Clown King and Glum Girl
The clown king was coming in hot, all bedecked with props, but nobody seemed to care. He just wanted a coffee.
She needs me, he thought. He had no idea of her long shame, nor how one thing after another had gone awry this morning before she got to the cafe and sat down in her usual seat via a stubborn and self-imposed rhythm. Just the sight of her lost in her cloud of dark thoughts, talking to no one, was very comical in his state. But also very sad, as he learned that her visage was gelling into that of a regular, an eccentric sitting daily in a corner scribbling away something barely legible except to her like her life depended on it (it did).
He sympathized. He could be a sad clown. He had just been a sad clown this morning, but now he was a bright clown. He found all this very funny, because here was this glum girl who would have been perfect three hours ago, but he was no longer glum. This girl was in the wrong timeline, and it was time to set her right.
So he rains on her black parade, to push the cloud away,
apply pressure to the atmosphere,
he throws a gym ball in her face -
like a gun going off in a school
(many think it is this -
but he has not even pulled out his flower-gun).
Several people around turn sharply and ask her if she's okay... just as planned.
But the woman bursts into tears at the first remark and nobody quite knows what to do, so he quickly approaches, first to retrieve his ball and also to apologize.
"I am so sorry!" he says. He looks not sorry at all. He would not stop smiling. He was even barely suppressing a laugh. Knowledge of all this she communicated to him with the look she returned from under her hair.
"You do not look sorry," she also verbalized, angrily through tears. But she had heard his voice, and oh, how melodic it was. That was the real thing. The impact and the voice. And the fact that somebody had seen her, and talked to her.
"Would you like to throw the ball back at me?"
"No," she said stubbornly. "That's mean."
He laughed again.
"It's fair. A ball for a ball."
Because her stream of glum beliefs had been broken (little else in the environment could break it as this simple, pointed act of brute force had) she agreed.
"Come on, let's go outside," he said.
"Take your best shot. Go full force on me. Don't hold back, don't think about anyone or anything around us."
There outside he handed her the ball and squared himself up some seven feet away, and, feeling foolish and looking all around, then mustering ignoring the several potential spectators, she lined herself up across from him, concentrated upon revenge, and hurled the ball with all the force she had, but while rightly intentioned this was something she hadn't done in many years and so not only was the throw weak but it missed him completely and bounced into the middle of the street. Gasping lest a car run over it she ran after the ball to prevent this catastrophic tear in the social fabric, while he laughed harder than ever.
"Try again," he said when she returned burning red.
This is torture, she thought to herself; he could read this thought by her pained expression. One more time, she decided, just to finish it, and threw the ball again, this time with more force but hitting the nearest pole so that the ball bounced back and hit her again in the face.
He could barely even laugh now, but he did.
"You need to work out so you can beat me up properly."
"You need to fuck back off to the circus you came from," she replied through tears, and stormed back into the cafe. Half an hour later, she was immersed back in her comforting world of charcoal gray. And that was that.
He had failed, and now it was time to pull out the real gun.
Why had he failed? he wondered. He had expected more from her, and she was just being herself.
He had expected her to hit back hard, to throw hard. He had expected to be knocked off his feet. But instead she had totally missed him and almost hit a car, then a pole. He had expected to break the crust in one blow and reveal a strong and beautiful princess who would pinch off his nose and place upon him a crown, freeing him from the burden of being a clown, but instead he had broken the crust and let out a delicate butterfly who had flown back to her flower of doom to become recoccooned in a spider's silk (also her).
This was a failure of love.
The next morning he sighed and put on the clown again. A clown without a crown. He returned to the same cafe where he found her in the same place and in the same exact way, and brought her flowers, which he placed upon the table without a word, and left.
Again she cried, and took the flowers and shortly went home.
It was all a big failure. One failure after another. One garbled connection after another so that neither sender nor receiver understood anything. The day after, she wasn't there anymore, and she didn't come back. She had signed up for the climbing gym, not with the intention of beating up the clown, but he was always in her mind. At the top of the rock wall the last grip was that bulbous nose, and above it in the beyond-realm of the receding wall the concourse was glued and molded to were the leering grin and evil eyes, and when she descended back to the mat she pounded it with her fists and screamed.
She googled clown events in her city. There were none.
When her membership expired she returned to the cafe, her motivation all but gone and the clouds returning. Her usual spot was occupied - it seemed by a mime. A painted face, a little vase with a wilted flower, and a motionless man. Very 2012. Her father would have called him a hipster. She would have, too, had she not recognized him under the paint. Anger welled in her.
