CLOWN ALLEY
From The Southeast Review Volume 27.2
The clowns stand in a line before us. Today is our first day in costume. Sailor, gladiator, butcher, and dog look ridiculous. The sailor wears small shorts. We laugh. The standing clowns, they do not smile. They bathe in their humiliation. They walk slowly toward us. They stare at us. We laugh harder. Soon it will be our turn.
We put on our noses and stand. The red nose, he is my soul. Behind the ruddy orb, the clown is whelped. To be servant of the absurd, maggot of nothingness: such is my destiny. Clown, c’est moi.
Today, we do nothing, and our public laughs. Our costumes make the performing. Tomorrow, our costumes will not work enough. They will be old hats. Tomorrow, our lesson will be more difficult.
*
I am paralyzed, but my public is watching. Without a public, the clown cannot live. My banana, uneaten, taunts me. An eternity passes. I can no longer bear the weight of my stillness. I remove the jaundiced skin. I eat, but the banana flesh contains no joy. My public is silent. They, the fools, have contempt for my banana.
“NO!” Monsieur Mercier drives his walking stick into the floor. “GET OFF THE STAGE!” Monsieur is clown master, and I must obey. I have failed, again. To fail is to be clown.
My public applauds. Gaudy Americans. They have heads made of cheese from can.
Another clown faces public. Her costume is a witch’s hat. Her pointy hat enflames me. When she bites the banana, the public, they laugh. She scowls. She scorns her public. Her face becomes like a beautiful raisin. As the stupid Americans applaud, I clap my hands to express my torment. She is a temptress.
Monsieur tells us to take break. All the clowns remove noses. Their souls die.
I depart the building of the clown education. The building, he is aged. His pieces will crumble into dust. With the aid of tiny flame, I inhale cancer. While the building decays, I am murdered, slowly. It is the clown’s way.
“Hey. Can I bum one of those?”
It is she, my waking dream, my torturer. I hand her the instrument of her own death.
“Thanks. What’s your name again?”
“Bernard.”
“Bare-nah? Oh, Bur-NARDuh. You’re really funny, Bur-NARDuh.”
I cannot speak. My nose is indoors, abandoned and desolate. Noseless, I am plunged into the well of emptiness.
“So, Bur-NARDuh.” She relishes the twisted wreckage she makes of my name; her cruelty tantalizes. “Did you know Mercier in France?”
Does she know Brad Pitt? Does she know the Baywatch David Hasselhoff? They are all Americans. Monsieur Mercier is master of masters. I come to America to find him.
“You are like raisin,” I say.
She smiles. Her teeth gleam like poisonous mushrooms. “You crack me up,” she says.
*
Ding Dong faces his public. He has red hair. His costume is sailor. He barks like dog.
“NO!” Monsieur’s stick attacks floor. “YOU HAVE EYES DEAD LIKE FISH IN SUITCASE IN VIETNAM! GET OFF THE STAGE!”
The public, they laugh. Ding Dong does not leave the stage. He gazes at his public. His eyes say: I am dead fish … I love dead fish … I shall live in suitcase to please you.
I envy his magnificent failure.
*
We are outside, breaking. I speak.
“Ding Dong, this is name for penis, no?”
Ding Dong nods mournfully. We do not choose our clowns. Our clowns arise, unbidden.
Ding Dong pulls flower from his sleeve. Flower explodes to size of pumpkin. He offers me flower. I eat flower. It is too large, and made of cloth. I am overpowered by savagery of flower. Flower returns to bloom in my hand. Ding Dong pats me on back.
Small gladiator approaches. “Hi, Mister Mouse,” she says.
My costume is Mickey Mouse. I am rodent, vermin. I eat human refuse.
“And hi, Ding Dong,” she says. She giggles. “Do you have another name?”
She wants his inanimate name, name on paper in fascist records. Ding Dong does not reply. He is true clown. Gladiator looks to me for answer.
“Bob,” I say.
“Bub?”
The witch, spirit of my entrails, translates. “No, Bawb. Ding Dong’s name is Bawb. And this is Bur-NARDuh.”
The witch is Margaret. Her clown is nameless. She is fetus clown, still being born.
*
I am having the coffee with my throbbing witch. Her heart, it beats all her blood. We are without noses. We are without mouse ears and pointy hat. I am lost in a black pit of the galaxy. She is the dog star.
“So, Bur-NARDuh, how long have you been in the States?”
I do not like these questions. These jobs and schools and small-apartments questions. They are the questions that have no answers. Where do we go when we die? I come to America, I go from America. I am in the universe of the ridiculous. I am not person who works at Kinko’s.
The feminine beautifuls, they do not love Bernard. They want to join with the ants in the earth who have the jobs and the cars and the possessions. They will dig their holes and live underground. In France, Bernard made escape from university of false knowledge built for insignificant ants.
