by Monica Drake
I was a clown hero, beating the cops: Anarchy beats order any day! That was the unspoken message, my gift to the crowd.
“The clown’s got the nuts here. Got the nuts,” a drunk hollered.
I shot fast—too fast. I barely nicked the edge of the cue ball. The other end of my cane scraped the felt.
The drunk in the hat stood, and leaned forward over the bar to look; beer cascaded from his tipped hand. “Call out the coast guard!” he said, and straightened. He sloshed the other way, spilled beer on his gut.
Jerrod hit the one ball in a side pocket, and said, “This is why Baloneytown stays the way it is.” A little louder he added, “I have no sympathy for a man who’s intoxicated all the time.”
“That’s all right,” the drunk said. “A man who’s intoxicated all the time doesn’t need sympathy. He needs a stenographer.” He pulled on the end of his wrinkled, beer-soaked necktie.
Jerrod bent low in a way that made creases in the pants of his uniform and those creases were like arrows to his crotch. My eyes followed the arrows. He aimed for the glowing red of the three ball and said, “Your boyfriend’s had that house for a long time.”
“Herman?” I leaned into my cane. “I told you, he’s not my boyfriend.”
Jerrod, warmed up now, on a run, said, “Who is your boyfriend?”
“What makes you think I have one?”
“You’re a pretty girl. Anyone ever tell you that? What’s a pretty girl like you doing in Baloneytown anyway?” He turned his head only, and kept his hands steady. He said, “You have perfect lips.”
Clown lips. Hooker’s lips, always plain except when they were painted too much, when I was working. Now they were drawn in dark red, thin but curvy, for Crack’s photo shoot. The lips of Trixie, Twinkie, and Bubbles. He said something else then I couldn’t hear because “Sweet Jane” was too loud on the jukebox behind us. I stepped in closer, leaned over the table too, nearer to Jerrod, and asked, “Ever have to shoot anybody?”
He didn’t flinch. He watched my lips. “Side pocket.” He tapped the table with his cue stick, leaving a fine blue dust.
“It’s not as common as it looks on TV, you know. Shooting people.” He missed the shot.
“I don’t have a TV. But I’ve seen a few cops pull their guns in our neighborhood anyhow.” It was my turn. I chalked up, and said, “Time to clean house. North and east.” I pointed my cane at the corresponding corners. One shot sent the thirteen and the fourteen home. The eight stood alone. I knocked the eight ball in. A scattering of solids lay like random stars in a night sky. “Rack ’em.” I gave my cane a friendly swing.
Jerrod said, “Think I got taken.” He dropped another quarter and shoved in the lever. The balls fell with a loud rush, chipping and clicking as they found their way into a line on the ledge underneath. “With most people, showing a gun is enough. I spend more time calling the drunk wagon on folks like Dukenfield over there.” He pointed to the drunk in the hat. “Enforcing restraining orders, listening to talk about dog litter on the wrong lawn.”
I liked the way he said dog “litter,” like dogs dropped crumpled cigarette packs and used Big Gulp cups.
He said, “In this neighborhood, growing up, the choice was cop or criminal. I chose cop. That’s all, end of story.” He laid the triangle on the table and dropped the balls in. He looked serious as he racked. His eyes were in shadow, and his jaw muscle tightened, then relaxed, then tightened again, the same way as when he called for Chance or when he caught me with the stolen mower. Like maybe even fun took work and worry. He clicked the balls together in the rack, held his fingers between the balls and the plastic racking triangle with his thumbs outstretched, then lifted the triangle gently off the racked balls. He gave the triangle a spin, and tucked it away.
I used my full body force in the break. My cane bent and flexed with the impact. The balls scattered. A lone solid wandered toward a pocket, teetered, then fell. I walked around to the other side of the table. The table was crowded, solids clustered alongside stripes. “The old umbrella.” I tapped my cane on the far three corners. “Side pocket.”
I hit the cue ball at an angle, down and against the opposite far rail to the left. It bounced off the side rail and headed for the foot. It bounced off that bumper, came back at a new angle, and hit my mark into the rail, table’s side right. That ball ricocheted across the table again and into the left side pocket, as called. A perfect box step.
“Going for the easy ones, I see,” Jerrod said.