He looked over, smiling not, somber. Her mouth was open and on the verge of saying, "I wanted to sit here."
"Gonna cry again?" he said without changing expression.
"You've occupied my spot."
"You can't be glum here. This is my spot to be glum," he said.
"You motherfucker," she mouthed. She sat down in the chair opposite him and occupied half the table, pushing the stupid little vase closer to him and pulling out a laptop. But she could not be glum. She could not concentrate. The story she'd wanted to write hinged on a fog of sadness that needed that space.
He said nothing, but after a couple hours of them just sitting there, her doing whatever she did and him doing nothing, there was no longer any anger, or even friction, and he asked her on a date.
That evening she spent time on her appearance and looked nice and he showed up to the restaurant in the brightest clown suit he owned with a sun on the chest, a complete 180 from that morning.
There was a fork: half of her wanted to scream if he was fucking with her, but half of her entered clown world with poise, and this was the decision made. She sat down across from him and said nothing. But he quickly fell into unhidden disappointment.
"Are you serious."
"I hoped you'd show up as a clown," he mumbled.
"I don't have any clown clothes. I'm not a clown," she said.
"Well I am."
After an awkward pause she reached across the table and pulled off his red clown nose, held it, and he, watching, waiting for her to put it on, blinked in surprise when she hurled it at him as hard as she could and hit him in the eye. The ball rolled away under somebody's table and neither was about to cause a scene diving after it. They did not stay for dessert.
They had very little to talk about, barely anything in common. She wanted to know more about clown world and confessed she had googled him, so he quickly started making things up about his origins.
Because her stream of glum beliefs had been broken (little else in the environment could break it as this simple, pointed act of brute force had) she agreed.
"Come on, let's go outside," he said.
"Take your best shot. Go full force on me. Don't hold back, don't think about anyone or anything around us."
There outside he handed her the ball and squared himself up some seven feet away, and, feeling foolish and looking all around, then mustering ignoring the several potential spectators, she lined herself up across from him, concentrated upon revenge, and hurled the ball with all the force she had, but while rightly intentioned this was something she hadn't done in many years and so not only was the throw weak but it missed him completely and bounced into the middle of the street. Gasping lest a car run over it she ran after the ball to prevent this catastrophic tear in the social fabric, while he laughed harder than ever.
"Try again," he said when she returned burning red.
This is torture, she thought to herself; he could read this thought by her pained expression. One more time, she decided, just to finish it, and threw the ball again, this time with more force but hitting the nearest pole so that the ball bounced back and hit her again in the face.
He could barely even laugh now, but he did.
"You need to work out so you can beat me up properly."
"You need to fuck back off to the circus you came from," she replied through tears, and stormed back into the cafe. Half an hour later, she was immersed back in her comforting world of charcoal gray. And that was that.
He had failed, and now it was time to pull out the real gun.
Why had he failed? he wondered. He had expected more from her, and she was just being herself.
He had expected her to hit back hard, to throw hard. He had expected to be knocked off his feet. But instead she had totally missed him and almost hit a car, then a pole. He had expected to break the crust in one blow and reveal a strong and beautiful princess who would pinch off his nose and place upon him a crown, freeing him from the burden of being a clown, but instead he had broken the crust and let out a delicate butterfly who had flown back to her flower of doom to become recoccooned in a spider's silk (also her).
This was a failure of love.
The next morning he sighed and put on the clown again. A clown without a crown. He returned to the same cafe where he found her in the same place and in the same exact way, and brought her flowers, which he placed upon the table without a word, and left.
Again she cried, and took the flowers and shortly went home.
It was all a big failure. One failure after another. One garbled connection after another so that neither sender nor receiver understood anything. The day after, she wasn't there anymore, and she didn't come back. She had signed up for the climbing gym, not with the intention of beating up the clown, but he was always in her mind. At the top of the rock wall the last grip was that bulbous nose, and above it in the beyond-realm of the receding wall the concourse was glued and molded to were the leering grin and evil eyes, and when she descended back to the mat she pounded it with her fists and screamed.
She googled clown events in her city. There were none.
When her membership expired she returned to the cafe, her motivation all but gone and the clouds returning. Her usual spot was occupied - it seemed by a mime. A painted face, a little vase with a wilted flower, and a motionless man. Very 2012. Her father would have called him a hipster. She would have, too, had she not recognized him under the paint. Anger welled in her.
He looked over, smiling not, somber. Her mouth was open and on the verge of saying, "I wanted to sit here."
