Clown Girl (19 page)

It was true, he’d returned everything. Everything except Rex Galore. And the lost baby, the child I would’ve had with Rex. Or my parents. Nobody could bring back my family, future or past, because I was the single stalk of a failing family tree. I smelled the future the unborn baby should’ve had in the clean scent of the waterless wipe Jerrod used on my skin.

He said, “The whole idea behind policing is about making the world better, but somehow, nine times out of ten it doesn’t work that way.”

“This is a pretty good start,” I said. My voice broke, caught on a sadness that crept in.

“You’re lucky the burns aren’t worse.”

He put ointment on my blisters. His touch was light. He unrolled gauze, started at my wrist, then followed the gauze in circles. Chance followed his hands with her nose. With each turn I felt closer to Jerrod; his hands moved up my arm, and I held my breath. He dressed the wounds, but it felt more like he was undressing me; close enough to unbutton a shirt, unhook a bra, adjust my collar. I wanted to touch his knee, his jaw, his Steve McQueen ears.

I wanted Jerrod as a medicine against the sadness.

He wrapped my arm like a long white glove. His breath on my skin was a shoulder tap, a secret hello. I pulled back to see into his eyes. He held on to the gauze and as I pulled away the wrap tightened against my skin like a Chinese finger trap.

He snipped the gauze with scissors. The tension released against my wrist, but stayed in my chest, my heart; I was waiting, but didn’t know what for. He tucked the end of the gauze under another loop and his fingers brushed my skin.

“You’re hot,” he said.

Sexy?
Fevered, more like it. I said, “Jerrod, we should talk.”

He looked up then, at me, all blue eyes, and his eyes were so clear, and at the corners, those wrinkles, he was almost laughing. He held my arm, held the gauze, and equally steadily he held my gaze. With the first aid cream and scattered bandages, we were adrift in a medical picnic, the mattress our blanket in a forest of confiscated goods. My blood on the mattress between us was like seeing the back side of my skin, my insides, a secret—Jerrod had seen me inside and out, burned and in the psych ward. And still here he was, beside me. But the blood and the burns were all circumstantial, a string of bad luck, the anomaly. I didn’t want to think that was me—a wreck, a mess, a mortal.

I said, “This isn’t a date, you know. We still barely know each other. Right?” I added.

He worked a metal clip into the end of the gauze to hold it together, then let go. I pulled my arm back. He said, “I know a few things about you.”

“You know where I live, that I have a dog and I’m a clown. That’s it.”

“And,” he said, “I know that you faint in the heat. You juggle. You’re pretty good at tying balloon things, animals, and some kind of knotted sculpture.”

“Christ figure,” I said.

He fit the roll of gauze back in the tin box, and stacked the Band-Aids. “What’s that?”

“The one that looks like a knot? It’s supposed to be Christ after the deposition.” I nodded. “Crumpled on the ground. My own invention.” I flexed my arm and felt the muscles shift under the wrap.

He said, “The one that’s like a knot, with two balloons worked together?”

“Ah, the knot with two, that’s the Ascension. Kind of looks like an octopus. All white?”

“The one I saw was blue and white.” The lid of his box wouldn’t close. He rearranged tubes of ointment, scissors, and packets.

“That’d be Mary. Mary at her son’s feet.” I lay back against the mattress.

“With the little thing at the top?” He made a corkscrew movement in the air.

“The angel, at her shoulder? That’s the Annunciation. Completely different.”

“OK, then. The Annunciation. That’s something I know—you tie the Annunciation in blue and white.” He muscled the box closed and tried to work the latch.

“Anybody who’s seen my show knows that…Wouldn’t they?” I added, “If they get it.”

“Could be a big ‘if,’” he said. “And I know you love your dog.” He moved his arm to give Chance a stroke; his cinnamon apple smell reached me through the cindered bouquet of my own skin. “That shows compassion… And I know you look great in a leotard, up for anything, and equally stunning in a fat suit. Not every woman can pull that off.”

So that was how he saw me—as a girl in leotard paid to do anything. Crack’s words. I sat up again. He smiled, a slight and boyish smile, and ran a hand over my good arm.

“You’ve got me wrong if you think I’m a hooker, or a stripper, or a heavily made-up chick in Lycra paid to do anything. I draw a line—I’m not in the clown gigs for the free drugs, or the groupies.”

