Outside of a narrow café, two men sit awkwardly in ornamented iron stools and try to cross their legs. The younger of the two, a hefty, thick-set but muscular man bulks over the miniature table, his colossal hands tensely tapping against the edge of his coffee cup saucer. A nasty and nixing, yet unnoticed scowl comes from the neighboring table where a distracted paper grader broods about the noise, instead of scribbling on his student’s assignments. Now, the man opposite the saucer tapper, pressed and dressed in suit and tie, and unlike his companion, is small and diminutive in frame. However, further observation would reveal that his demeanour is proudly unaware of his stature. Wrinkles clutter his face like age does a baseball mitt and his collar is loose, a tie hangs out over his jacket like the tongue of an exhausted bulldog. The red-hot afternoon sun plasters strands of unruly, junkyard rusty, red-hair across both their foreheads: their freckles multiplying all the while.
“It’s good to see you again, Pops,” says the larger of the two men, Winston Henson.
“Yeah, it’s good to see you too, kid,” Paul Henson hems back. “It’s been awhile now, hasn’t it? Coming up on-on…dammit, hold on just one second Win…,” Paul reaches into his pocket and scans an incoming message from his office. He rubs his palm achingly against his forehead. “God damn, I swear, these new higher-up bastard cretins at the office have been shittin’ all over me for weeks now! Paperwork, paperwork, it’s all the goddamn paperwork! I tell ya, if you weren’t already knee deep into law school, I’d tell you to steer clear of all this horseshit.” Winston absently wipes the sweat off of his forehead.
“Well, that’s sort of the reason I wanted to, uhm, talk to you, Pops, cause..” Interrupting, Paul takes a calculated glance at his son.
“Whoaaa, whoa, hold your horses here kiddo.”
“Well, the thing is I’m enjoying the course work and all, it’s just, no- I should say, it’s not that I’m not doing well or anything Pops.”
“Damn right you’re doing well.”
“It’s just – well…I can’t see myself… I’m having trouble buying into… I just can’t live with being a… a…a lawyer. It’s just not what I’m passionate about these days, any day really.”
“God damn,” says Paul. “God damn! Do you have any idea how much money your mom I poured into that school? Bless her soul. And what about you? Haven’t you been working your damned ass off? I mean the last I checked you weren’t schlepping up shit grades at the bottom of your class. And you’re throwing all this away- the money, the hard work, your education, and for what? Some nonsense? Dare I even ask?”
Paul’s chair is now firmly grounded with the balls of his feet digging into the red-brown patio tile of the small outdoor seating space at the tiny cafe, his baseball mitt wrinkles forming an expression of a very unhappy old man.
“It’s not nonsense and I need your support!” Winston bursts out, surprising himself, vaulting into an adrenaline charged spout, “I know this is a hard concept for you to grasp Pops, but some people actually want to spend their lives doing something they love, or at least something think they love.”
“Hard to grasp? I’m sorry that my old rickety ass can’t ‘grasp’ these new-age concepts of yours.”
“Dad.”
“Do you wanna know what I love? Hmm? You and your goddamned mother, that’s who I love. I’ve been working in this shit-hole of a law office to provide for the two of you for a good majority of my life. And now, my son, who has taken great comfort from the fruits of my labors, is telling me I wasted my time, my life.”
“That’s not what I’m saying Dad, it’s just…”
“Wasted my life,” he snorts. “I wonder- I really do wonder, if I had run off to indulge in one of my ‘passions,’ collecting sea glass, or whatever horseshit, and lived in some little ramshackle hut, if you’d still be spouting all this nonsense.” Winston opened his mouth to speak up in his defense, but fell silent.
