Becoming a Clown

Becoming a Clown: Draft 4

As the smoker enters the house he can hear the contorted voices of the television. A repetitive pattern of controlled guffaws; the dead mans laugh. His thick black shoes move noiselessly across the kitchen floor. Placing each step skilfully upon the tiled floor, heel first, then the point of the shoes.

He can see them now, sprawled on the sofa, occasional signs of life. Watching them he feels enthralled, a tickle of insects settling in his stomach. The T.V speaks of two men in a fight, arguing each point with wit and slap stick.  The smoker laughs to himself, amused at how fickle people can be.

As he reaches the stairs he lights a cigarette. Placing it in his mouth and lighting it with one sharp gesture. Stepping into darkness, the downstairs hallway moves further away. At the top of the stairs he stops. Listens. Taking a breath of smoke and letting it out. In and out…

He hears the boy.

A subtle groan as the boy rolls over in bed. Taking a longer puff he turns to his left and stands outside the first door. Stares through it as though he can see. In out, in out. As the red end of the cigarette flickers, he drops a hand to his leg and feels the blade. The metal heating up against his leg.

Taking his last toke he drops the end. Grey smoke seeping from his nostrils. Puts a hand on the door. Eases the handle slowly, so as not to make a sound. He waits for a moment, door inching open. Listening to the little boy’s breath, a sickly sweet sound like a puppy sleeping. So shallow, so fragile. He opens the door further to see the outline of the boy sitting up in bed.

         “Daddy?” the boy calls from the darkness.

The smoker steps inside without saying a word. A small ‘click’ is left in the hallway as he pulls the door shut.
*
I sink out of illusion into reality, colour seeping through the pigment in my eyes. My body wakes. The hint of reverie still surrounds me, the distant ringing alarm running through my dreams. What was it again? That thought is lost as I press the button to stop the noise.

Traces to the days past are scattered around my room. My suit hangs on the back of the bed, boxers on the floor, socks under my quilt. Though anything past the last few months is a blur. Memory is like a star to me, particles of dust already dead and the glow confused in the glow of others. I sit up and light a Marlborough, the smoke waking my lungs. The morning traffic shouts from the street, calling my name.

I stand, my naked body layered in sleep. I feel clammy, the smell of sweat clinging to my armpits. The point of my penis stays stiff as I stand, though it’s no connection to my brain. It juts from my hips, like a sculpture I didn’t make; pointing to the sky like it knows something I don’t.

I wash my face, my hands, my pits. Check my reflection; a frame of stubble and grease. Calm eyes, curled lips. Cold water dripping between the hairs of my beard. Breakfast is two cigarettes.

I put clothes on though I really don’t want to, smooth the creases of the suit, and spray some cologne to hide the smell. I take a sip of water and spit it out, the taste of nothing enhancing the sting of spearmint toothpaste. 

8.15 - I leave the house. Walk through the graffiti, the litter, the homeless. Make my way in my nylon suit to work. I work. I have a job. I step along with all the others; follow the chains to the business district. As I walk I smoke, in for two, out for two. My thick soled shoes tapping the pavement.

Billboards shout at me, buy this, buy that, make your life more complete, the way it should be. Hung high on the buildings, the height of the city, so ‘ninetofivers’ can read them as they work, buy into products. Whispers of sweet nothings through their office windows. I blank them out like the morning air, camouflaged by familiarity.
The concrete path leading my way, ancient gum moulding to the pavement.

In for two, out for two.

I walk tall, eyes to the sky. To the billboards, the camouflage. But something has grown up there; a new technology has developed without my noticing. So aggressive, that it swipes at my eyes demanding my attention.

“Clowns international! Coming soon!”
         
The neon words tell me, as they flash on for two, off for two. Bright light-bulb words beneath a motion image bill board. 

“Coming soon!”

A painted white face bears down on the city, its wide open mouth grinning at me. Its lips move up and down in time with the words, down for two, up for two. I read over the words…. Clown…. Coming soon. 

My shoes continue tapping the pavement until I reach my office. The moving face burnt onto my lids. I sit down at my desk, calm eyes, curled lips. I switch on the computer, lean back on my chair, and swirl spit around my mouth.