“Whoa, whoa!” he said. “Back up. You see me as a groupie?”

“I don’t know… I appreciate you returning my stuff. It’s wonderful even, but I have to tell you up front, I’m not looking to date, paid or otherwise.”

“Paid?” He got up off the mattress. “Do I have my wallet out?”

He had something out.
Is that a pistol or are you happy to see me?
I held the nervous one-liner back. “Could be you’re trying to buy me with favors. All I want to do is clear the air, lay my cards out, right?”

“Maybe you’re not used to anyone being nice.”

I said, “Nice? I’m used to nice. I’m not an S&M clown, in it for the degradation, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“That hadn’t even crossed my mind! Sniffles, you’re making some fast assumptions—”

“Well, that’s the world we live in. I know what people think when they see a girl in a clown suit. With me, it doesn’t apply; I’m a straight up performer, in it for the show.”

“Jeez. I wouldn’t think you’re a hooker when you’re out there tying balloons into the Madonna and Child.”

What could I say to that?

“I mean, if you were tying Mary Magdalene, or a flock of sinners, then maybe…” Jerrod sat back down on the mattress. “Sniffles, I see you as a person trying to do meaningful work.

Meaningful to yourself, at least. I like your work ethic. Letting people know you’re a clown takes at least as much courage as being a cop.”

I looked to see if he was serious. There was no hint of ridicule.

“The way you stand up to the world, despite the clown bashings, the clown flashers…”

“Flashers?”

“The exhibitionists. The stalkers…” he said.

“Stalkers?”

“And the clown identity theft, the big-shoe fetishists…Some say it’s a fool’s game to wear a clown suit in Baloneytown, but the same folks probably think I’m a patsy to wear a uniform, to be the one sworn to keep this burg together. You’re just like this room—everything you do, it’s all evidence of who you are. You’re a risk taker, wearing your art on your sleeve the way I wear my badge.”

“You mean that?”

“Of course I mean it. After all the times I’ve seen you, and talked to you…But you’re right. I don’t really know you. I’ve never once seen you
au naturel
.”

“Naked?”

Jerrod said, “You could take yourself more seriously—”

I cut in: “I do! I do! This is serious clowning. Performance.”

He tapped the daisy glasses. “I’d say the Elton John shades aren’t the way to show it.”

“It’s a paradox, I know, but I’m a serious clown.”

He shook his head. “I get the feeling you’re trying to hide…” He said, “This is the first time I’ve seen your hair. I’ve never seen your face without makeup.”

“Is that so different from other women?”

“I don’t know if I could pick you out of a lineup.” He opened another packet from the first aid kit, and unfolded the white baby-scented towelette. “So, why’re you hiding?” He started to wipe makeup from my cheek.

I ducked, dodged his hand. “I’m not hiding. I’m performing.” I smelled his sweetness, along with baby oil and antiseptic.

“You can’t perform all the time.” When he leaned in, I let him. Slowly, carefully, he wiped makeup from under my eyes. The cloth was cool against my fevered skin. He ran it along my jawline. My throat tightened. My eyes grew warm, like I was going to cry, and I felt like there was something I meant to say, but couldn’t remember what.

Jerrod said, “Maybe, sometimes, I hide behind the cop clothes too, in my own way. It’s a costume, sure, but what I know from experience is, you’ve got to let yourself breathe. Right? Keep some private time. Give in a little, and relax. I don’t even know your real name.”

If that was a question, I didn’t answer it. Jerrod ran his damp cloth down the side of my face.

I said, “I relax in costume.” I felt more at ease when I was close to Rex, and I was closer to Rex when I wore Rex’s clothes. The work was our work, Rex’s and mine. With each swipe over my skin, Jerrod moved me further from clowndom. Further from Rex. I grabbed his arm. “That’s enough. Don’t.”

The mattress crinkled.
Here it comes
, I thought. The moves, the fetish. The kiss. I held my breath. The warehouse hummed. The lights were bright and timeless.

He said, “OK. So show me something then.”

I turned, looked at him. What did he mean?

“A trick, a skit, a sketch… ” He waved a hand, as though at an invisible stage, and so called on the Clown Code of Ethics to hold me accountable:
when in costume, in character
.