Winston has put this conversation on the back burner for years, but this time around it’s different, this time he knows in his heart of hearts he must make a stand. Not like the four years of high school football he bitterly played, although he was quite good; tight end, he a bit thinner then. Not like the 6 years of robotic violin lessons that he laboriously hated. He wanted to wail power chords on an electric blue Guitar. His father always shook his head at the notion. “Electric guitar is for druggies and freaks son, do you want to be a drugged out freak?” Winston knew that he should spin up and liberate, be brave and intrepid, but there were just too many co-dependent variables for a young victim with a vicarious father. Speaking of bravery, it’ll be important to note that when Winston was much younger, his mother before she died asked him how to express bravery. “Easy!” He snapped with the simple profundity of a toddler, “You punch a duck.” This ridiculous answer made for great family crack-ups over the years. One Christmas, years back, when Winston was six, the Henson’s were having a lovely Irish dinner with creamed Haddock; scalloped potatoes with leeks and cream, braised cabbage, juniper and clove spiced beef, soda bread and Winston’s favorite, brandy cake. And if that weren’t enough, the Henson’s family friends, the Fitz Geralds brought their own grande quantite of French fare, including, yes you guessed it, duck. The incident happened well before the Brandy cake and even before the soda bread. Winston had been tipped off about the duck and was fixing to show his family how “brave” he was. When the Fitz Geralds presented their most delicious dinner contribution Winston went ballistic and absolutely mauled the poor mallard. Letting loose a myriad of uppercuts and jabs, he socked the shiny bird right off the table. The whole family laughed and laughed and the Fitz Geralds wondered what in the world Winston was thinking. Winston, knowing he proved to be the bravest in the room raised both arms victoriously and sat at the table as per usual. But even after all that holiday bravery he never could muster up the mettle to smack the allegorical quaker of his father’s overbearingness, not until this very moment. This is for real, this is Winston, the iron-jawed adult, steadfast and single minded and taking his life, his passions and his hurrah into his own chubby hands.
Some time passes before either man speaks. The tables on the patio around them, seeking to avoid anymore peripheral involvement in this familial conflict, have by now either left all together or have gone inside to finish their coffee and snack in the peace and loudness of screaming espresso machines. The long-hard-looked professor had given up and squiggled B’s on the rest of the essays.
“I’m afraid to ask,” Paul starts. “And I suppose it’s safe to assume your little passion probably isn’t the most highly paid.”
“You never know,” Winston sighs.
“Well?” Paul annoyedly asks.
“Do you remember, back in high school, when I uh, juggled for the school talent show?”
“Christ.”
“…Well, a few years back, me and Willa won some tickets at a raffle – you know, the one at the fair that you, me and mom used to go to in the fall.”
“I remember, and it’s Willa and I, not me and Willa” Paul wearily nods and shakes his head at the same time.
“Well, like I was saying, Willa and I won these tickets to this show called El Circo Del Almas.”
“That’s Spanish,” his father interjects.
“Yeah, that’s right, Winston replies.
“Christ.”
“Anyway, so we go to this show, and it’s pretty much the greatest thing I’ve ever seen Pops- the performers, the music, everything, it was, it was…magical.” Hesitating, he chooses his next words very carefully. “And so, after the show, I had this great epiphany, you know?” Paul groans, his hands rubbing his face as if anticipating a migraine. “I decided that I’d set a goal for myself, and I’d practice – everyday – until I was good enough to audition and…well.”
“Dear God.”
“I got…”
“Please don’t say you’re a …”
“Accepted! I couldn’t believe it! I’m now training with El Circo Del Almas!”
“Clown.”
“No, Dad, I’m going be a…”
“You’re gonna’ be a god damned clown! Sweet Mother of Mary.” He laughs. “Wait a second, hold on there, hoooo – you almost got me. You can’t possibly be serious, right? All a joke. A joke. A funny, funny joke.”
“This isn’t a joke dad, and I’m not going to be a clown, at least in the way you’re thinking. El Circo Del Almas is different, I’m most likely going to be-”
“Christ. You’re right. You’re gonna’ be a Mexican clown.”
“Dad,” he sighs, “I’m telling you, I’m not going to be a clown at all.”
“Aren’t there any Irish circus’s around? Couldn’t you have at least been an Irish clown?
“You aren’t helping.”
“I don’t know what church doors I accidentally pissed on to deserve this but, damn, son. A clown.”
“You aren’t listening, this isn’t even going to be anything like a clown.”
“Son, have you really thought this through? I mean honestly, you’re the size of a damned Volkswagen Winston. Do clowns even come in extra large? I don’t think parents would want their kids screaming like maniacs and pissing their pants because the clown they ordered turned out to be Andre the god damned Giant.”
“Hilarious, dad, really. I get it, I, uh, I seriously do… I’m a clown because I’m going to be in a circus. This has been established, and is obviously great comedic fodder, so please, really – no, please, continue on as long as you like. But, I’ll tell you this Pops, this is something that I intend on spending the rest of my life doing in some way or another, and no amount of clown jokes are going to change my mind.”