“Watch this!” I pulled out the big plans. Yes, I have a weakness for audience, wanted to put on a show, give the drunks something to watch. Maybe I was showing off for Jerrod too. “Flying trapeze,” I said, and hoisted one hip up on the table’s edge with the other foot on the ground. I’d shoot low on the cue ball for maximum backspin. A little draw.
I ran the cane through my fingers. I visualized the vectors, aimed to defeat gravity. The one and the four balls nuzzled each other at the head of the table. Hit the balls just right, with the right speed, a smidge of English, it’d send one to each corner pocket, then launch the cue ball back my way. I said, “I call this one Cash on the Barrelhead. Any wagers?”
Nobody made a bet, but a few yodeled, hollered, guzzled. I hoisted my hip on the table again. Leaned in low. Sighted. Took a deep breath, let the crowd fall away and the eighties rock fade. Moved into my zone. I pulled back, cocked the cane, and followed through. The cue ball raced the length of the table, a bullet that struck the one and the four and sent them packing. The cue ball hit the far bumper. It caught air! It flew back at us, in a beautiful clown arc—but it didn’t arc. A line drive! It whipped right at me. I ducked.
The cue ball sailed past like a flying fist. Jerrod ducked. The cue broke the window with a crash. The beer light swung and sent shadows dancing. Our table wobbled, the pitcher spilled.
I said, “Shit.”
Mad Addie barked, “Hey, hey! That’s enough. I’ll call the cops. Happy Hour’s over.”
Jerrod put his hands to his chest, to his badge and uniform, as though to check if he still was the cops. Somebody knocked over another table, a round of beers on the floor. Mad Addie spat out a stream of curses: “Cocksuckersbustingupmyjointaint-thefirsttimeIputupwiththisshit—” She pushed me aside and made her way to check out the damage. Her face was a shar -pei of scowl lines.
Like a kid in trouble, Jerrod leaned down fast to pick up broken glass. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he said. “One window, that’s all.”
Behind him the tavern door opened and the light shifted to show a silhouette. When the door closed again, I saw her: Italia. She lifted one hand, looked around the room, and gave a toss. The cue ball! She caught the ball again softly, in her palm.
Shit. I ducked behind the pool table.
Mad Addie, midsentence, said, “Dimwitsandassholes, who’ dafuckingstoppedtothinkthe motherfuckerscould’ vekilledsome pieceofshitonthestreet…where’dthatgetme, yabastards—” She chewed the back end of her cigarillo like a horse chomping an apple. “One a yous get a garbage bag.” She clapped her hands. Nobody moved. “Get! You lazyasssonsofbitches—an’ I mean it,” she said, and clapped again. “Or the joint’s closed, no last call.”
The Sliver, a grifter, and Dukenfield made a tangled dive behind the bar. They came up with six hands on the same plastic bag, a stumbling rush toward Jerrod.
I peered over the edge of the table. Jerrod was on his hands and knees picking up broken glass. Addie loomed over him and pointed out glass shards with the chomped cigarillo, curses falling like ash from her mouth, a bar towel over her shoulder.
When Nadia-Italia flashed the renegade pool ball, someone yelled, “The clown did it!”
“The clown?” Nadia-Italia said. She tossed the cue ball in the air again and surveyed the bar, cool as a Little League champ ready to cream the other team.
I was the other team. Gulp. I ducked down again.
Jerrod turned to throw a handful of glass in the
garbage bag and saw me cowering. “Sniff, what’re you doing?” He rocked back on his heels and reached a hand to my arm. “So you broke a window. We’ll fix it up.”
I held a finger to my lips to shush him, tried to brush his hand away. Too late. Italia’s big shoulders moved in like an eclipse. She came around the table. She reached down, knuckles near my face, fingernails a deep purple, and dropped the white cue ball.
I caught it, a reflex.
“Your shot, Clown Girl?” Her lips parted in the shine of plum lipstick.
“Hand it over.” Mad Addie clawed the cue ball out of my open palm.
A date. Nadia-Italia would tell Herman I was there on a date. A date with a cop would get me kicked out of the house—exactly what Italia wanted. It would save her the trouble of “breaking that bitch in half.”
I could barely hear over the sound of my heartbeat, the ocean in my ears. All I could see was Italia. The world narrowed. My pink prop bag rested far away, the strap looped over the back of a chair.
