Temporary People

by Deepak Unnikrishnan

  “Simple idea,” Mr. Menon said. “Two clowns, one supermarket. Clown One, y’all, spotless, happy. Clown Two. . . this one’s dirty, depressed. Happy Clown wheels Dirty Fellow, like this. OK? In case customers miss y’all, tie this to trolley.” He grabbed the balloon. “Kids like balloons. Kids come, parents follow.”

  Chainsmoke noticed people taking notes.

  “Dirty Fellow,” Mr. Menon said, “will also be holding this white box.” I didn’t use New Spotless. He did, it said in English and Arabic.

  Leaflets were also distributed, scented with Spotless’s New-and-Improved fragrance.

  Shoppers would have to be cajoled into smelling the leaflet, “herded like sheep into the salesman’s abattoir.” There, the following hypothesis would be tested: “Perfume is key to better laundry.”

  Mr. Menon made a fist. A boy in the room made a fist back. They fist bumped. Chainsmoke crunched coleslaw.

  “Clown costume boosts curiosity; Dirty Fellow is your secret weapon —but once you get customers to smell Spotless, hang on. Make ‘em buy. Win your battle, Alexanders!” Mr. Menon encouraged the group.

  Battle involved sparring with customer about product; victory meant customer buying product.

  “Customer wants control,” chuckled Mr. Menon. “Go ahead, make him think he’s Big Daddy.”

  Mr. Menon laughed a practiced “ha-ha.” Then paused. “OK, now most important part.”

  Mr. Menon began distributing photocopied scripts ad execs had worked on for over a year. For the next two hours, the group rehearsed the text. Examined the diagrams.

  SCRIPT

  CLOWN [Approach customer, point to dummy]: Hello, my name is [fill in name]. I am happy today. My friend is not. Do you know why? [Wait for response]

  CUSTOMER: No, why?

  CLOWN [Slowly jump up and down, three times]: Because I used New Spotless, and he didn’t. My jacket is like new, his isn’t—and he’s sad.

  CUSTOMER: I see.

  CLOWN: Would you like to smell New Spotless? It has a new fragrance, fresh and nice. [Hand customer leaflet, pull back wrapper, let customer smell]

  They practiced reading the lines out loud with Mr. Menon. Then performed their lines in front of the group.

  Mr. Menon discussed voice modulations, confidence, posture. Tested “performance under fire,” which involved asking the group to sing “Old McDonald” as each of them took turns reciting lines.

  On his way home, Chainsmoke remembered Mr. Menon saying the clown who sold the most detergents was in line for a big prize. “Which is?” Chainsmoke had asked.

  “Surprise,” Mr. Menon replied.

  Mr. Menon’s world worshiped focus-group data. Shoppers’ habits challenged the results. Baffling the kids who hadn’t been armed with a company-approved plan B. Mr. Menon’s confidence was infectious. So when Chainsmoke and his colleagues discovered customers didn’t have time for scripts or pleasantries, they fumbled. By then, Mr. Menon had flown back to company HQ in Muscat, mission accomplished, never to return. If there were questions, everyone now needed to run it by Melinda, who had a stock reply to almost everything: “Fuck acting, sell the product.”

  *

  The first day on the job, at Choithrams supermarket, Chainsmoke changed in the store room, not brave enough to show up in clown gear.

  He expected heckling. The cleaning staff smirked. A Bangla employee, cleaning up broken pickle jars, playfully spanked his ass with the broom, calling him Joka. That evening Chainsmoke found out Melinda wouldn’t cover transportation reimbursement. “Bitch,” Chainsmoke complained to a friend.

  “Quit,” was his advice.

  “Can’t,” explained Chainsmoke. “Need money for tuition next semester.”

  That week, his building’s watchman, Moidu, pretended he didn’t notice the red snout poking out of the marmalade sack, or the blond clumps of hair. What Moidu wanted to know was where Chainsmoke was taking the balloon. “Too old to go the park, aren’t you?” he would say. Every time he caught Chainsmoke going to work, he repeated the phrase.

  An Afghan cabbie, with a paan-stained beard, preferred bluntness: “So—what you got there?” Dirty Fellow, in the backseat, had fallen out of the sack, onto his side.

  “Work,” Chainsmoke muttered in Urdu.

  “Must pay well,” Paan Beard guffawed.

  “Just drive, buddy,” Chainsmoke shot back.

  At Abu Dhabi Cooperative Society a week later, Chainsmoke had the opportunity to change in an actual restroom.