Paul is a red-blooded, straight ticket conservative with a marked propensity for the predictable. He lives and suffers by the most unromantic, strait-jacketed American phrase there is, safety first. He never kissed on the first date and he was the last guy on the team you wanted to have the ball in the final seconds of the big game. It’s not that he was especially shy or unsure; he was just born with an anti-romance knee-jerk nature. Once, when he was very young, it was on his fifth birthday, his parents presented him with a lovely cake and five bright candles to blow out. It was the first time they tried this birthday custom with little Paul. As soon as he saw, and knew the flaming frosting was intended for him, his freckled face turned upside down and he quailed in defiance; terrified of the candles on his cake. For the next two years they tried the same thing with six candles, then seven, both years he gave the same disapproving tantrums. From then on he never got another candle on his birthday cakes. And subsequently, just like dad, Winston grew up with out candles on his cake. It’s no secret that Paul subscribes to the notion of -father knows best- but now he’s coming to a head on that issue. There comes a time when fathers and mothers must submit to the practice of unconditional love, become a supporter, not a subsidizer, become a friend, and not a fountain-head, a well-wisher and not a usurper. Poor Paul will have to learn this one-day, but for now he’ll just run form the bright and honest life of his son.
Trapped in their own thoughts, the two men once again sit in silence. A pedestrian stumbles by, awkwardly coming to stop in front of the two. He reaches down to pick up a stray quarter and meets eyes with Paul. He reconsiders.
“You know, son, this really is all your mother’s fault, bless her soul.”
“Blaming her isn’t going to make you feel any better.”
“No, no, I’m serious. If I had known she carried a recessive red-haired gene, I would’ve never married her! Have you ever heard of a brunette clown? Hell no you haven’t! God, that shit must be a safety net for things like this!” Winston can’t help but chuckle. “So what does Willa think about all this?”
“Oh, she loves it! He beams, “She’s a dance instructor Dad, you knew that. Actually, she plans on auditioning herself!”
“My God,” Paul cries. “You’re gonna have clown babies.”
Four months pass since Paul last met with his son on that balmy afternoon outside of the cramped café, and he still hasn’t entirely come to grips with his son’s ruling. Although they left on a somewhat cheerful note, with hands clasped and backs firmly patted, it was clear something was lost between them. As a matter of fact, the two men haven’t even spoken to each other since that meeting; their only form of communication is now through the most un-intimate of methods: letters, emails. When they did finally chat on the phone they sounded like two robots programmed to speak in the most dreadfully plain and mechanical manner. These ‘conversations’ generally held no interest to either side; neither of the men could explain why they continued on with such meaninglessness. Aside from it just being easier that way.
“Hello, how are you doing?” one of them would ask.
“Good. How are you doing?” the other would reply.
“Fine,” the first man would claim. “That’s good,” the first man would continue; it was not uncommon for a turn to be forgotten, and one of the men to reply to himself.
“Good bye,” generally marked the end of the conversation.
“Hello, how are you doing?” it was also common for one of the men to completely forget his place in the conversation, and begin it entirely anew.
On this particular day, however, in this fourth month from their last real chat, Paul receives a letter in the mail that is a complete deviation from the normal dribble he has become accustom to receiving. Inside it is a laminated strip of paper, dancing with an amalgam of colors and shapes, making the font entirely too difficult to read. Paul’s old veiny fingers wrap around the ear of his reading glasses and he brings the strip underneath his nose to read the letter, slowly, out loud to himself.
“El Circo Del Almas. Soltar Row 1. Seat A.”
Walking to his room, he keeps his eyes on the ticket, and slowly repeats it over to himself, like some strange sort of mantra. “El Circo Del Almas. Soltar Row 1. Seat A.” He sits on the edge of his perfectly made bed. “El Circo Del Almas. Soltar. Row 1. Seat A.” Rolling over to his side, he sighs and places the ticket next to the lamp on the bedside table. A few scattered blades of sunlight stretch through the half-closed shades, revealing the simplistic and orderly fashion of the room. There are no clothes strewn across his carpet, no pictures littered across his walls. Save for a few framed pictures of he and his family, the room would almost appear deserted to anyone curious enough to peek through the blinds. The pictures, which now neighbor the newly placed ticket, speak of joyful, more pleasant times in Paul’s life. Before he was afraid of the future Paul had a present, before he let his destiny become his history and before he placed his livelihood and happiness in the hands of his son he had peace.
“My goddamn clown of a son,” he mutters to himself.
The sun shifts and new shadows thrown across the room cast the pictures into darkness. A single beam shoots through the column of photographs, piercing through to land on the lone ticket. It gleams and the hologram next to the perforation dances in the sunlight, its reflection so blinding that the pictures surrounding it begin to fade, forcing Paul to cover his eyes and grumpily turn over.
