by Matt Shaw
“Wake up.”
I opened my eyes. I hadn’t even been asleep. I was merely resting my eyes for a moment.
“Look at you. You look a state. You let Laurel and Hardy see you like this? You’re a fucking disgrace.”
“Shut up. You aren’t here.”
“Yes, I am. Doesn’t matter how many layers of fake you bury me under. I’m always here.”
“No. You’re not.”
“This out-of-sight-out-of-mind bullshit you’re running with…It doesn’t work. You know it doesn’t work. Stand up.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Stand the fuck up, cunt!”
I can’t afford to anger him so I pulled myself to my feet.
“Go to the bathroom.”
“Please…I just want to relax. I just want to watch my programmes.”
“We have work to do. Go to the bathroom. You need to see this.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I will hurt you.”
I walked through to the downstairs bathroom, a small room to the side of the front door - a room I purposefully kept shut.
“Please, I don’t want to go in there.”
“Quit being a little bitch and get in there!”
I opened the door with my hand shaking. A slight hesitation and I stepped into the room.
“Look in the mirror.”
“I don’t want…”
“Look in that fucking mirror.”
I turned to the wall adjacent to the door. Hanging on the wall was a small mirror. I caught sight of my reflection within its tiny frame: five foot nine - fairly stocky (sadly not muscle), balding, hardly an oil-painting despite the layers of powder and paint upon my face, slight facial hair - not quite stubble and yet not quite a beard (currently covered by white). I smiled at myself.
“See. Doesn’t matter how much shit you put on me, I’m still here. I’m always here and you need to get that in your goddamned head once and for all. You understand me? We have work to do.”
Another flash of my pearly whites and a wink.
2.
I smiled as the front door opened. The shock on the lady’s face suggested she wasn’t the one who had booked me.
“One for you,” I said as I handed her one of the balloons in my hand. I always turned up to parties with a large bunch of balloons. I always found it a good ice-breaker: turn up, enter the room where the party was happening, hand out the balloons to the children (and sometimes the parents). From there I’d go onto making balloon animals. I say animals plural but there were only ever a couple of choices and - even then - I tended to opt for the simple choices such as ‘dog’.
The lady took the balloon from me, a confused look upon her face. I started to worry that I had the wrong house. I’d never done this before - gotten the wrong house - but I guess there is a first for everything. And after the poor night’s sleep I had last night, it wouldn’t surprise me if today was the ‘first’.
“I’m sorry…” the lady said…
Here we go…I have the wrong house. How embarrassing.
“…I think there has been some kind of unfortunate mix-up.”
Okay. Wasn’t expecting that.
A man appeared behind her.
“Oh shit,” he said. He looked sheepish. I could already tell I wasn’t going to like where this was headed. “You didn’t get my message?”
“What message?” I asked. I never switch my mobile off. I never have it more than a few feet from where I am. When you’re self-employed, such as I am, you know the importance of keeping it close by as you do not want to miss any potential business opportunities.
“Our son changed his mind…”
“Changed his mind? What? He doesn’t want a birthday party?” I could hear children laughing and screeching in the background. Clearly there was a party taking place within the suburban home. I peered around the front porch and in through the living room window. There are about twenty children in there.
“He didn’t want a clown,” the man said. I forget his name but I’m pretty sure we spoke before on the telephone; when he was booking the party. He didn’t cancel it. He hadn’t tried calling me. Even if he had, there would have been a missed call on my phone, something to suggest he’d attempted to contact me. But there was nothing. I wanted to stand here and argue with the (I presume) father but it wouldn’t serve any purpose. He didn’t want me there. There was nothing else to it. Arguing on the doorstep wasn’t going to change that. “Here,” the man held out a ten pound note, “for your troubles…”
The temptation was to take the money but I didn’t. I didn’t think it would give a good message to prospective customers. After all, mix-ups happen. “Keep it,” I said. I turned away from him and started off down the drive. I stopped and turned back to the man and woman, “Just one thing…What did he choose?” There weren’t many more people in this small town who offered entertainment at children’s parties, so it sounded as though there was some more competition to contend with, not that competition is necessarily a bad thing.
“Iron Man,” the man said.
Iron Man? I had another look in through the living room window. Standing in front of the children, in what appeared to be a second-rate outfit, was a knock-off Iron Man. Going by the screams from the house - doesn’t look as though the kids cared.
“Did you want your balloon back?” the lady asked from the doorway.
I turned away from the window. “No, you can keep it,” I said as I walked back to my tired, old van, a distinct feeling of ‘hurt’ running through me. It wasn’t the fact that I had been ousted from a job; after all, there was no sense being there if the child yearned for something else. It was more to do with the fact I wasn’t even worth a phone call. Sure, he said he had phoned but he didn’t. He couldn’t have. Could he? Maybe my phone was broken.
Back in the van (shoes off), I pulled my mobile from my pocket and dialled through for any possible voice messages. Just as I suspected there weren’t any new or saved.