  The restrooms, Pretty Lebanese said, were “down, down straight,” past the cashiers. “No changing rooms, sorry.” Chainsmoke asked her if she could watch his balloon, then lumbered to the toilets, where he surprised a Muslim savagely washing his toes. One foot in the basin. Balanced like a stork. Late for evening prayer. Chainsmoke greeted him. “Salaam.”

  “Salaam,” the response.

  Chainsmoke studied the area. Dank. Smelling of Phenol. In ceramic sinks, soap suds frothed like beer. And people. Walking in and out. As bowels emptied in lichen-colored stalls, as piss struck porcelain—everywhere—men surreptitiously studied genitalia. Zippered up. Before they flushed. Washed. Wiped. Before dryers roared.

  Observing all this was Man With Mop, an air freshener, and a pocket radio. He stood expressionless in the corner. Scratching his balls when no one was looking.

  Pressed for time, Chainsmoke got down to business.

  He dropped the sack, took out the mask, jacket, and wig.

  Muslim paused before continuing to soap his left foot.

  When Chainsmoke clamped the yellow hairpiece to his skull, Muslim grinned.

  “You look better now,” he said.

  “Shukran,” replied Chainsmoke, then shook his new hair vigorously. Yellow dreadlocks danced in the dank air.

  Chainsmoke put on his tailcoat. He buttoned up, adjusting the hibiscus. Then he stared at his mask, picked it up. People noticed. Men thumped him on the back, laughing. Man With Mop forgot to pass out napkins. Others edged away, uninterested.

  Chainsmoke, brown eyes peeping through white slits, blinked. Because the mask’s nostrils didn’t possess holes— only a pinprick—and enclosed his nose like a glove, Chainsmoke used his mouth to breathe. With constant use, the mask smelled like afterbreath and plastic.

  A smack to the spine surprised Chainsmoke. He turned, finding a giant egg-shaped Arab extending his hand: “Habibi, good luck!” Then he “ho-ho”ed like Santa.

  A little girl squealed once the transformed Chainsmoke emerged from the restroom, a yellow-haired Bozo. Delighted, the child hugged his knee. Chainsmoke, surprised, but grateful, hugged back. She kissed his mask. But when her mouth tasted plastic, the little angel detonated. Pulling his hair, banging his mask. Chainsmoke, taken aback, stood rooted, as the little lady pummeled him. “What! What? Ummi!” The mother emerged, in a sequined hijab. Furious. “How dare you! Haiwaan!” she yelled. “Security?”

  Chainsmoke’s instincts kicked in. He tumbled, feigned a fall, and landed on his ass. Mother and daughter burst out laughing. The boy yanked off his mask, apologizing. Then almost hyperventilated as he struggled to fasten the plastic back where it belonged. A crowd had gathered. Cheers, claps, hoots. Smiles. Security arrived, dispersed.

  “Impressive,” Pretty Lebanese quipped when he came for the balloon. Chainsmoke shrugged as Dirty Fellow emerged from the sack. He found a trolley, flung Dirty Fellow in, placed his arms over the box. Then he affixed the balloon onto the handlebars.

  “Detergents?”

  “Aisle 7,” Pretty Lebanese smiled.

  As Chainsmoke pushed the trolley, he swiveled his hips. Like a whore. In heels.

  An employee dressed in black and white disapproved. “Hey, man!” he bellowed in Hindi. “Crazy or what? Decency!”

  Chainsmoke stopped, turned. Laughed so the man could hear, then walked like a whore again. In bigger heels.

  Someone must have told the children a clown was on the premises. They emerged like fl
eas, jumping out of Frosties boxes, ice-cream tubs, and the toy aisles. Chainsmoke was escorted to Aisle 7 by a platoon of three-foot fleas. They patted his behind, helped him push his trolley, groped his balloon, got into fights. The shy ones waved from a distance. By the time they walked Chainsmoke to Spot X, his mastery over his adoring public appeared godlike. He shook hands, patted backs, looked folks in the eye. Nothing to it. Until parents arrived. Brandishing cameras, fishing them out of thin air, throwing kids at Chainsmoke like bales of hay. Encouraging their little monsters, “Look, darling, look—for grandma!” “Shake his hand, Leila. . . Leila, Leila! Smile for Baba, habibti. . . Leila!”

  After a month on the job, Chainsmoke worked four different locations, changing venues every week. At Spinney’s, staff restrooms were off-limits, and there were no customer restrooms. So he changed into clown garb in the storage area again, circled by staff members once more, but this time he got into a confrontation with the manager, an Egyptian who insisted Chainsmoke call him Boss.