A month goes by. Another. And another. The letters continue to appear in the mail, the same glossy finish the same dancing imagery, the same seating. They begin to create quite a mess in Paul’s room, the first one it’s seen in many years. Sitting on the end of his bed, he eyes the pile of tickets strewn across the little table.
“Shitty tickets,” he growls. “Ruining my goddamn life. I’m sick and tired of you littering my damn furniture! That tables from my mother, for Chris’akes!” Grabbing a handful of them, he stands up and sets off for the door.
“Shitty tickets,” he mutters.
Walking up to the giant blue and yellow striped tent, Paul can’t help but shudder in the presence of such a giant bastion for all that is opposite his world. A unique odor permeates the on the sidewalk into the grounds, an ungodly combination of sweat, make-up, and popcorn. Wide-eyed groups of people clutter together, a mixture of embarrassment and excitement painted on their faces. A man on four stilts skilfully stumbles by, like some kind of hellish face-painted overlord from a dystopian future. Paul groans and averts his eyes, searching for something that won’t upset his stomach. He is not met with much luck. On his left, a short bumbling little shrub attempts to sell merchandise to passersby; plastic masks with awfully disturbing visages. Her face and arms; encased in twigs, make her movements stiff and her peripheral vision poor, causing people to duck and weave whenever she turns. On his right, a man with a donkey’s head is sniffing a small child, his cavernous nostrils threatening to suck the child up entirely. As the mule headed man begins to neigh and stomp, the boy’s father steps in and picks up the child: combining backpedaling and smiling as he inches away. Shrugging his shoulders, the donkey canters over to the shrubbery woman, and they converse with a series of grunts and hand signals. Spotting the tent entrance, Paul decides he’d rather take his chances inside than outside with the bush and the ass.
“May I see your ticket please?” an usher requests, as he expectantly extends his hand.
Paul slaps a handful of the tickets into the palm of the usher.
“One of those should do,” he blurts out, pushing himself past the queerly dressed little man.
“But sir, I…,” the usher un-wantingly prepares to chase after him, but is interrupted by the next man in line.
Sitting in the first row, Paul anxiously awaits the beginning of the show. Motley colored mushrooms parade around the audience, weaving their way in and out of the isles and rows. Eyes forward, Paul’s wrinkled face is stern and resolute. The paints a perfectly archetypal picture of a man who should be avoided at all costs by those dressed as flamboyant fungi. Many a professional circus performer has learned the simple lesson of whom to poke and who to pass over the hard way. Incidentally, the mushrooms on this particular day are only rookies, spores who haven’t been trained in the “do’s” and “don’ts” of crowd participation. As they pass row after row of friendly, eager faces, ignoring the outstretched arms of the more enthusiastic audience members, a great hulk of a mushroom catches sight of a prime candidate for harassment. Putting its hand to his mouth, it begins a strange ululation, which is momentarily lost in the cacophony of the crowded canopy. More of the strange ululations cry back from the other mushrooms as they all begin to converge on the unsuspecting, unwilling man, whose brooding has left him oblivious to his current predicament.
“The hell am I even doing here?” Paul groans. Staring down, he notices his hastily tied together shoelaces and the mess of wrinkles and creases that was once his favorite pair of trousers. Shocked and suddenly aware of his dishevelled appearance, he brushes the back of his hand against his leg, a futile attempt at last second grooming. “What the hell has happened to me?” he sighs, brushing back his hair. “I can’t do this,” he silently continues, “I can’t sit here and watch this damn clown show. I’ve already accepted his decision, but God damn, I don’t think I can stomach watching my grown son parade around in a…”
“Mumu mu mumumu?” the mushroom interrupts.
“The hell…?” Paul begins, “What the hell was that…?” As he turns his head, a look of absolute terror possesses his face, twisting and contorting his old wrinkles in new, exciting ways. The devastating realization of his predicament sinks in, and a great weight strains his chest, shortening his breathing.
“Clowns,” he cries, “Gah…gah…get away from me!”
“Bur bur buurr burr,” a faceless creature replies.
“Aghhh!”
“Mee mee memememe.”
“Get the hell away from me!”
The creatures now close in, their unintelligible language merging into a soulless chatter, pounding away at Paul’s patience. He whirls around, trying to find a means of escape, but is blocked off at every angle by the giant fungi. Suffocating in a sea of foam and nauseating bright colors, he pictures the memories framed on his tabletop. The life he had wished for, the life he had yearned for, the life that had been taken away by the avidity of his son. “Damn you!” he screams, “You…you… you CLOWNS!” Fist balled, like a monkey squeezing a peanut, he swings aimlessly into the fray, and is met with a resounding ‘thud.’ Silence falls upon the audience, as the mushrooms cautiously back away from the enraged old man. Stumbling up, Paul eyes focus on a small fallen fungus, laid out on the aisle way, and the great monster of a clown kneeling down by its side. It turns, reds, yellows and blues flowing down its face, a look of familiarity in its eyes.