“I am in U.S. two months,” I say. My voice is ant voice.
“It must be cool to live in another country. I didn’t do junior year abroad, and now I wish I had. Sometimes college feels like it was all a big waste of time, you know? When I’m around a teacher like Monsieur Mercier, I feel like, I don’t know, like I see the world in a whole new way.”
I wish for the large flower to give to my witch. I wish to pull birds from her ear. I wish to slip on banana packaging for her delight.
“You are not ant,” I say.
Her laugh is big like porpoise chatter. “I am not ant!” she says.
I make porpoise noises also. “You will come to France,” I say.
“I wish. Maybe someday. I was actually set to go, when I was in school, but then my mom died.” Her eyes become shiny like soup. “Sorry,” she says. “You’d think I’d be used to saying it.”
My heart grows tentacles toward her. “My mother, too, she is in the ground,” I say.
Her hand touches my arm. My breath does not move. “I’m sorry!” she says. “How old were you?”
“Eight years.”
“Oh God, only eight! Was it awful?”
I think of the automobile and the bleeding. I think of the dinners with my father with sandwich meat and no talking. “Yes,” I say.
“I love that you’re so blunt about it. Everyone wants you to be OK, you know? Did you find your friends just didn’t get it?”
“Yes,” I say. The boys with eight years did not know that the winds of chance can bring the dead mothers. The boys with eight years enjoyed only the tricks of amusement from Bernard.
“You have many friends,” I say.
“I’m sure you do, too, in France,” she says.
Ant-people do not welcome Bernard. True clown finds peace and immensity falling alone through empty space. Yet my mouth cannot tell my witch I have not friends.
I light the cigarette. A loud American says, “No smoking.” My table has lost her ashtray. I am the guardian of untamable burning. When I seek fire-killing ashtray, I knock over witch’s chai latte. Witch becomes engulfed from brown spurts. She screams. I throw the glass of water upon her for cool relief. She screams again. I place many napkins on her lap. The public, they do not laugh.
I am without nose. Clown would fill pocket with stones, walk into river. Clown would walk and walk, but river would only come up to knees. Clown would kneel. River would come to waist. Clown would sit. River would come to chest. Public would laugh. Clown would finally get out of river. Now clown would have stones in pocket and also legs wet and with mud. Clown would find fish in pants. Clown would be magnificent failure.
Without nose, Bernard does not walk into river. Bernard takes bus, alone, to small apartment.
*
Ding Dong and Mister Mouse face public. The witch, she sits beside Clown Tad. Tad is surfer clown. Tad without nose is called Steve. Steve also does sports in water. Tad is puny clown. His soul is minuscule fungus.
Clown Tad wears shark teeth on chains. He wears shirt with the dead buttons. His many hairs on chest look like fortress for insects to inhabit and devour flesh.
Ding Dong and Mister Mouse perform monumental task. We move chairs across stage to create beautiful sculpture. Ding Dong stops to dance to clown music. The public, they laugh. I send the public knives from my eyes. They laugh with more loudness. Ding Dong makes chair sideways and other chairs fall down. Clown Ding Dong is auguste clown: he does not care about job making sculpture. He cares only for play. Mouse hits Ding Dong with rubber chicken. Mouse follows rules. Chair sculpture more important than fun clown music. The public, they laugh.
Chair sculpture is finished. We have no more task. Ding Dong, he dances, but public is silent. Monsieur Mercier says, “Ah, Monsieur Flop has come to visit, no?” He allows us to suffer for many eternal moments. Finally he nods, taps stick on floor. “Bon,” he says.
We must all make love with Monsieur Flop.
*
In Kinko’s, Bernard makes mistake. Bernard makes papers crooked. Five hundred pages, they print with the bent lines. The public, they do not laugh.
*
Bernard walks on street and sees Margaret and Steve in American Starbucks. Margaret has no liquids on top of her.
Out on sidewalk, Bernard cannot make love with Monsieur Flop. Bernard is valise packed with ashes of putrefied organs.
*
I face my public. I speak to invisible baby. I am ridiculous. The public, they laugh, but only small laugh.
Ding Dong makes entrance on my stage. For Ding Dong, baby is a toy. For Mister Mouse, baby is a serpent. We toss invisible baby like a ball. We destroy the ball of serpents. The public, they make big laughing.
Ding Dong and Mister Mouse together give birth to fabulous clown.
*
The class, we go to American bar. We are noseless. I do not know these clowns in this loud music. They tell American jokes. Margaret is under Steve’s arm. The arm, it crushes her soul.
True clown cannot love the witch with no soul. True clown will find enjoyment in the void of aloneness.
Ding Dong approaches and sits next to me. He looks at Margaret and Steve. He does not speak American slang to me. He performs mime with small movements. He mimes ritual clown stabbing of Steve with cocktail stirrer. The clowns, they do not see the performance. Steve does not see. Today I am Ding Dong’s public.