  “Shave,” Boss told him.

  “I wear a mask,” Chainsmoke replied.

  “You want to work here? Shave!” Boss warned. “Important people shop here.”

  At a similar higher-end supermarket in Khalidiya, where the manager gave him a pack of Reds on the house, he met Big Fella, a tall Mallu who drove for a local family. “Madam wants to speak to you,” he said in Hindi.

  “Madam?”

  “I wouldn’t say no. Good money. I will come get you. Your shift ends when?”

  “Um, eleven-ish— ”

  “OK, eleven-fifteen, come to parking. Near the doors. In costume. I will find you.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Madam’s local. Behave, no trouble. OK? Not interested, no problem. Decide. In, out?”

  “I—”

  “Yes, no?”

  “Yes.”

  Big Fella drove a gun-metal Mercedes van. Double-digit number plate. Tinted windows. “Inside,” he said, “but mask stays on.” Chainsmoke climbed in. Bryan Adams crooned, “Everything I do...”

  The van’s seats had been taken out, replaced by a small leather couch clamped to mahogany floors that were partially covered by a hand-woven, iodine-colored Balochi rug. Not far from the couch was a petite wooden stool painted a bright strawberry jam, where Chainsmoke sat.

  A woman in an abaya faced him. Young, lovely. Amber eyes glazed with kohl. Earlobes still moist from freshly dabbed attar. A pierced tongue.

  “As-Salaam alaykum,” Abaya greeted him. Her voice was raspy. As though words caught fire every time she spoke, crackling as they lunged at his ear.

  “Wa’alaykum salaam.”

  “Arabic?” Abaya wondered, raising an eyebrow.

  “English, if possible,” Chainsmoke replied, fiddling with the mask, as he felt somewhat stuffy.

  “Sankar didn’t mention the details?” Abaya asked him.

  “Sankar?”

  “My driver.”

  “No.”

  “Do what I say, you get paid,” Abaya explained.

  “One thousand,” Chainsmoke said.

  “You get two fifty. Drop your pants.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  “Pants, please,” Abaya repeated.

  “Kiss me first. Foreplay, bab—”

  “No touching. Got it? Cross me, I call the shurtha. Got it?”

  Chainsmoke stared at her. “OK,” he said. “Where’s my two fifty?”

  “Take them off first. Pants!”

  Chainsmoke took them off. “Mask? Jacket?”

  “Stay on. Pull your briefs down. Down to your ankles. Leave them, let’s see.”

  Chainsmoke looked at his prick. Dark as ash. Soft. “I don’t think this gonna work—”

  Abaya motioned for him to stop talking. “Touch it.”

  Chainsmoke placed his palms on his thighs. Silent.

  Abaya watched him. “Let me help you,” she said, reaching for a remote. The stereo whined as CDs got switched. Chainsmoke heard moaning, the creaking of bed springs, fucking in a language he couldn’t place.

  “Dutch,” said Abaya, reading his mind.

  Chainsmoke blushed. Palms now shielded privates. “Sorry, let me out, change mind—”

  Abaya watched him. Imagined what he looked like behind his mask. “Homo?” she asked. Chainsmoke didn’t say a word.

  “What a waste!” Abaya laughed. “Get out!” Angry, he sensed.

  As Chainsmoke fiddled with his pants, she cussed. Transitioning smoothly from English to Arabic, insulting his family, his future sons, his comatose prick, his cheap briefs. Animated, her body pulsed. Her rage contorted her face. And as Chainsmoke struggled with his clothes, her tongue continued to riddle him with words spiked with toxins. And like that Chainsmoke’s comatose cock stirred.

  Abaya noticed. “You like Arabic?” she cooed, cussing quietly now.

  Chainsmoke’s prick rose like vapor.

  “It’s a beautiful language,” Abaya purred in English. “Two fifty.”

  Chainsmoke nodded as he began to jack off. Abaya watched, still talking, never stopping. When he came, it was a guttural cry. As though something had been pulled from inside him for the first time, brought forth into the world, screaming like a newborn.

  Big Fella asked Chainsmoke where he would be in a week. “Some supermarket on Passport Road,” Chainsmoke said.

  “See you there,” said Big Fella, as he put a few bills in Chainsmoke’s jacket pocket. “After that?”

  “Maybe Carrefour.”

  “And here until?”

  “Until the weekend’s up.”

