by Monica Drake
“Juggling pins lately?” I asked, hopeful. Pins caused those kinds of bruises. Sometimes.
Matey glanced at me, didn’t bother to answer. Her makeup cracked around her eyes; her eyes were puffy. I felt a flicker of sadness, but the sadness wasn’t really about Matey. It was bigger than that. I leaned into the mirror, drew on my own lips, and joined every last prom queen in line doing almost the same. We were a sad parade of longing, those lip painters and me, humans trying our hardest. Mostly, I felt the missing life of my tiny baby, my tiny Rexie, who never even made it into this crappy world.
Baby Rexie never had a chance to be a sucker, a chump, a prince, an S&M clown. Whatever he or she might’ve been. And then I thought of my parents, who also died too young, but far older than baby Rex. I was the center, the hinge pin of a family not made to last.
“You guys go to prom?” Matey asked.
One mirror down, a round girl in a baby-blue dress plucked a fine hair from her brow. Her chin already sagged. I could see her as an old lady. How had any of us made it this far?
Crack said, “Prom? Ba! But this one, our Vassar girl, she probably went.”
Me. Vassar? Prom? I shook my head and looked down, away from the mirror. I organized my makeup stack, to give myself a moment.
“Me neither,” Matey said. “I was shooting up, prom night. Learning bad habits.” She knocked on the bathroom counter like knocking on wood for luck.
I said, “Is there luck in Formica?” I gave a knock myself. Blinked damp lashes.
The girl in blue packed up her tiny purse: lipstick, lip liner, eye shadow, perfume, keys, tampons, chewing gum, and little slips of packaged condoms.
Matey said, “Hey, that’s a better trick than clowns in a tiny car. Give us your secret, Cheesecake.”
Crack said, “You must be one-eighth clown, maybe a grand-ma on the Cherokee side? You got the clown nose.” Behind Crack, Matey pretended to squeeze her own nose, as though it were bulbous, and said, “Honk, honk!”
The prom queen took her tiny purse, cut a wide arc around us, and skedaddled toward the door.
We three Chaplins looked back into the mirror. I finished with the thin, pale Chaplin lips, then drew on the famous mustache. Wide eyebrows and a mustache—that’s enough to change a whole face. One clown training manual says, These particular three dots of color alone will divert the eye from the normal visage and render the individual almost unidentifiable.
“I worked as a fry cook prom night. Flat broke. Minimum wage was its own bad habit.”
That made Crack bark out a single-note laugh in appreciation. She liked money jokes. What I didn’t say was that I was already an emancipated minor—emancipated by the state and by an accident on the old California Highway One, before that highway crumbled, where it curved through the redwoods in tight hairpin turns along the edge of the ocean’s rocky cliffs. I ran a circle of black around my eyes and said, “Every real job I ever had, I wore a polyester suit.”
“Shit, don’t I know it,” Crack said. “Either a polyester suit or a thong and platforms.”
None of us worked for minimum wage anymore. As clowns, as long as work came in, we were paid in stacks of twenties. Cash on the spot was Crack’s rule. After another night’s pay, I’d be that much closer to Rex again, that much closer to building, or rebuilding, the family I didn’t have.
Our assignment was to wait huddled in a narrow white hallway, outside some corporate office cocktail party, until we heard the antique stylings of “The Entertainer,” electronically remixed. At least it wasn’t “Send in the Clowns,” impossible to dance to. We dropped our pink bags in a corner.
“When the player piano starts, that’s our cue, see?” Crack said. “Matey, you’ll go first. Bust out your best Chaplin waddle. We’ll be right behind you. One at a time we all fall down, get up, circle back, and exit. Strike fast, no garnish, got it?”
“Got it, Boss,” Matey said, and crouched near the door. She was good at falls. Before the clown gigs she worked grocery stores for insurance money, pulling what they call Slip and Falls in damp aisles, taking out injury claims.
“Walk and fall? That’s it?” I said.
Crack pulled a cigar from her suit-coat pocket. Twirled it in her fingers. “Listen, Sniff, let’s keep this one simple as our clientele. They get what they asked for.”