Ding Dong’s public, he laughs.
*
I lie in the bed of no sleeping. Though I fall through the universe, I cannot feel its peace and immensity. I see only walls with bad paint surrounding me.
*
I call dog. I throw baby. I peel banana. My public, they do not laugh. I have sickness of the soul. The joy of clown is not for me.
Mister Mouse makes hangman’s noose from silk scarves. In clown world, noose would rip. Clown would fall to floor and hurt ankle. Clown would make silent ouch! face to public. Public would laugh at clown suicide failure. Clown would use torn noose as bandage for ankle, and noose bandage would become lovely bow. Clown would admire bow.
My noose is strong. I test it with arm. It does not rip. I slip my head inside. Clown Tad makes nervous laugh. I give him hard eyes, and his false laughing dies. Margaret is very still.
I climb upon chair and grab pipe near ceiling. When I lift feet, the pipe does not break. Small crumbs of ceiling fall. Decrepit building causes more false laughing. I throw noose over pipe.
The public makes idiot murmurs. Monsieur bangs his stick to the ground. “Bernard!” he says. I disregard his call. Flat-faced Americans blind themselves to darkness. I will make them see in the dark. I begin to tie noose to pipe.
Ding Dong runs into my scene without nose and pulls noose off of pipe. I step down from chair to retrieve my noose from his hand. This exercise is not for two. He is breaking the rules. His noseless presence is a desecration.
Margaret throws a nose from the crowd. Ding Dong makes catching hands, then watches nose fall to the floor. The public laughs. The laughing claws my skin away from me. I hit fist hard to my chest. Small body pain takes away big heart pain. I hit again to make more small pains. Ding Dong grabs my fist with his two hands, but my fists cannot stop hitting. Other fist hits Ding Dong.
My public, they gasp. Monsieur Mercier arises on his feet. Ding Dong leaps into air to show he is OK. When he leaps near me, my balance departs, and I tip over like the large duck. “Awk,” I say. The public laughs. Monsieur sits himself again.
My noose rests beside me upon floor. My clown enjoyment lies asleep also. Ding Dong does happy dance so I may know that life is beautiful. My eyes become swimming in warm water. The tears are owned by Bernard. Mister Mouse is gone.
Ding Dong upholds me onto my feet. He makes fists and hops up and down like boxer. He points to his jaw. He tries to make big clown fight. Bernard does not know what to do. Bernard stands unmoving and weeps for no purpose.
After many moments of skinless agony, Mister Mouse returns to Bernard. Mister Mouse watches Ding Dong pointing to jaw. Mister Mouse makes fist, but he does not hit. He deposits lips upon Ding Dong’s jaw in surprise kiss.
The public, they applaud. They stamp feet upon the ground. They make train screeches.
*
American class has need for discussion. They ask Monsieur questions. They say “theater of danger.” They say “working honestly.” Americans ask, Why do we laugh at some pain but not at other pain? Why be clown? Why? Why? Why? Why?
There is no Why. There is only mystery and death.
Monsieur squints eyes at me. “Bernard!” he says. “You wish to frighten your clown master into his grave, yes?”
I am silent. Clown does not talk talk talk. Clown can only be.
He points his finger at me. “Today, Monsieur Mouse fails. He must fail every day. Tu comprends?”
His eyes do not leave me. “Oui, Monsieur,” I say.
“Bon.”
He speaks to class. “Rule number one: CLOWN DOES NOT SEND TEACHER TO HOSPITAL! Rule number two: CLOWN DOES NOT SEND TEACHER TO CEMETERY!”
The class laughs.
*
Class people want to drink alcohol with loud music. “You’re coming, right?” Margaret says to me. Her hand is inside Steve’s hand. Her hand is small bird being strangled.
“Dude, you rocked today,” Steve says.
“I have fatigue,” I say.
Class people walk from me. Ding Dong faces me and places his hand upon my shoulder. I blink slowly, for sleep will visit soon. Ding Dong nods and waves goodbye. As I turn to walk to my retirement, I hear butcher say, “I don’t know if he’s unhinged or if he’s brilliant.”
Margaret says, “Can’t he be both?”
Unhinged door leaves portal unprotected. Unhinged door opens the wrong way.
*
My gaping portal achieved clown triumph today, but in small apartment, I have no majesty of aloneness. Mister Mouse has lost his path. Ding Dong made the path today. Alone, I am only half a clown. I lie in the waters of despair. I wish to guard my opening, but I cannot. I cannot live underground with the ants. I cannot live as birthday clown to frighten children. Yet I also cannot live as clown of successful suicides. The suicide clown performs only one time.
I have no hinges, and I go in all directions. Sleep is not my friend tonight.
*
All clowns are outside, breaking. Sun is making brightness. Witch has performed with Tad. Monsieur Flop came to visit them.