There’s a post it note stuck to my screen. I hold onto the desk and pull my chair under, leaning in to read.

•          Memo for Mr Randelle, you’re behind on your work. Get it to me by the end of the day.

I only need to read it once to know what to do with it. I remove it from the screen, scrunch it into a ball, and throw it in the direction of the bin. As the clock reaches nine there is a unified tapping of keys, like the tick of a clock, telling me to join them. I take my left hand to my right, click each finger in turn, then swap hands. Open a document, stare at the screen, and start typing. 
*
The next morning I wake up with a menacing headache. The neon clown has been dancing through my head all night, flashing its words to draw me in. I light a cigarette to ease the pain. Today is a sick day, I think. I send a colleague a text asking him to tell the boss I’m ill. That should cover me for a few hours.

My clothes are sprawled on the floor. My penis stands to its point, ready for attention. But I give it none. I take the smoke deep to sooth the craving. In for two, out for two. My phone rings but I ignore it, switching it to silent.

At twelve o’clock I make breakfast. Bacon, eggs, buttery toast. Whilst it fries I quickly wash my face, inspecting my three days of stubble in the mirror. Calm eyes, curled lips. I wipe the sleep from my face and return to cooking. I have perfected my routine, flipping the bacon exactly four times before cracking the eggs. I wait beside the pan, leaning against the cabinets until its time to flip again.

Whilst I wait I let my mind wander into its usual fantasy, though today it cannot move away from the face of the clown. I stare out my window that faces a brick wall, and inspect its face. White grease paint, complimented with red cheeks and lips, enhancing its expression. Mine stays the same as I watch the wall.

My hands twitch without my consent. Then they pick up two eggs, throw them into the air, and catch them. I do it again, my wrists limp and relaxed with the action. I’m surprised at how skilled my hands are. My feet stay firm on the floor, back straight, yet I do not need to move to catch the eggs. I grab a third egg and throw it in the air, making a circle of objects that move in front of my face. I’m doing it, I can’t believe it, I never knew I could juggle. I keep it going, the circle getting higher. Until my bacon is ready to turn. Then smack the eggs open and let them fry.
*
The next morning a letter arrives. I never get mail so the sound of the letter flap opening brings me out from a deep sleep. Eyes half closed I wander to the hallway, and kneel down beside the letter. Deja vu. A white face stares up at me, lips circled red and blushing cheeks. ‘Coming Soon!’ reads the envelope, just like the bill board. I turn the envelope over and there’s a small introduction;

“Did you have the same old stuff for breakfast? Do you take more sick days then time spent in work? Is your morning route a monotonous routine? You can change all this by letting a little bit of "clown" into your life…”

I sit back onto my heels and open the envelope. There’s a chill down here on the floor that prickles my skin. Inside there’s a three page spread of glossy paper and colourful words. I read the heading;

“Becoming a Clown”

‘Yer right’, I think, but continue reading.

“The first thing you need to do is to be willing to let humour in. There are many ways to do this. My favourite is to look in a mirror when alone or behind a locked door (so none can see what I am doing) and make faces at myself. Remember which face you make that makes you laugh. At first you might feel silly, if so, stop and try again at a later time. Repeat until you can identify a few different faces that make you laugh.”1

How stupid. I scrunch up the letter and throw it at the door. I don’t need people telling me how to live my life, especially clowns. I light another cigarette and get ready for work...

Today is a day of distractions. The clockwork tapping is faster, the breaks longer, people even throw comments at each other at sporadic moments. It’s a Friday, a day of giddy diseases. I sit hunched at the computer, swirling spit in my mouth. My only conversation is with the hum of the modem, telling me it’s been on for too long.

I need a piss. The third one of the day. I save the few words that I have written and head to the toilets. No one notices as I leave. I watch as yellow liquid trickles around the urinal and into oblivion, my bladder becoming empty. As I wipe my hands the mirror grabs my attention. Calm eyes, curled lips. I wonder if I…..

I twist my lips together, pursing them as taut as I can. Then I release them, watch as they droop, pulling the corners of my cheeks down with them. I widen my eyes, revealing the white of the balls. Milky sky behind sheets of green mountains. Then I scrunch my face as small as possible, crease it into nothing, then release.

         “AH HAHAHAHA!”