We came between appetizers and the entrée as an elaborate dinner bell, a fancy signal to corporate employee-guests: move from drinks to the dining hall. Soon enough, the music started, then a strobe light cut in. Crack didn’t say there’d be a strobe light. Anybody can do Chaplin in a strobe, but the things make me sick.
Matey took off, feet splayed and cane swinging. Crack followed Matey, with me a ways behind. We waddled like penguins while the flickering strobe made us into a stop-action film.
More than that, the strobe made me queasy. It was like being hit in the head.
Matey smacked into the back of a chair and stepped on the crossbar. The chair flipped backward under her foot. Matey sailed forward over the top. She was in the air, diving, cane flailing out to the side. On the way down she rolled into a somersault, all in the agitated, panicked heartbeat of the strobe. In that light the world was a fragmented place—a hand to a mouth, a spilled drink, a turned head—everyone diced into bits of existence.
Crack hit the chair next, shin against its side. She fell into Matey and sent them both into a tumble.
I saw the chair and was almost there, knew I had to step on the chair, trip, find a way to make it look both real and cartoon. But as I penguin-walked in the strobe, the chair flashed off and on, and the light was disorienting—was the chair underfoot, or a mile away? My own body looked wrong in that light; my hand wrapped around the cane was a monkey’s paw. I was dizzy, my head sang with the hum of bees, and the party-store bowler was a tourniquet. My cane swung like a broken windshield wiper.
I couldn’t think, couldn’t decide whether to go over the top of the chair or send myself backward. I put my right foot on the back of the chair to go over the top, but the chair slid and I slid too in my slick, mismatched wing tips. My legs splayed. I went down hard, a hot snap, a rubber band breaking. My left knee twisted and I sat on the floor—no rolls, just a grimace and the splits.
Somersaults are funny. Tumbling is funny. Pratfalls, straight back, are pure comedy. But the forward splits? I was a cheerleader. A Chaplin cheerleader.
I had to get up funny. Could I even get up?
Crack and Matey circled toward the exit, then disappeared out the swinging door. Guests followed behind me, gawky and excited in the disco lights, pasty-faced,tipsy and tired. A woman tripped on my splayed leg. Goldfish fell from her hand, swimming out of her mouth as she laughed. I worked my wing tip through the chair railing and tried to stand. I wanted the chair to throw me into a somersault, but then my oversized flatfoot really was stuck, and the chair was a ski on ice, no traction on the hotel carpet.
I tried to stand, went down again, and caught myself on one knee. The chair was a cage on my foot. I wrestled the chair, and both armpits ripped in my undersized coat. The handle of my cane caught my ankle. I tugged on the cane, jerked it loose, and knocked a tray of salmon rings from a caterer’s hand. Voilà! Salmon-ring confetti. The caterer’s face was ugly in the strobe, his mouth a stuttering gash. I slid toward the exit, waved my cane at the party, felt the sweat hot on my palms as I pushed myself forward with my free hand and scooted along like a jalopy in strobe headlights, the cane a dragging muffler.
A drunk woman in a clinging dress doubled over and wiped her eyes, cramped with laughter lost under the music. A man patted her back, face contorted with his own party laugh. I hit the stretch of linoleum between the carpet and the swinging exit door and the ski of a chair slid fast out in front. I pushed the door open with the chair on my foot, and got out.
Matey and Crack were in the hall, where the walls, ceiling, and floor were all painted primer white, gleaming and bright as heaven. Matey had her jacke
t off, a cigarette in her mouth.
I groaned and said, “Kept ’em in stitches. And speaking of stitches, think I need a few.” Behind me the music was loud, then muffled, then loud, then muffled, as the door swung open and closed and open again, riding its own momentum.
Matey said, “After that dance you’ll wake up with a sore bum in the morning, and I don’t mean the man of the hour.”
Crack glowered. “What was all that?” She said, “When I said no garnish, I meant don’t blow it and don’t waste time.”
I threw the cane aside, bent my leg, and reached through the chair to pull off my shoe, free my foot. The torn pits of my coat tore again. A dishwasher leaned against the wall, apron soaked. He watched me where I sat on the floor massaging my thigh.