“What did you expect?”
“Please leave me alone, I’m not in the mood.”
He was staring at me in the rear-view mirror of the car. What he had said the previous night, he was right; he was always there, despite trying to hide me underneath the make-up. He was always there waiting to taunt me, waiting to upset me, waiting to make me do those things he kept whispering to me during the night.
“You pride yourself in being a professional.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Not necessarily. In any other job. But do you honestly expect people to take you - us - seriously wearing that? Look at yourself. Look at what you’ve become throughout the years. A laughing stock.”
“I’m supposed to be, it’s my job.”
“You know what I mean. No one takes you seriously. They treat you like the fool that you are.”
“What does it matter to you?”
“Because they do the same to me.”
I shifted in my seat uncomfortably. He hated the fact I did this for a living. He believed children should be seen and not heard. Or - better yet - neither seen nor heard. I argued with him for many years before I turned to this; my argument being that there is no better sound in the world than the sound of children screaming with delight. Joyous laughing is infectious and you can’t help but feel it with them. The smell lingering in the van from a late night drive last night reminded me of his stance on the subject. I tried to stop him - of course I did - but he didn’t listen. He never did. Just called me a pussy and made me take a hold the knife.
He continued, “Walking around the town pretending to be everyone’s friend. Volunteering to help out at charity events - these people are laughing at you and not in a way you’re trying for,” he hissed.
“You’re wrong.”
“I’m not. And you know it. You can see it in their eyes, just as you think you can see the evil in mine. But of course you won’t listen to me. You’ll just
try and bury me under any layer of shit. Fucking pathetic.”
“You’re wrong,” I repeated once more.
“Of course I am. I am always wrong. You’re right. I’m wrong.”
“Please. Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
“What are you going to do with the rest of your day then?” he asked, clearly ignoring my pleas. “What else have you planned now this gig has fallen through?” He was sneering at me, his top lip curled up. “Hey! I know, why don’t we go to the park and put a free show on for the darling little children?” He was mocking me.
On the warmer weekends - such as this - I did go down to the town’s park, a large grassy area with a playground and small cafe area. It was always so busy down there with the families making the most of the sunlight. I didn’t mind working for free, going around and making them laugh with various antics but it was a good place to network. The amount of business I had got from working the park. So - in answer to his question - yes I probably would go to the park and work the crowds. After all, I was already dressed up. And it meant the delay in taking the mask off. Keep this mask on for as long as I can.
He laughed, “You realise the mask doesn’t make a difference. I’m still here…”
“It does.”
I punched the rear-view mirror knocking it off-centre. Can’t see my reflection here. I breathed a sigh of relief as I fired the van up. Another splutter of smoke hacked from out the back. Had the gig not been cancelled this month, I might have had enough left over from paying the bills to get the van seen to. I guess that’s out of the window now. A quick check over my right shoulder to check the road for oncoming traffic. The road was clear and I pulled out.
“So - are we going to the park?”
II
By the time I got to the park, and found a space for the van in the overcrowded car park, he had gone quiet. Thankfully so. His incessant talking was getting to me. Over the last few days, maybe even weeks, he had been getting louder. It wasn’t just his voice which disturbed me. I knew he had been going out at night too, whilst I slept, taking the opportunity whilst I rested to take the van and head to wherever he chose to go during the twilight hours. I don’t want to know where he goes and so I’ve never asked him. What I don’t know can’t kill me.
I swung my bare feet from the van and sat there for a moment, perched on the edge of the driver’s seat, looking out at the rolling fields of the park before me. Just as had been suspected, the fields were littered with people of varied ages. From the comfort of the van, I could see some of them were merely walking hand in hand, others were walking with their pet dogs on long leads, some were kicking a ball around, whilst others were watching their children play in the park’s playground (behind a fence near the park’s entrance).
The sun on my heavily made-up face feels nice. Would give anything to rest up now and just sunbathe along with everyone else but that doesn’t get the bills paid. Being self-employed, you find you need to keep working. You need to keep yourself visible to potential customers. You need to keep networking. People think my job is easy - the amount of people who’ve made such comments at the end of one of my gigs. I’d love to see them slip the shoes on, and the outfit - especially on hot days - just to see how they fare. My shows usually last for about an hour. I reckon - these people - they wouldn’t last twenty minutes. And even if they did, I’ll wager they’re incapable of raising a laugh from the crowds watching.
I shut my eyes a second, enjoying the sun beating down upon me. Could stay here all day but it won’t do. I opened my eyes and leaned back into my van towards the passenger side where I’d earlier thrown the oversized shoes. I pulled them out and dropped them onto the floor, next to where I was perched in the van. Before I slid into them (and it really is a question of sliding into them), I reached back to the passenger side and grabbed the large fabric bag of props. To be honest, I’ll probably not need this today. A day like this, an audience who can freely come and come…I’ll most likely end up just doing balloon animals. Balloon tricks always pull in the crowds. And - when the kids leave the impromptu show with a new ‘toy’ - it means they’re more likely to remember me when they get home. The balloon gimmicks are quickly forgotten by the parents but the smiles on their kids’ faces aren’t as easy to forget and before you know it, I’ll have a booking (or two).
