispersed. The Clown collected up his things and the children flocked him like pigeons around a bag of bread. When she had her legs back she began to move, but The Clown stopped her with a short whistle.

Charlie turned and he tossed something that she didn’t have time to see but instinctively caught. She unclasped her hands and a red clown nose sprang to life. She looked up at him, but he was now accosted by the small ones who now needed a nose for themselves.

Charlie sat down at a bench, rolling the red foam between her fingers until she got bored with that and popped it on her own. Everywhere she looked to — the mother exhausted by her screaming children, the couples sliding hands over other’s denim-clad curves, the waiter taking a serious cigarette break — every ordinary thing was underlined by the red nose. It was all awfully funny if she thought about it.

A chuckle jiggled her chest, then bubbled into a bigger cackle which moved into hoots that ended in snorts that started to split her sides. And tears rolled down her cheeks. As she howled forward hot drops slid into her mouth. And she spluttered with surprise and started to choke, to cough, tasting the salty truth of how sad she was. She moped and sobbed into her cold hands. Tears trickling through her fingers all the way down to their heavy home in her red nose.

Once all the salt had escaped, she took off the nose and rang out the worry onto the pavement. It really was terribly funny, she thought, as she lay down on the bench to soak in the starless city sky.