  *

  At Carrefour the first four nights began without incident. Then one fateful evening a tall Samsonian man with enormous chompers, put on Earth to play the alpha male, arrived with his entourage. Dressed in a white kandoura, he was trailed by shorter men, as handsome, who laughed at everything he said. They, the five of them, slithered towards the clown like upright rattlers. Alpha took a long look at Chainsmoke. “Hello!” he hissed.

  “Hello,” replied Chainsmoke, right hand stuck out. “Would you like to try new Spo—”

  Alpha grinned, reached for Chainsmoke’s nose, singing, “How do YOU do-do-do?” On the fourth “do,” he tore away Chainsmoke’s nose and held it out to him like a big, fat berry.

  Chainsmoke took his nose, muttering a quick thank you, before he attempted to end the conversation. But the men surrounded him. Alpha then planted three fingers under the mask’s chin, and pulled.

  Chainsmoke stared at his assailant. Blinked. Alpha smiled. Saw cinnamon skin. A bit of mustache. Chainsmoke slapped the hand away, saying, “Thank you, have a nice day,” and walked towards customer service, pushing the shopping trolley. Shaking.

  “Where do you keep your Super Glue?”

  “Stationary,” replied Puffy Cheeks.

  “Where’s stationary?”

  “Where we keep Super Glue.”

  “You trying to be funny?”

  “No. You?”

  Leaving Dirty Fellow, and the balloon under the care of a security guard named Mathai, Chainsmoke glued his nose back on in the restroom, after first waiting in the express-checkout line to pay for his purchase.

  “Missing something?” Cashier Lady had inquired, observing the nose in Chainsmoke’s palm. Chainsmoke, still wearing his mask, shook his head. “I need a receipt,” was all he said.

  But in his haste to return to work—Melinda had sent people to check up on him—Chainsmoke dabbed on too much glue. By the time he returned to his spot, he had huffed a good amount.

  When little Saarah, egged on by her baba, tugged his trouser leg, Chainsmoke was high. Saarah’s older sister stood by, legs and arms akimbo. Slightly taller. Chewing Chiclets. Not happy at all. Grumpy, in fact. Telling her sister, “Get away from him, Saarah, he’s dirty.”

  Saarah didn’t care. “Kloon, kloon, my name is Saarah. Kloon?”

  “Saarah, how are you, habibti?” Chains
moke responded.

  Grumpy made a face. “Black clowns don’t exist, Saarah. Look at his neck, fingers” she told her sister in Arabic. As soon as she outed Chainsmoke’s race, her baba, within earshot, slapped her across the cheek.

  “Apologize,” he said. Grumpy refused.

  “Blackie,” she muttered, defiant. Baba turned towards Chainsmoke.

  “Children,” he said. “What to do?”

  “No problem,” said Chainsmoke.

  The exchange didn’t faze Saarah. “I learn English, Kloon. My name is Saarah Ahmad. My baba is Mister Ahmad. He farm-cyst. My mo—”

  “That’s wonderful, sweetheart. Here you go, habibti, have three leaflets. Go on, smell. ”

  “Thank you, Kloon. Shukran, Kloon!”

  “Welcome, Saarah.”

  Grumpy had had enough. “Let’s go,” she told Saarah, grabbing her arm.

  “Kloon! Bye-bye!”

  “Bye-bye!”

  Mr. Ahmad raised his right hand in thanks, put it across his chest. Chainsmoke acknowledged the greeting.

  By 8:45 p.m. Chainsmoke’s eyes had begun to water from the glue; he had a headache. He was required to work until elevem but he was having difficulty concentrating. He removed the mask every fifteen minutes in order to get some air. Cough. Which was how Big Fella found him.

  “We will be outside, same time.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Might be difficult.”

  “Last time.”

  “Oh. . .”

  While they conversed, two kids and their uncle untied the Spotless balloon, then ran off with Dirty Fellow and the trolley. Big Fella noticed. Mid conversation, Chainsmoke bolted in pursuit. Security found Dirty Fellow hidden among the stuffed toys. A mother was asked to pry it from the hands of her four-year-old. “I will pay you three hundred dirhams,” she told Chainsmoke.

  “Sorry, ma’am, I can’t. I can’t!”

  The four-year-old bawled and began throwing action figures. Then demanded popcorn.

  “Look what you did!” the mother yelled. “Idiot!”

  Supermarket personnel found the balloon weighted down by four baguettes in the bakery aisle.

  An hour later, as he walked to and fro between the shopping trolley and the end of the aisle, a woman with a British accent asked if he could stop moving. “What?” he asked.