“Dad!” it calls, “you just punched Willa in the face!”
The tickets no longer come in the mail.
“It’s good to see you again, Pops,” says the larger of the two men, Winston Henson.
“Yeah, it’s good to see you too, kid,” Paul Henson hems back. “It’s been awhile now, hasn’t it? Coming up on-on…dammit, hold on just one second Win…,” Paul reaches into his pocket and scans an incoming message from his office. He rubs his palm achingly against his forehead. “God damn, I swear, these new higher-up bastard cretins at the office have been shittin’ all over me for weeks now! Paperwork, paperwork, it’s all the goddamn paperwork! I tell ya, if you weren’t already knee deep into law school, I’d tell you to steer clear of all this horseshit.” Winston absently wipes the sweat off of his forehead.
“Well, that’s sort of the reason I wanted to, uhm, talk to you, Pops, cause..”
Interrupting, Paul takes a calculated glance at his son.
“Whoaaa, whoa, hold your horses here kiddo.”
“Well, the thing is I’m enjoying the course work and all, it’s just, no- I should say, it’s not that I’m not doing well or anything Pops.”
“Damn right you’re doing well.”
“It’s just – well…I can’t see myself… I’m having trouble buying into… I just can’t live with being a… a…a lawyer. It’s just not what I’m passionate about these days, any day really.”
“God damn,” says Paul. “God damn! Do you have any idea how much money your mom I poured into that school? Bless her soul. And what about you? Haven’t you been working your damned ass off? I mean the last I checked you weren’t schlepping up shit grades at the bottom of your class. And you’re throwing all this away- the money, the hard work, your education, and for what? Some nonsense? Dare I even ask?”
Paul’s chair is now firmly grounded with the balls of his feet digging into the red-brown patio tile of the small outdoor seating space at the tiny cafe, his baseball mitt wrinkles forming the expression of a very unhappy old man.
“It’s not nonsense and I need your support!” Winston bursts out, surprising himself, vaulting into an adrenaline charged spout, “I know this may be a hard concept for you to grasp Pops, but some people actually want to spend their lives doing something they love, or at least something think they love.”
“Hard to grasp? I’m sorry that my old rickety ass can’t ‘grasp’ these new-age concepts of yours.”
“Dad.”
“Do you wanna know what I love? Hmm? You and your goddamned mother, that’s who I love. I’ve been working in this shit-hole of a law office to provide for the two of you for a good majority of my life. And now, my son, who has taken great comfort from the fruits of my labors, is telling me I wasted my time, my life.”
“That’s not what I’m saying Dad, it’s just…”
“Wasted my life,” he snorts. “I wonder- I really do wonder, if I had run off to indulge in one of my ‘passions,’ collecting sea glass, or whatever horseshit, and lived in some little ramshackle hut, if you’d still be spouting all this nonsense.” Winston opened his mouth to speak up in his defense, but fell silent.
Winston has put this conversation on the back burner for years, but this time around it’s different, this time he knows in his heart of hearts he must make a stand. Not like the four years of high school football he bitterly played, although he was quite good; tight end, he a bit thinner then. Not like the 6 years of robotic violin lessons that he laboriously hated. He wanted to wail power chords on an electric blue Guitar. His father always shook his head at the notion. “Electric guitar is for druggies and freaks son, do you want to be a drugged out freak?” Winston knew that he should spin up and liberate, be brave and intrepid, but there were just too many co-dependent variables for a young victim with a vicarious father. Speaking of bravery, it’ll be important to note that when Winston was much younger, his mother before she died asked him how to express bravery. “Easy!” He snapped with the simple profundity of a toddler, “You punch a duck.” This ridiculous answer made for great family crack-ups over the years. One Christmas, years back, when Winston was six, the Henson’s were having a lovely Irish dinner with creamed Haddock; scalloped potatoes with leeks and cream, braised cabbage, juniper and clove spiced beef, soda bread and Winston’s favorite, brandy cake. And if that weren’t enough, the Henson’s family friends, the Fitz Geralds brought their own grande quantite of French fare, including, yes you guessed it, duck. The incident happened well before the Brandy cake and even before the soda bread. Winston, who had been tipped off about the duck, was fixing to show his family how “brave” he was. When the Fitz Geralds presented their most delicious dinner contribution Winston went ballistic and absolutely mauled the poor mallard. Letting loose a myriad of uppercuts and jabs, he socked the shiny bird right off the table. The whole family laughed and laughed and the Fitz Geralds wondered what in the world Winston was thinking. Winston, knowing he proved to be the bravest in the room raised both arms victoriously and sat at the table as per usual. But even after all that holiday bravery he never could muster up the mettle to smack the allegorical quaker of his father’s overbearingness, not until this very moment. This is for real, this is Winston, the iron-jawed adult, steadfast and single minded and taking his life, his passions and his hurrah into his own chubby hands.