“Fair enough.” His request wasn’t so different from every kid on the street, every coulrophile and corporation, but this time it was more than a fair trade for the return of Chance and Plucky. Besides, I could use the audience feedback. “I’ve got a little something I’m working on.”

I stood and found a spot on the floor in front of Jerrod. There was an awkward moment of calling up my character, getting into the swing. I wiped my hands on my thighs. “Don’t look at me,” I said, and gave a nervous smile.

“Don’t look?” With a hand on Chance’s back, he said in her ear, “We must have the cheap seats.”

I laughed, embarrassed. “Just give me a minute, like the curtains are closed?”

He averted his eyes, hummed, tapped his hand against the mattress. He leaned back against his palms and crossed his feet at the ankles. I looked to the ceiling as though to a guiding star. Then I turned my attention inward, took a long, deep breath, stood up straight, shoulders dropped, and counted backward from ten. Concentrating on each movement, I faced my audience, Jerrod and Chance.

“Here we go.” Right away my breathing was wrong but I plunged in. “This will be a brief presentation of the introduction to an interpretative version of Kafka’s ‘Metamorphosis’! My work in progress.”

Jerrod clapped, I gave a little bow, and took another deep breath to ready myself. Then all was silent except for the humming lights. I bent my knees, as though to sit in an invisible chair. My thighs ached, my groin muscle was tight. I straightened up, broke character, shook it out. “I should clarify, it’s not a literal rendition, if you know the story.”

“No need to explain.” He waved a hand, as though drawing me forward.

I said, “Ignore the bandages.”

He nodded, settled in, reclined with all the ease of a man eating grapes and wine in the grass on a summer day.

I bent my knees again, relaxed into it, kept my back straight, and sat once more in my invisible chair. I lifted my arms, elbows out, hands poised as though to type on a keyboard. And then I typed—stiff, burned fingers and all.
Click click click click click click…
There was no sound, but I heard it. I cocked my head and pretended to read from notes as though transcribing.
Click click click
. The bandaged arm was hard to work with, but I did my best. It’s important to stay with an action long enough for it to sink in. A novice would move from typing to the next phase too soon. Me? I typed. Methodically, meticulously, each gesture articulated and clean.
Click, click
. I leaned toward my imagined notes, squinted at the pages, and when I reached the end of a line—because, in my mind, I used an old-fashioned typewriter—I hit the return with a zing!
Click, click, click!
And after a while, as I typed I slowly, almost imperceptibly, started to hunch forward. I brought my elbows up higher, shoulders raised. I bent my knees, swayed my back until my rear stuck out, crooked my neck, and with the pacing of a bud turning into a flower on a stop-action film, my typing movements morphed from poised and efficient to pinched and harried. I bent forward farther, brought my elbows up level with my ears, opened my hands a bit, and soon I wasn’t a transcriptionist at all anymore, but was an insect, arms and legs frantically fighting the air, head rotating. With a swivel, I fell on my back, trapped! I was a bug on my back, typing or flailing, and it was one and the same: a menial job turned into a meaningless life, a short life, the life of an insect.

That’s where the story began.

“Ta da! It’s just a sample.” I stood up, brushed off, and when Jerrod clapped again I took my second bow. “There’s more…but not today.” Then I added, by way of apology or explanation, “In Kafka’s story, of course, it’s a man and he isn’t at work, but home in bed. He wakes up and finds out he’s been transformed. It’s just more dramatic, I think, to add the action, the job—”

Jerrod said, “I know the story, and I’d say it works, this way.”

“You know the story?”

He laughed at my surprise. “You think police officers don’t read.”

In truth, I didn’t know they read beyond speeding tickets and incident reports, but I said, “I didn’t mean it that way. What’dcha think?” To perform and not hear how it went over, that’s like walking naked through town, worse than walking in clown clothes even, fully exposed.

He said, “The one-person production? Pretty smart. Focused.”

I never had the luxury of a grown-up audience anymore, except sometimes Rex, and now I nodded, listening, rapt. “So you could tell what was happening? The insect part?”

“Exactly! Very clear,” he said. “I had trouble with the story back when I read it, because I didn’t get it. I mean, why’d the guy turn into vermin? Whose fault is that? Making it a one-woman show cuts out the other characters. Streamlines.”

I made it a one-person show because I had no actors, nobody who was in as deep as I wanted to be with this Kafka thing.