“I don’t know how you fuckin’ do it, man,” Tad says to me. “When you suck, you’re funny, or you’re at least like, whoa, and when I suck, I just suck.”
Tad, he speaks true.
Ding Dong stands near building. I go to stand beside him. I have no plan for speaking. I am like woe.
Before I can reach Ding Dong, building breathes out a piece of his window sash. Sash falls near Ding Dong. Ding Dong makes steps back. He looks up. Behind him, the large decoration of stone is falling from building.
“Non!” I say. The decoration falls slowly. “Partez!” I say.
I hear a dead thump sound. I feel a sickness.
Ding Dong is on ground, broken. More pieces assault him. Glass falls.
I make stillness. If I do not breathe, maybe building will stop falling. Ding Dong will leap into the air.
Clowns make loud noises. They run toward Ding Dong. Clown butcher looks up at building. “Don’t get too close,” she says. Clowns stop. They stand in arc a few meters from Ding Dong.
“Maybe we should move him,” dog says.
“No, we might hurt him worse,” witch says.
“Mercier is calling nine-one-one,” gladiator says.
I have no speech. I have no movement. Ding Dong is crumpled. His parts bend in bad directions. I see the sanguine liquid coming from him, and I feel the blackness in my brain. The red liquid is too much.
Ding Dong is becoming red all over like nose. My breath returns. My legs, they move now. I go to him. Together, we can make triumph.
“Dude, I wouldn’t touch him,” Tad says.
I wade into red river. I kneel.
“Don’t mess with him,” gladiator says. “EMS is on the way.”
I see red silk scarves fly from Ding Dong’s neck. I push fingers inside tear in neck. I find tube that shoots silk scarves. I hold tube to keep the silk scarves inside.
“Holy shit,” Tad says.
“You’re going to be OK, Bawb,” butcher calls out. “Hang in there.”
Ding Dong’s eyes, they see me. We fall through the universe together. Someday, we die. Perhaps today.
To be murdered, slowly, it has no joy. The embrace of life is for Ding Dong. I stay in the place of light for him to join with me. Today, I am auguste clown. I smile to him. The way of despair hides from me when I see his eyes.
Ambulance men, they arrive. The strangers gather on street. The strangers watch clown accident scene. They see Ding Dong with red nose and sailor hat, on stretcher. They see ambulance man try to put oxygen mask where red nose is. They see clown gladiator, butcher, surfer, dog, mouse, standing guard. As stretcher approaches ambulance, stretcher jerks to one side. Flower pops out of Ding Dong’s sleeve. Flower erupts into giant blossom. Ambulance man is startled. Other ambulance man bites lip.
The strangers, they do not want to laugh. They put hands on mouth. But Ding Dong’s clown, he is too strong. His public must laugh. His ridiculousness is magnificent.
I think giant flower is his heart, having life on the outside.
*
I am covered with beautiful silk scarves. I am the color of my nose. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” witch says.
The scarves of loveliness slip down drain into sewer. Such is the clown world. The winds of chance blow us up and then down again. Ding Dong’s scarves make flight in the brightness and they swim in the bowels of darkness.
When I return, I hear clowns speaking.
“That Bur-NARDuh, he’s a trip, man,” Tad says. “Did you see him just, like, sit there in that pool of blood? He was, like, a yogi or something.”
“Yogi Bear-NARD,” dog says.
“Dude, it’s not cool to make a joke,” Tad says.
American cartoon Yogi Bear is high clown. Ding Dong is Yogi Bear. I am only his Boo Boo.
*
I go to funeral. I wear red nose and mouse ears. Margaret is there, in blue dress. Steve is there, in black suit. Others clowns are there, without noses. They whisper to each other. They do not sit with me.
The public, they stare at me.
People talk about Bawb. Bawb was a great guy. Bawb was the life of the party. Bawb could tell a good joke.
Bob’s people, they do not know Ding Dong.
After talking, people visit box of Bob. They put hand on box and bow head. I sit in church bench. I sit a long time.
I go up to box of Bob. I take off mouse ears and place them on box. Mouse can be with Ding Dong. I take off my nose, where I am born. I put it on box.
Margaret arrives to Bob’s box. She reaches in her sack. She finds her red nose. She puts it also on box. She puts hand in my hand. We stand together and we make silent clown tears.
We are noseless, yet our souls do not die. Clown Ding Dong, he makes new clown inside me.
Margaret’s eyes, they see me. We go outside. We walk into meaningless void that is the universe.
The void fills with the ridiculous. It is a magnificent failure.
Kirsten Skrinde is working toward her MFA in creative writing at the Sewanee School of Letters. When not at Sewanee she lives in New York City, where she copyedits, acts, and often encounters clowns. She is currently revising a novel, Temp Love. “Clown Alley” is her first published story.