I turn around to see who’s laughing, but no one’s there.

         “Hello? Were you watching me you bastard?”

I look under the doors of the cubical, but there’s no feet hanging down. As the voice rings around my head, I realise it’s my own. I recognise the deep, cobbled voice, but not the high pitched squeak it was accompanied by. Must be what laugher sounds like.

*
Three days later another letter arrives, the same gleaming face looking out of the paper. I get the same sense of familiarity, but warmer this time, I’m growing used to its ethereal figure. I rip the envelope and pull out the shiny paper.

“In every person there is a shy clown hidden away. Once, when you were just a toddler, it was brave and shining. Today, I am going to help you find that clown inside….
I like to repeat the following laugh: "ho-ho-ho, ha-ha-ha, and he-he-he". It is fun to do this louder and louder, in a deep voice then high voice. Sometimes I turn on some great music and sing this laugh along with the music. If you get tired of this laugh pattern, make up your own. You will soon find that things don't bother you as much. You remember things better. You generally feel happy.”1
I practice my smile, twisting my lips higher, cracking into my cheeks. Then I drop them down slightly, settle them into a relaxed curl, and fix them their. I drop the letter to the floor, next to the corpse of the other.

Morning. Two cigarettes, seeps in for two, out for two. I wash my face, my hands, my pits.
I watch as water trickles between four day old stubble, getting stuck half way. It’s nearly a beard now, except for the small bald patches where hair refuses to grow.
My lungs suffer as they take in air, wheezing on its way out. I worry about my breath sometimes, so shallow, so fragile. I brush my teeth, swirling sharp mint around my mouth, staring through the mirror.
My mind somewhere else, I dress for work, my body naturally knowing where everything is without me needing to function.

I know this, I’ve done it all before.

I walk to work, the tap of thick soled shoes rebounding off the pavement. I feel different somehow, younger inside. Like there’s something I’ve missed all along.

Monday morning, the tapping is slower. My blood screams out for coffee so I take a break.
Colin’s in the kitchen, his ragged hair greeting me. I always wondered why people with grey balding hair would keep it long. He jumps when I walk in, widens his eyes like a dear staring at the end of a gun.

         “tea?” he mumbles, and turns around instantly.

I want to talk to him but I don’t know what to say. I stare at his back for answers. Its plump figure sways as it reaches for cups, sugar, water. Eventually the stump turns around with a steaming mug.

         “erm…” I say and reach for the mug.

I can see in his eyes he wants to leave, but my half eaten words have trapped him.

         “erm…” I gurgle and stare at the mug.
         “HO-HO-HO!HA-HA-HA!HE-HE-HE!!”

I scrunch my face into a scrap of paper then open it wide and look at Colin. His little rabbit eyes look in terror at me, and then he runs off. My face relaxes into its usual curl, my mountainous eyes calm.
*
He takes his last puff and drops the end. Grey smoke seeping from his nostrils. Puts a hand on the door. Eases the handle, so as not to make a sound. He waits for a moment, door inching open. Listens to the little boy’s breath, a sickly sweet sound like a puppy sleeping. So shallow, so fragile. He opens the door further to see the outline of the boy sitting up in his bed.

         “Daddy?” the boy calls out. . 

The smoker steps inside without saying a word. A small ‘click’ is left in the hall way as he pulls the door shut.
*
Daddy… the words gurgle up my throat.  I cough them out until I am sitting, the sound of the alarm mixing with my heaves. 8 AM it screams at me. Get up you bastard.  I smack the button to make it stop.
It’s darker outside, must be getting near winter. My arm hairs stand on end, tickling my skin. I listen for the post but it doesn’t come.
I’m torn between a sick day or a work day? I chuck on my suit, the same crimpled one from days ago, and let my legs lead the usual direction. Tap, tap, tap. I walk past the homeless, the litter, the disease ridden rats. I am part of the rat race, the business generation, the common denominator.  The sun holds its place in the sky but its light is weak today, barely able to peak over the drab office buildings.
‘Coming soon!’ the scar of the neon lights behind my eyes. I stare at the floor and watch it flash within my head, red and white letters imprinting their message. ‘How soon?’ I wonder.
I tire of the sound of my footsteps, so I change the pace. I speed it up, then slow it down, making my feet malleable just like my face. I march straight past the front of my office and keep going. I follow the graffiti along the streets, down the back alleys, until I reach the edge of the business district, then slow my steps. I’ve never been this far. My eyes creep higher, inspecting this mysterious part of the city….
In front of me is a giant yellow tent, about the size of a football pitch. Its edges are bloated, like it’s swollen with water. Black poles follow its ridges, cutting the tent into segments.
It looks like the deserted part of town, appearing to be made up of ancient looking buildings and burnt down shops. I am the only person around.
A flap is pinned open to one side of the tent, big enough to fit one person through. Painted words on the tent read:

         “Come in- to find your inner clown.”
*
Balls can float, humans can defy gravity, emotion is an act, laughter is a growl, colour is something to play with, a child is something within, balloons are not just rubber, toy’s are for adults too….

These are my first thoughts on entering. There are at least twenty figures inside, all with painted faces and flamboyant clothes. No one notices me at first. I walk between the ardent figures, absorbed in their study of play. They pull faces that remind me of my own expressions; contorted smiles, so high they might crack, and drooping frowns, sloping off the chin. Laughter rolls out their mouth like an avalanche.

I come to a clown in the corner, the only one painted blue. He has vertical red lines painted on his eyelids, mimicking the slit like pupils of cats. He acknowledges me as I approach, tipping his head forwards. His peppered hair looks out of place; he is the only one not wearing a wig, long straggles of split ends hanging over his shoulders.
         
“Welcome. You are all welcome here. Come tip your hat and drop your smile, you do not need to hold onto yourself in this place. We are here to make you forget who you are.”

I recognise his voice, that deep scratch like cigarettes scared it long ago.

“Don’t be scared, there’s a clown in everyone. All you need to do is let go.”

“Let go and the rest will follow. You are safe here. My purpose is to entertain you.
Trust me, let me in and the rest will follow. I’m not just an ordinary clown, I do special gigs. You’ll never meet a clown like me again so take advantage of me.”

Strands of his peppered hair sway with each word.

“Why have you come?”
“Why have I come?”

I don’t know… I was just drawn here.

“A lot of people are drawn places they don’t understand. It’s usually some deep ingrained childhood memory that brings them here.”

I hear laughter behind me, an uncontrollable guffaw that breaks into my thoughts.

“Don’t worry Mr....”

He looks at me for a response. I don’t.

“Everything will be fine.”
Tigers eyes… the solid marbles pierced with animal instinct….   
         
“Do I… know you from somewhere?” I ask.

I have that strange feeling of deja vu again. There’s something I’m missing, something I’ve been missing all my life.

         “What you’re missing, Mr Randelle, is entertainment.”
         “What did you say?”

The clown moves his eyebrows together.

         “I didn’t say anything.”

From the belly of his oversized trousers he pulls out three balls; tricks them into dancing through the air and into his hands, creating the illusion of a wheel.

         “You see Mr… what was your name again?”
         “ Mr Randelle.”
         “ Ah,”

The clown nods his head.

         “It’s all about letting yourself go. Losing yourself in the ideal, being able to play everyday, what we all missed out on in life.”

Taking a packet of Marlborough from his pocket, he lights one for himself, and holds another out for me. I don’t have to answer, he puts it between my lips and lights it for me.
         
“Why don’t you have a go, at clowning I mean, you might find you’re a natural.”

This feels strangely familiar. I curl my lips higher, cracking into my cheeks. Widen my eyes. And start to laugh. Letting it tumble from my belly, up my throat, tickling my lips on the way out. I laugh so loud it fills the space around me, splashing into the clowns face. This is all so easy. It feels like I’ve always been here. It feels like a distant memory of the past, neither beautiful nor ugly, but something there to hold onto to. Something to remind me who I was…. Why do I not remember?...





HO-HO-HO!HA-HA-HA!HE-HE-HE!HO-HO-HO!HA-HA-


HA!HE-HE-HE!HO-HO-HO!HA-HA-HA!HE-HE...



HO-HO-HO!HA-HA-HA!HE-HE-HE!HO-


HO-HO!HA-HA-HA!HE-HE-


HE!HO-HO-HO!HA-HA-


HA!HE-HE...

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