Some time passes before either man speaks. The tables on the patio around them, seeking to avoid anymore peripheral involvement in this familial conflict, have by now either left all together or have gone inside to finish their coffee and snack in the peace and loudness of screaming espresso machines. The long-hard-looked professor had given up and squiggled B’s on the rest of the essays.
“I’m afraid to ask,” Paul starts. “And I suppose it’s safe to assume your little passion probably isn’t the most highly paid.”
“You never know,” Winston sighs.
“Well?” Paul annoyedly asks.
“Do you remember, back in high school, when I uh, juggled for the school talent show?”
“Christ.”
“…Well, a few years back, me and Willa won some tickets at a raffle – you know, the one at the fair that you, me and mom used to go to in the fall.”
“I remember, and it’s Willa and I, not me and Willa” Paul wearily nods and shakes his head at the same time.
“Well, like I was saying, Willa and I won these tickets to this show called El Circo Del Almas.”
“That’s Spanish,” his father interjects.
“Yeah, that’s right, Winston replies.
“Christ.”
“Anyway, so we go to this show, and it’s pretty much the greatest thing I’ve ever seen Pops- the performers, the music, everything, it was, it was…magical.” Hesitating, he chooses his next words very carefully. “And so, after the show, I had this great epiphany, you know?” Paul groans, his hands rubbing his face as if anticipating a migraine. “I decided that I’d set a goal for myself, and I’d practice – everyday – until I was good enough to audition and…well.”
“Dear God.”
“I got…”
“Please don’t say you’re a …”
“Accepted! I couldn’t believe it! I’m now training with El Circo Del Almas!”
“Clown.”
“No, Dad, I’m going be a…”
“You’re gonna’ be a god damned clown! Sweet Mother of Mary.” He laughs. “Wait a second, hold on there, hoooo – you almost got me. You can’t possibly be serious, right? All a joke. A joke. A funny, funny joke.”
“This isn’t a joke dad, and I’m not going to be a clown, at least in the way you’re thinking. El Circo Del Almas is different, I’m most likely going to be-”
“Christ. You’re right. You’re gonna’ be a Mexican clown.”
“Dad,” he sighs, “I’m telling you, I’m not going to be a clown at all.”
“Aren’t there any Irish circus’s around? Couldn’t you have at least been an Irish clown?
“You aren’t helping.”
“I don’t know what church doors I accidentally pissed on to deserve this but, damn, son. A clown.”
“You aren’t listening, this isn’t even going to be anything like a clown.”
“Son, have you really thought this through? I mean honestly, you’re the size of a damned Volkswagen Winston. Do clowns even come in extra large? I don’t think parents would want their kids screaming like maniacs and pissing their pants because the clown they ordered turned out to be Andre the god damned Giant.”
“Hilarious, dad, really. I get it, I, uh, I seriously do… I’m a clown because I’m going to be in a circus. This was established, and is obviously great comedic fodder, so please, really – no, please, continue on as long as you like. But, I’ll tell you this Pops, this is something that I intend on spending the rest of my life doing in some way or another, and no amount of clown jokes are going to change my mind.”
Paul is a red-blooded, straight ticket conservative with a marked propensity for the predictable. He lives and suffers by the most unromantic, strait-jacketed American phrase I can think of, safety first. He never kissed on the first date and he was the last guy on the team you wanted to have the ball in the final seconds of the big game. It’s not that he was especially shy or unsure; just born with an anti-romance knee-jerk nature. Once, when he was very young, it was on his fifth birthday, his parents presented him with a lovely cake and five bright candles to blow out. It was the first time they tried this birthday custom with little Paul. As soon as he saw and knew the flaming frosting was intended for him, his freckled face turned upside down and he quailed in defiance; he was terrified of the candles on his cake. For the next two years they tried the same thing with six candles, then seven, both years he gave the same disapproving tantrums. From then on he never got another candle on his birthday cakes. And subsequently, just like dad, Winston grew up with out candles on his cake. It’s no secret that Paul subscribes to the notion of father knows best, but now he’s coming to a head on that issue. There comes a time when fathers and mothers must submit to the practice of unconditional love, become a supporter, not a subsidizer, become a friend, and not a fountain-head, a well-wisher and not a usurper. Poor Paul will have to learn this one-day, but for now he’ll just run form the bright and honest life of his son.