I said, “Show’s over, friend. Nothing to see.”
He lifted one tattooed arm, pressed his thumb and index finger to his lips, took a shadow toke, then raised his eyebrows and nodded, Yes?
A date? No way. My groin had the hot burn of a torn ligament, not lust. But I remembered my pledge to the Clown Code. I was still in costume. My head spun, face hot, and the dishwasher wanted a show. I fake-smiled back, winked, and shook my head in a demure deferral, clown style.
He made a sad face, mouth drawn down, then had another idea. He held his hands around his mouth and breathed between them, an invitation to sniff glue. When I shook my head again, he pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to me: Jack. Dishwasher. Two words and a phone number.
The swinging doors cut open, the music blared loud again, and a tall man stepped into the hallway. He straightened his lapel. “Excellent, excellent work,” he said. “Bravo,” and he gave a little clap and a bow. His smile was the high gloss of newly whitened teeth. When he bowed toward me, he put out his hand. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
Still on the floor, I reached up. The man’s handshake was quick and tight.
“That’s Sniffles,” Crack said. “Our latest joke.”
“Fantabulous,” he said. His hair was a sea of blond waves.
The dishwasher wiped a hand on his greasy apron, then held his hand out. I hesitated before I shook his hand too, like I was doing him a favor. His skin was waterlogged as a kid in the bath.
The man in the tux hitched up his pants and crouched down. “You were really something out there, you know? Perfect comic timing. Need help with that?”
He pointed to my leg, my hands where I massaged my thigh. Before I could answer, he dug strong fingers into the muscles and tendons of my leg. I shivered when he found a tender spot.
“Did that hurt?” he asked.
“In a sort of good way,” I said. It hurt like a massage, releasing the muscles.
Matey swung her arms, clapped her hands together, and said, “Hey! That’s my girl!”
The dishwasher, uneasy, moved foot to foot, side to side. The man in the tux laughed.
I said, “No, I didn’t mean it like that.” I tried to brush his hands away.
Crack, behind him, cleared her throat. “Got something for us?” she said. “We don’t have time to hobnob unless it’s on the clock.”
“Ah, yes, yes.” He stood up fast, knees crackling, reached into an inside pocket in his jacket, and pulled out an envelope. “Before we wrap this up, tell me, does Sniffles here ever do any, ah, how shall we say? Any personal negotiation. Private parties? One-on-one.”
I said, “No.”
Crack said, “Depends what you’re asking and what’s the wages.”
“I don’t do one-on-one,” I said.
Matey chimed in: “I’m here.” She put her feet on the two opposite walls of the hallway and took a few steps up, then jumped down, feet smacking the floor. “Let’s negotiate.”
Mr. Tux turned to me. “I’d make it worth your while.” He pulled out a business card.
I said, “I’ ve seen you before, haven’t I?”
His smile was a flat line that curled up on one side. His cheeks were high and ruddy. “Maybe you have. Maybe I’ve been to a few of your shows. Maybe I’m your biggest fan.”
That was all I needed to hear. A coulrophile.
“I’m the boss of this gig,” Crack said, and cut him short. “I’ll talk to her, we’ll work something out.”
She took the card. He pulled out another. When he held the second card toward me, I took it.
The dishwasher started counting out bills from his pocket. Maybe ten bucks total. Crack tipped her head at him. “Put your bubble gum back in your purse and dangle, Mr. Clean. No doing.” She turned her back on him and pointed to the man in the tux. “Pay up on this job, we’ll see what comes next.”
He laid the envelope in her open hand. “It’s all there, plus a little extra.” He winked again.
The dishwasher, damp pants sagging, disappeared through a door that let out a cloud of steam.
“Thank you,” the man said, to me. “You made my evening.” He flashed his teeth, crinkled the sunburned skin on his newly shaven cheeks, then turned and strode back out into what passed for a party in the corporate world.
Crack counted out the cash, dropped a wad of bills at my side. She said, “That’s just the way of it. I do all the grunt work, I’m the brains of the operation, and old Valentino goes for the jinx. Go figure.”
“The figure is the answer,” Matey said. “Which one was Valentino? That dishwasher was hot.”