My heart, ready to burst, spoke in the fast Morse code of biology: you’ll die or go crazy, die or go crazy, die or go crazy, die or go crazy…I had seconds to live. My heart was too big for my chest, my head hummed. I couldn’t move fast enough, had to get out of there.
Italia moved between the pool table and the wall, blocking my way. “Where you going?” she said, in a singsong. “Herman’s on his way, and he’d lo-o-ove to meet your friends.”
Jerrod stood, pants soaked with spilled beer at the knees.
Mad Addie grabbed Jerrod by the belt loops. “Get another goddamn bar towel, son. Pronto,” she croaked out.
I took a chug of beer, tossed the half-full glass to Nadia-Italia, put my hands on the side of the pool table, and lifted my feet to the ledge like a gymnast mounting the horse. The ache in my groin was a nagging pain now, dimmed by time and drink. Like a quick and loud prayer, I hollered, “Double or nothing—Clown Girl, corner pocket.” I ducked my head and turned a speedball somersault across the table.
My red wig was the rustle of dry grass around my ears; the plastic flowers on the sunglasses pushed against my face, and I felt the lumps of Crack’s hairdo, each pin she’d used to tack down the curls, as my head pressed into the felt tabletop. Beer raced up the back of my nose. A vial slid out of my pocket. I rolled again. Another vial slipped.
“Hey,” Addie hollered, and snapped her dirty rag at me with a spray of crumbs and stale beer. “That’s new felt.” The stream of curses fell from her mouth again: “Goddampoolplaying sonsofmotherlovingcashsuckingwhydIeverbuythisdumpJesus…” She dropped into a mutter.
Vials and tinctures fell from my pocket, tangled in balloons. But I came up with the sunglasses still on. When I hit the other side, I rolled off the edge to the floor and reached for my bag. It was far down a tunnel; my arm stretched, and I reached all the way, that long distance across the gap, in slow motion. My hand closed around pink vinyl.
Mad Addie yelled, “That’ll get you kicked out a here. That’s the first and last time, you know it.”
I threw myself in a run toward the back door. My heart beat in my head, arms, neck.
I saw the flash of duct tape just as I tripped on the extension cord taped to the floor; the beer-mildewed, peanut-strewn carpet came up fast under my palms. The pink prop bag slapped open on impact. Juggling balls, tins of paint, and my silver gun skittered out in front, wrapped in a tangle of green, yellow, and red balloons. Tinctures scattered like jewels.
I grabbed the gun, stood up fast, the business end of my trick pistol trained on the drunk pack.
The bar went quiet except for the rattle of Crap Rock. Everyone stayed back. Only Nadia-Italia took one step closer, away from the throng. “What do you know?” she said. “The clown’s packing.” The muscles in her shoulders danced. She pulled a strand of hair down from one of her three pigtails, and ran the strand through her teeth.
“Back,” I said. “I mean it.” I shook the gun at her and picked up my bag. She leaned against the pool table. I edged toward the door. My face was hot, vision tight.
Jerrod took a step in. “Now, hold on there, Sniffles—”
Did I hear a siren outside? Had somebody called? Before Jerrod could finish, I turned fast, slammed a shoulder to the metal door, and ducked out. The door opened into a narrow, blind alley. I looked left, right, then left again. A Dumpster sat to one side. The other direction was blocked with a brick wall.
The door swung open and knocked me in the back. I fell forward. Jerrod, Nadia-Italia, and a flock of drunks came tumbling out in a cloud of tavern air, old smoke, and spilled beer.
From the ground I flashed the gun, the only language that worked with this crew. “Back up,” I said. My voice broke and grew faint. A chirp.
“All of you, back up,” Jerrod echoed me, only his voice was steady where mine was fragile. He cut through the crowd, his own gun still holstered. He put his hands to Dukenfield’s shoulders, turned him around, and said, “It’s under control. Everybody, back inside.”
They didn’t move.
“In!” he barked again. “Or I’ll call for more crew, have you all downtown.” Then they scrambled. To me, he said, “Sniffles, do it for me. And for yourself. Put the gun on the ground.”
We were alone in the closed alley. I dropped the gun. It hit the ground with the light clatter of hollow plastic. Jerrod jumped, like it might go off. I kicked the gun his way; he ducked to the side, then came forward and picked it up. Gave it a shake. BANG! The flag popped out. Jerrod jumped. “What the—?”