Trapped in their own thoughts, the two men once again sit in silence. A pedestrian stumbles by, awkwardly coming to stop in front of the two. He reaches down to pick up a stray quarter and meets eyes with Paul. He reconsiders.
“You know, son, this really is all your mother’s fault, bless her soul.”
“Blaming her isn’t going to make you feel any better.”
“No, no, I’m serious. If I had known she carried a recessive red-haired gene, I would’ve never married her! Have you ever heard of a brunette clown? Hell no you haven’t! God, that shit must be a safety net for things like this!” Winston can’t help but chuckle. “So what does Willa think about all this?”
“Oh, she loves it! He beams, “She’s a dance instructor Dad, you knew that. Actually, she plans on auditioning herself!”
“My God,” Paul cries. “You’re gonna have clown babies.”
Four months pass since Paul last met with his son on that balmy afternoon outside of the cramped café, and he still hasn’t entirely come to grips with his son’s ruling. Although they left on a somewhat cheerful note, with hands clasped and backs firmly patted, it was clear something was lost between them. As a matter of fact, the two men haven’t even spoken to each other since that meeting; their only form of communication is now through the most un-intimate of methods: letters, emails. When they did finally chat on the phone they sounded like two robots programmed to speak in the most dreadfully plain and mechanical manner. These ‘conversations’ generally held no interest to either side; neither of the men could explain why they continued on with such meaninglessness. Aside from it just being easier that way.
“Hello, how are you doing?” one of them would ask.
“Good. How are you doing?” the other would reply.
“Fine,” the first man would claim. “That’s good,” the first man would continue; it was not uncommon for a turn to be forgotten, and one of the men to reply to himself.
“Good bye,” generally marked the end of the conversation.
“Hello, how are you doing?” it was also common for one of the men to completely forget his place in the conversation, and begin it entirely anew.
On this particular day, however, in this fourth month from their last real chat, Paul receives a letter in the mail that is a complete deviation from the normal dribble he has become accustom to receiving. Inside it is a laminated strip of paper, dancing with an amalgam of colors and shapes, making the font entirely too difficult to read. Paul’s old veiny fingers wrap around the ear of his reading glasses and he brings the strip underneath his nose to read the letter, slowly, out loud to himself.
“El Circo Del Almas. Soltar Row 1. Seat A.”
Walking to his room, he keeps his eyes on the ticket, and slowly repeats it over to himself, like some strange sort of mantra. “El Circo Del Almas. Soltar Row 1. Seat A.” He sits on the edge of his perfectly made bed. “El Circo Del Almas. Soltar. Row 1. Seat A.” Rolling over to his side, he sighs and places the ticket next to the lamp on the bedside table. A few scattered blades of sunlight stretch through the half-closed shades, revealing the simplistic and orderly fashion of the room. There are no clothes strewn across his carpet, no pictures littered across his walls. Save for a few framed pictures of he and his family, the room would almost appear deserted to anyone curious enough to peek through the blinds. The pictures, which now neighbor the newly placed ticket, speak of joyful, more pleasant times in Paul’s life. Before he was afraid of the future Paul had a present, before he let his destiny become his history and before he placed his livelihood and happiness in the hands of his son he had peace.
“My goddamn clown of a son,” he mutters to himself.
The sun shifts and new shadows are thrown across the room, casting the pictures in darkness. A single beam shoots through the column of photographs, piercing through to land on the lone ticket. It gleams and the hologram next to the perforation dances in the sunlight, its reflection so blinding that the pictures surrounding it begin to fade, forcing Paul to cover his eyes and grumpily turn over.
A month goes by. Another. And another. The letters continue to appear in the mail, the same glossy finish the same dancing imagery, the same seating. They begin to create quite a mess in Paul’s room, the first one it’s seen in many years. Sitting on the end of his bed, he eyes the pile of tickets strewn across the little table.
“Shitty tickets,” he growls. “Ruining my goddamn life. I’m sick and tired of you littering my damn furniture! That tables from my mother, for Chris’akes!” Grabbing a handful of them, he stands up and sets off for the door.
“Shitty tickets,” he mutters.
