No Call for Clowns

The clown woke - as he usually did - hungover, sickish, bleary eyed and alone. He stumbled through a hot shower and a cup of Starbuck's then picked out a fresh costume, slicked up his spiky hair and painted his face. It was then, as he preened in the full length mirror before pronouncing himself perfect, that he remembered he was a clown, overweight, out of work, friendless and idle minded. He had nowhere to be, no calls to make or return, nothing that he needed to do. The entire day stretched out before him and there was no good reason not to take a drink - one would clear his head, two would warm him, three would make him feel normal and after that it wouldn't matter. He carefully Visine'd his eyes before mixing a pitcher of martinis - he was, in fact, an unsuccessful and very bad clown - when the circus had folded its tents and left town they'd left him behind to the mercy of grade school carnivals, traveling magic shows and ultimate failure.

By noon, his outlook had improved. Feeling mildly hazy, grandiose and unaware that he was staggering ever so slightly, he decided to treat himself to lunch and an afternoon drive. He was at home in bars, confident that everyone would recognize him, bound to run into someone he knew. He gorged himself on mussels and imported cheeses, making loud conversation with the bartender and insinuating himself into the company of strangers with each clown card he freely handed out. He sipped his martinis with what he thought was elegance and grace, never fully realizing that his speech was slurring and that his barstool perch was bordering on the precarious. When he saw a familiar face, he didn't just say hello, he hailed with enthusiasm and issued a boisterous invitation to join him. No one cared to be seen keeping company with a drunken clown so no one accepted and after several hours, he made his way out alone, leaving the bartender a generous tip so as to maintain the fictionalized version of his self importance. He might be remembered but he would not be missed - there was a collective sigh of relief as the door closed behind him as well as some pitying laughter and head shaking.

He weaved his way home with the exaggerated care and false confidence that all regular drunk drivers believe they have, carefully keeping to the quiet back streets where there would be the least chance of encountering a police car, still firmly believing that he was perfectly fit to drive.

He shed his clown costume for sharply creased khaki shorts and a Ralph Lauren sports shirt, donned his imported loafers and made a fresh pitcher of martinis before settling on the patio. Without the clown suit and the makeup, without his painted smile, he became what he was - a sad, middle aged, abandoned, lonely drunk, still in search of the circus and the days when he thought he had mattered. It was still light when he finally passed out in his designer patio chair without even the ducks on the bayou for company.

There's no call for clowns without a circus.