“Hot like a steamin’ pile of greasy dishes,” Crack said.
I said, “At least the dishwasher’s humble. That other guy creeps me out.”
“Sure. All high artistes are creeped out by anyone with cash, but that’s your neurosis, not mine. And not his.” Crack counted her share of the money one more time.
“Not mine!” Matey chimed in, and raised her hand like a prize student.
To me, Crack said, “We know you’re the toast of Baloneytown, living the high artiste life, but that don’t make you too good for practice.”
I said, “I practice all the time. I did a good job with the penguin waddle.”
She said, “Do you see me injured? Is Matey on the floor with a pulled crotch?”
“It was that strobe light. They mess with my head …”
“Listen, Hot Stuff. Ice the leg, then put heat on it. Back and forth like that. And next time, get in a few warm-up stretches.” She took off her bowler hat, pulled off the wig, and shook out her short hair. “I’m not just channeling Marcus Welby here. I’m giving you the first aid rap because our next big deal is right around the corner, see? A publicity shot. It costs money. We’ll only do it once, so be on time and go all out. And, I already took your share out a your cut.”
Behind her, Matey said, “In this racket, you want to be the grand artiste, start with a sex change. No joke.”
A fine tip. I said, “That’s one act I’m not interested in.”
“Well, Grimaldi the Great, then you’ll have to work with the boobs, not against ’em. And don’t think your sisters here didn’t have higher aspirations once too,” Crack said. We didn’t start as sellouts, money found us. I’m glad it did. See you at the shoot.” She headed down the long white hall.
“Pssst,” Matey said, in a stage whisper, and knocked a hand against her head. “Here’s a clue: Women wear makeup, right? But a man in face paint, people see aahh-rt. You and me, we top out at birthday gigs, and that hurts more than anything I’m doing now. That’s the meat o’ the matter.” She tipped her Chaplin hat. Was it true? Was there a latex ceiling, a made-up makeup finish line?
She said, “Careful getting home.”
“Careful getting up, more like it,” I said.
Matey added, “Call the Tux. Easy cash. For reals.”
At the end of the hall, Crack picked up one of the pink nylon bags. Matey grabbed hers. Then there was only my bag, far away, against the shine of the bare white linoleum. Rex, my bag, family, fame and Kafka—why was everything so out of reach?
My leg was a torn rubber band. The swarm of bee
s drifted toward the center of my head. I used the chair to stand, then sat on the chair and rubbed a thumb along the heart meridian on the inside of my wrist, the acupuncture spot, the baby-heart-spot center. That spot that says: Get back to who you were meant to be.
Crack and her jobs—that was my whole plan, the way to get back to who I was meant to be: Rex’s girl, me and Rex performing together, delivering art, not commerce.
Matey pushed the exit door open. Crack called, over her shoulder, “Practice up if you want to stay with us, Sniffster. Otherwise, kaputsky. We’ll cut you loose, understand?”
7.
Hostility Shoots from the Hip
THE NEXT DAY, I COULDN’T DO A PRATFALL IF MY ASS DEPENDED on it. The pulled muscle or tendon or rubber band in my groin from the Chaplin gig had stiffened with pain overnight. When I tried to start my day’s urine collection, no way could I sustain a high crouch over the jug and hold the jug over the toilet. I leaned against the wall. Urine ran sideways. Piss on the toilet seat. Piss on my hand. Piss on the whole homework assignment. I gave up, tossed the jug aside, sat on the wet seat, and let the urine flow.
I needed that funnel back from the cop.
I had the phone, on its long cord, in the bathroom with me to call Rex. Instead, I shook piddle flecks off my hand. Dialed.
“Information,” a voice said, in a way that hovered between statement and question.
I said, “Hello there, Information. Could you give me the non-emergency cop number? I mean, the police. Baloneytown precinct.”
When I got through to the cops another woman answered, and I realized I didn’t have a name for the cop I wanted. Not that I wanted to talk to a cop at all, but I needed my gear. I said, “I don’t know his name.”
“Sounds like he a real good friend of yours, right?” she said.
“He’s got sort of light brown, golden hair.”