Walking up to the giant blue and yellow striped tent, Paul can’t help but shudder in the presence of such a giant bastion for all that is opposite his world. A unique odor permeates the on the sidewalk into the grounds, an ungodly combination of sweat, make-up, and popcorn. Wide-eyed groups of people clutter together, a mixture of embarrassment and excitement painted on their faces. A man on four stilts skilfully stumbles by, like some kind of hellish face-painted overlord from a dystopian future. Paul groans and averts his eyes, searching for something that won’t upset his stomach. He is not met with much luck. On his left, a short bumbling little shrub attempts to sell merchandise to passersby; plastic masks with awfully disturbing visages. Her face and arms; encased in twigs, make her movements stiff and her peripheral vision poor, causing people to duck and weave whenever she turns. On his right, a man with a donkey’s head is sniffing a small child, his cavernous nostrils threatening to suck the child up entirely. As the mule headed man begins to neigh and stomp, the boy’s father steps in and picks up the child: combining backpedaling and smiling as he inches away. Shrugging his shoulders, the donkey canters over to the shrubbery woman, and they converse with a series of grunts and hand signals. Spotting the tent entrance, Paul decides he’d rather take his chances inside than outside with the bush and the ass.
“May I see your ticket please?” an usher requests, as he expectantly extends his hand.
Paul slaps a handful of the tickets into the palm of the usher.
“One of those should do,” he blurts out, pushing himself past the queerly dressed little man.
“But sir, I…,” the usher un-wantingly prepares to chase after him, but is interrupted by the next man in line.
Sitting in the first row, Paul anxiously awaits the beginning of the show. Motley colored mushrooms parade around the audience, weaving their way in and out of the isles and rows. Eyes forward, Paul’s wrinkled face is stern and resolute. The paints a perfectly archetypal picture of a man to avoid at all costs, especially by those dressed as flamboyant fungi. Many a professional circus performer has learned the simple lesson of whom to poke and who to pass over the hard way. Incidentally, the mushrooms on this particular day are only rookies, spores who haven’t been trained in the “do’s” and “don’ts” of crowd participation. As they pass row after row of friendly, eager faces, ignoring the outstretched arms of the more enthusiastic audience members, a great hulk of a mushroom catches sight of what seems a prime candidate for harassment. Putting its hand to his mouth it begins a strange ululation, which is momentarily lost in the cacophony of the crowded canopy. More of the strange ululations cry back from the other mushrooms as they all begin to converge on the unsuspecting, unwilling man, whose brooding has left him oblivious to his current predicament.
“The hell am I even doing here?” Paul groans. Staring down, he notices his hastily tied together shoelaces and the mess of wrinkles and creases that was once his favorite pair of trousers. Shocked and suddenly aware of his dishevelled appearance, he brushes the back of his hand against his leg, a futile attempt at last second grooming. “What the hell has happened to me?” he sighs, brushing back his hair. “I can’t do this,” he silently continues, “I can’t sit here and watch this damn clown show. I’ve already accepted his decision, but God damn, I don’t think I can stomach watching my grown son parade around in a…”
“Mumu mu mumumu?” the mushroom interrupts.
“The hell…?” Paul begins, “What the hell was that…?” As he turns his head, a look of absolute terror possesses his face, twisting and contorting his old wrinkles in new, exciting ways. The devastating realization of his predicament sinks in, and a great weight strains his chest, shortening his breathing. “Clowns,” he cries, “Gah…gah…get away from me!”
“Bur bur buurr burr,” a faceless creature replies.
“Aghhh!”
“Mee mee memememe.”
“Get the hell away from me!”
The creatures now close in, their unintelligible language merging into a soulless chatter, pounding away at Paul’s patience. He whirls around, trying to find a means of escape, but is blocked off at every angle by the giant fungi. Suffocating in a sea of foam and nauseating bright colors, he pictures the memories framed on his tabletop. The life he had wished for, the life he had yearned for, the life that had been taken away by the avidity of his son. “Damn you!” he screams, “You…you… you CLOWNS!” Fist balled, like a monkey squeezing a peanut, he swings aimlessly into the fray, and is met with a resounding ‘thud.’ Silence falls upon the audience, as the mushrooms cautiously back away from the enraged old man. Stumbling up, Paul eyes focus on a small fallen fungus, laid out on the aisle way, and the great monster of a clown kneeling down by its side. It turns, reds, yellows and blues flowing down its face, a look of familiarity in its eyes.
“Dad!” it calls, “you just punched Willa in the face!”
The tickets no longer come in the mail.
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