“Fake,” I said.
He said, “I see that now.” He used the heel of his palm to push the red BANG! flag back in the muzzle. When he offered a hand, I took it. I let him lead me past the Dumpster.
I put my other hand to my forehead. The beer was wearing off, the Chinese pills. The tinctures. “This is why a clown shouldn’t drink in costume. It goes right to our wig-wearing heads,” I said.
The alley opened up to the street. I took a breath. We stopped walking. Jerrod shoved the plastic pistol in his tight front pocket and put his hands on my arms. He looked at my face, into the scratched lenses of my daisy-rimmed sunglasses, and said, “This isn’t the circus.”
I said, “I know. I’m not a circus clown. I’m a people’s clown. A clown without borders.”
Jerrod said, “I’m serious. What’re you thinking ?” His face was close to the red wig of my hair. He drew me into his cloud of cinnamon spice. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed. Mad Addie, she’s got her own weapons, you know? A shotgun behind the bar.”
The night air was soft. “Killed? Jesus.” I put a hand to my heart. Shook off Jerrod and leaned against the wall. “Shotgun ?” Adrenaline beat against my body from inside. “I’m going to faint. I’ve got heart trouble. I’m sick, I need to sit down.”
“Take it easy. Just breathe,” Jerrod said. He held my hand as I slid down the wall. He checked my pulse.
“I feel sick. I’m not kidding.” The wall was my support, my world, and all I had to hold off death or insanity, death or insanity, the two immediate options.
“Some holdup artist—this is all a little on the self-destructive side.” Jerrod massaged my hand.
“I left my cane in there.”
“Don’t worry about your cane. I’ll get it later. And what is all this stuff?” He dropped a fistful of the spilled vials, like a handful of raw amber.
“Medicine.” I felt like I’d had the wind knocked out of me. I slid the rest of the way down, sat on the sidewalk with my back against the wall. “Valerian.” I held my hand out. Snapped my fingers, opened the palm again. “I need it.”
“Valerian?” He read the labels and sounded each word out carefully. “Go-tu kola, Pip-siss-iwa…It’s overpriced snake oil, Sniffles.” He slid the silver gun back in my bag. With the tinctures piled in one hand, he put his other hand on my back. “You’re OK. But you’re wasting your money on this stuff.”
My money. I didn’t have ex
tra money. The tonics were hot, stolen.
He sat beside me. I’d never seen a cop in uniform sit on the sidewalk before. “So what’s the gun a cure for?” He dropped most of the vials to the ground. Two of them he shook in his hand like a gambler’s dice, and said, “Same prescription as the sunglasses—to keep people away?”
“It wasn’t even real…it’s a prop gun.” I picked through the vials on the sidewalk until I found the valerian, unscrewed the top, and poured drops into my mouth. My hands shook. My bones shook.
“I know it’s a prop, Sniff—now—but those drunks in there, they don’t know. Flashing a gun is the fast track to trouble.” He ran a hand over my wig. The wig rustled against my ears like leaves in the wind. “Let’s take this off.”
“No, don’t.” I pulled my head away, put a hand to the wig to keep it in place. The evening sky was heavy with low clouds. My glasses dimmed the world further, a sweet dusky blue. I said, “Jerrod—you should get up. You need to go.” I didn’t want him to go. His hand on my back was a warm reassurance. Under his hand, the knot of a fist around my heart loosened. The pounding in my ears eased. Maybe I wouldn’t die or go crazy, not just yet. I said, “You can’t be seen on the street, outside a tavern, in uniform, on the ground.”
He ran his hand in circles over my back. “Don’t worry about me. Just breathe. You’re OK.”
I was a cat, under Jerrod’s hand. A stray cat, left out in the cold too long. And the solution was the cause again, like stealing the tinctures, getting away with something. “You know,” I said, “I can’t be out with you, can’t be seen with you.”
His hand stopped circling. “You can’t be seen with me?”
I looked up at him, past stray strands of the red wig. I said, “It’s not you.”
“What’s wrong with me?” He took his hand away. Where his hand had rested seconds before, I still felt the warmth and weight, and held on to the warmth of it, to keep my heart calm, my bones at ease. Consolation.