"Gonna cry again?" he said without changing expression.
"You've occupied my spot."
"You can't be glum here. This is my spot to be glum," he said.
"You motherfucker," she mouthed. She sat down in the chair opposite him and occupied half the table, pushing the stupid little vase closer to him and pulling out a laptop. But she could not be glum. She could not concentrate. The story she'd wanted to write hinged on a fog of sadness that needed that space.
He said nothing, but after a couple hours of them just sitting there, her doing whatever she did and him doing nothing, there was no longer any anger, or even friction, and he asked her on a date.
That evening she spent time on her appearance and looked nice and he showed up to the restaurant in the brightest clown suit he owned with a sun on the chest, a complete 180 from that morning.
There was a fork: half of her wanted to scream if he was fucking with her, but half of her entered clown world with poise, and this was the decision made. She sat down across from him and said nothing. But he quickly fell into unhidden disappointment.
"Are you serious."
"I hoped you'd show up as a clown," he mumbled.
"I don't have any clown clothes. I'm not a clown," she said.
"Well I am."
After an awkward pause she reached across the table and pulled off his red clown nose, held it, and he, watching, waiting for her to put it on, blinked in surprise when she hurled it at him as hard as she could and hit him in the eye. The ball rolled away under somebody's table and neither was about to cause a scene diving after it. They did not stay for dessert.
They had very little to talk about, barely anything in common. She wanted to know more about clown world and confessed she had googled him, so he quickly started making things up about his origins.
"You're not wearing your nose," she said when they went for a walk the next day and it was absent from his ensemble.
"That was my only one."
One day in his room she noticed that all his clown suits (which she had accepted) smelled a little faintly of something unpleasant. This more than anything raised the first doubt in her.
"My last girlfriend threw them away," he confessed. "I had to go collect them from the trash. But I didn't find out for a day so they got covered."
"When was that?" she asked.
A pause. "Not that long ago."
"And you haven't washed them?"
"No."
The next time they met she was a little wearied and held herself back. They did not talk about clown world. They met for coffee and talked about work and remarked that it was an unseasonably nice day. He didn't throw a ball at her, nor carry one. It felt like an awkward first date, but when he took her hand for the first time she suddenly remembered him.
"I hope I haven't made you stop wanting to wear the clown," she said. "It really doesn't bother me. I could be a clown too."
"I really just... I'm past it. Trust me if I wanted to no one would stop me."
"What are you going to do now?"
"That was my only one."
One day in his room she noticed that all his clown suits (which she had accepted) smelled a little faintly of something unpleasant. This more than anything raised the first doubt in her.
"My last girlfriend threw them away," he confessed. "I had to go collect them from the trash. But I didn't find out for a day so they got covered."
"When was that?" she asked.
A pause. "Not that long ago."
"And you haven't washed them?"
"No."
The next time they met she was a little wearied and held herself back. They did not talk about clown world. They met for coffee and talked about work and remarked that it was an unseasonably nice day. He didn't throw a ball at her, nor carry one. It felt like an awkward first date, but when he took her hand for the first time she suddenly remembered him.
"I hope I haven't made you stop wanting to wear the clown," she said. "It really doesn't bother me. I could be a clown too."
"I really just... I'm past it. Trust me if I wanted to no one would stop me."
"What are you going to do now?"
"I have no idea," he said sadly.
It was a long time they didn't see each other. It was too painful to return to the cafe in these times, but, more for perspective than anything, and in an attempt to recollect herself and resume her old rhythm, she did. It had been months. The baristas recognized her cheerfully. "You look great!" Her usual corner spot was well occupied by a mother and child. She did not stay that long and had no desire to come back soon. She also did not know what to do now.
She penned him a letter: "I don't know what I can do to repay you. Should I erect a statue? Make a shrine?"
He responded: "Get out of the death cult. Don't let these frozen things have a hold of you. And you can't repay me. I don't want anything, I don't need anything. I did it out of love."
It was a long time they didn't see each other. It was too painful to return to the cafe in these times, but, more for perspective than anything, and in an attempt to recollect herself and resume her old rhythm, she did. It had been months. The baristas recognized her cheerfully. "You look great!" Her usual corner spot was well occupied by a mother and child. She did not stay that long and had no desire to come back soon. She also did not know what to do now.
She penned him a letter: "I don't know what I can do to repay you. Should I erect a statue? Make a shrine?"
He responded: "Get out of the death cult. Don't let these frozen things have a hold of you. And you can't repay me. I don't want anything, I don't need anything. I did it out of love."
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