I stepped into the shoes and bent down to do them up. As I was tying the laces, I could already hear people had spotted me: a buzz of excitement bouncing from the corners of the car park from the children who’d spotted me; a feeling of ‘money slipping through finger tips’ at the thought of having to spend money on whatever they believe I am offering. The fact I’ll charge for nothing will come as a nice surprise to them.
I closed the door of the van and locked it up before sliding the key into my pocket.
Here we go.
Show time.
III
It wasn’t a complete waste of my Sunday. The odd balloon animal here and the odd balloon animal there. Smiles on the faces of the few people who did stop to watch me, which was nice, but a feeling I’d earlier felt at the lost gig as more and more families walked on by me without so much of a backward glance; the desperate feeling of losing my audience. First they’re stolen away by a fake Iron Man and then they’re stolen away by the lure of…What…Kicking a ball around a park or swinging backwards and forwards on a swing? Both things they could do at anytime. How often did they get to see someone such as myself perform for them?
Usually, a day of performing in the park - or even the town centre - would see me give out more than a dozen business cards; nothing fancy, just a card with a picture of balloons and my phone number. I always meant to get the cards updated, so they looked a little more appealing, but it just never seemed to happen. After a day like this, I’m not even sure if it is worth getting them updated. Maybe I should re-think what I do? Invest the money in fake Iron Man suits, or something similar. When I started, there were superheroes around but they never seemed to be popular for children’s parties. Clowns, though, were in great demand. But as the years have gone on, that demand has dwindled. It kind of makes me wish I had purchased superhero outfits before they became popular and the price trebled.
Shoes thrown in the corner of the hallway, green wig dropped on the stairs. I was lying on the bed staring at the ceiling, fully dressed because I couldn’t be bothered to change from my clothes. I’m so very tired. Felt tired all day. Rough night I guess, although I don’t remember stirring. I remember talking to him and going up to bed. Soon as my head hit the pillow, I was out like a light. I don’t know, maybe I’m coming down with something? Either that, or age is squeezing the energy from my body as the years continue to slip on past me at a rate faster than I’d like to acknowledge. It probably doesn’t help that I’ve not eaten anything today other than an ice cream I bought from the van parked up in the middle of the park. Can’t be bothered to cook now, just want to sleep forever. So tired. Don’t even remember leaving the park.
3.
I hate him. Whiny, pathetic, little runt. A cunt. Always bleating on about his love for the children. Oh it’s their screams of delight that drive me. The sound of their laughter is like music to my ears. He’s in his fifties; deaf cunt wouldn’t know music if a monkey hit him over the head with a frying pan all the time a tune was belting out at maximum speed. He makes me sick. Ashamed to think of him as my housemate. How he even made it this far in life is beyond me. He should have just been drowned at birth by his whore mother and alcoholic father.
“Don’t worry, honey, we’ll get it right the next time,” the drunk father could have been heard to say as he held what he perceived to be the bastard child under the shallow water of the bathtub. Drink it, you little fucker, drink it until you breathe no more. Although if that were the way his life started I’m not sure where that would have left me. I don’t know - maybe I would have found a home with someone else? Thinking about it now and that doesn’t sound as though
it would have been bad. Certainly couldn’t have been any worse than where I am now. Stuck in here, with him. The cunt. His drive to do what he does - despite the knowledge it cannot and will not last forever - annoys me more than words can say. If the overly large shoe were on the other foot, I’m sure he’d be saying the same about me. But would he? The pussy rarely speaks out. He does all he can to avoid confrontation. He believes it isn’t professional. He believes it will harm his business. Someone queue jumps him in a queue for groceries, he tells them not to worry about it and the next thing we know, he is letting more people past him because he ‘has all day’. Someone pushes past you in a queue, you should take that position back. I’ve told him this. Not just once but on many occasions. He doesn’t listen though. Never does. He either pretends he hasn’t heard me or he argues the toss with me. By the time we have finished having a back and forth, the person who needs to be moved back to the rear of the queue has not only left the shop but also loaded their transport and driven from the store’s car park.
I stand by what I’ve told him before - he is the laughing stock of the town but not in the way he hopes, or argues, for. It isn’t because of the outfit he wears or the acts he performs. He raises a smile, and a laugh, because of his pathetic nature.
And that’s why I need to restore the balance whenever the opportunity presents itself.
Like tonight.
II
I borrowed his van. I never ask for permission and I presume he doesn’t mind. He never says anything to stop me so if he does have a problem, until he is man enough to deal with it face to face with me I’ll continue to take it. He should just be thankful that I at least replace the fuel that I use so it’s not all coming out of his tiny wage.
