Twinkie
Esteban Rodriguez
Our reputation is undeniable, cemented by urban legends, horror films, phobias, by an almost natural suspicion to believe that regardless of how happy our faces are painted, we still dress and carry ourselves with different intentions. For centuries our profession has been categorized and cast to the lowest levels of performance, into acts that either take a backseat to evening exhibitions featuring juggling tightrope walkers, fire breathing sword-swallowers, or contortionists redefining the limits of their limbs and skeletons, or to events held beneath the deep-fried glow of stadium lights, where we run like head-wrung chickens through a blur of mud and cackles, one step ahead of the riderless bull barreling behind us.
The kids wait. They sit cross-legged in a semi-circle, bodies hunched over their shadows, their cake-, ketchup-, and mustard-stained cheeks resting on the back of their folded hands. Some study my yellow jumpsuit, the pattern of blue diamonds checkered on one half of my body, the white ruffled collar sagging from my neckline. Others shift their short attention spans to the ground, where they pluck the blades of parched Bermuda grass scabbed across the backyard.
There’s a line of adults standing just behind them, but they keep their focus on me, Twinkie the Clown. The name Twinkie came to me nearly a decade ago when I one day decided to cheat on my vegetable shake-only diet with a boxful of snacks. After the sixth Twinkie, I began to believe that everyone, regardless of age, would associate my personality with that golden and cream-filled pastry that had become synonymous with American sweetness.
“Kazam!” I shout for a second time. I reach inside my hat. Empty still. With my left hand tucked beneath the blanket-draped table, I push the button that should open the compartment where Freckles the Ferret is hidden. Billy, the birthday boy, is seated in front, head tilted, face loyal with the afternoon drowsiness weighing down his eyelids. If I was in his position, I too would lose interest and question the credibility of a clown whose face paint has begun to drip along his cheeks like melted crayons. I’d scrunch my face every time I laid eyes on the jumpsuit stitched with a labyrinth of patches plagiarized from some storybook quilt. And I’d wonder why this clown was wearing lime-green tube socks and Velcro sandals instead of those floppy red shoes.
It’s June. The humidity burrows into everyone’s skin with a sense that it will fester there all summer, be the main attraction for the mosquitoes that once exhausted with the morning puddles of standing water, will squat, like they are beginning to now, on the sticky surface of another host.
As I again push the button, jerk the table forward, I see a few children slapping the spots of flesh that lack the repellant the Rosenthal’s were applying when I arrived. I thrust my hands up and began fiddling with the squirt flower pinned to my chest, a prop I haven’t used since my time at Giggle Face Inc. Although it’s been years since I quit and started Smile Productions—a name that sounds like a photography business rather than an entertainment company—I’d often remember my last day at Giggle Face, the party, the house, my escape from it and my drive to the nearest McDonald’s, where I sat in the parking lot to gather my thoughts, watching the smoke seep from the hood of my van.
Inside, the patrons waiting in line to place an order gazed at me, not only confused about why a clown had just entered, but concerned that because a clown had just entered—perhaps being part of some promotional event—I’d be given special privilege and be allowed to cut. The teenage workers at the counter, which without the face paint I still looked like and felt no different from—even if I had just turned 20—tried to contain their smiles and laughter behind their hands, as the cooks in the back, peeking from behind the wall or shifting their attention from a deep fryer or a tableful of wrappers and meatless buns, gawked in the same fashion, and whispered to themselves about how they’d like to have their picture taken with someone who looked like he didn’t give a damn. And after accepting their requests, posing with each of them—as well as with the manager who ensured my order was on the house—I couldn’t help but chuckle uncontrollably to myself when I sat down with my burger and fries, feeling justified in using my squirt flower on the birthday boy Ira.
I had just finished a party for a young girl when my supervisor called. In a tone I had only heard my mother inflect on nights when she’d call and inform me that it was past 10 p.m.—the panic in her voice asking why I was out so late and, if I liked the idea of having a roof over my head, when I was planning on coming home—Roland began detailing the company’s predicament, how Hannibal the Clown, or Steve when he wasn’t in costume, had become suddenly ill—fever, diarrhea, vomit that had moved on from the contents of his stomach and began draining his blood—and how I was the closest clown in town to fill in on such short notice. A Why not spilled from my mouth, and a My man! You’re a lifesaver. We owe you big time spilled from Roland’s. Giggle Face was desperate for business and they had begun booking parties in neighborhoods they wouldn’t have taken months prior, areas that although appeared quaint and welcoming on the surface, gave off the vibe that something was off: the children-at-play signs bent and twisted, as if they had been repeatedly crashed into; the stop signs graffitied and vandalized to mark either the presence or encroachment of another gang or crew; the cars parked along the curb for what seemed like centuries, their tires deflated, their windshields covered with piles of foliage. And there was the untrimmed grass from the fenceless lawns spilling onto the sidewalk, and the weeds sprouting between the cracked concrete, where barefooted boys and girls bicycled and ran, and where whole families, as curious as families drawn to uncertainty could be, stood listening to those incessant police and ambulance sirens that kept coming closer, closer, engulfing the entire street.
Peaks Crossing was no different. The house rested on the last lot of a dead-end street. Behind the DEAD END sign, there was a warped chain-link fence enclosing this section of the neighborhood in, and a line of trees crosshatching the ground with shade. I parked across the street, the other half already congested with haphazardly parked vehicles. When I got off, a handful of dogs came up to me, skinny mutts with matted hair and flies that hovered over their head like halos. They whined, tried to lick my hands, but when they realized I had nothing to give—no affection, pats, scraps—they trotted off, some bending their backs beneath the chain-link fence, others beneath the porch I walked toward, their bodies squirming between the dilapidated cinder blocks.
There was no doorbell, only torn wires of where a doorbell used to be. I knocked. I knocked louder. I heard voices in the backyard, but none inside. I looked around, studied the slanted porch columns gnawed by years of heat and termites.
The door opened halfway, and behind it stood a teenage girl, her hair tied back in a ponytail, her brown eyes adjusting to the light.
“What do you want?” she asked, unsurprised to see a clown at her doorstep, and even less concerned with introductions.
“Uh –” I muttered. I checked the time, knowing it was almost 3:30 p.m. “I’m here for the party. Well, I’m part of the party.”
“The party started more than half an hour ago,” she said. “You’re late.”
“Yeah, well you know how these things are, I couldn’t find the place.”
She studied me up and down, a slight expression of disgust flushed across her face. “Come in. You know it was Hulk-themed right?”
“Excuse me?” I said, dragging my trunk in.
“Hulk-themed. Your show has Hulk themes, right?”
“I wasn’t told that. I thought this was a birthday party for…” I reached into my pocket and pulled a slip of crumbled paper I had written the name Roland gave me, “for Ira.”
“Yeah, he’s right outside.” She led me through the living room, past the paisley-patterned couches covered in plastic and a sea of Legos scattered across the linoleum. In the kitchen a half-cut Hulk birthday cake rested on the table, along with plates of barbecue, rice, and beans, and styrofoam cups with soda beaded along their rims. Next to the stove, there was a refrigerator I wanted nothing more than to stick my head in, cool down for a moment before I started. And next to the refrigerator was a screen door where I could see picnic tables, a small moonbounce with a blur of children jumping inside and running around it, Hulk banners strung on an old aluminum shed, and a Hulk piñata dangling from a tree branch, disproportioned but still intact.
“We started without you,” she said.
I squatted and lifted my trunk. The girl, who I assumed was Ira’s sister, opened the door.
“He should have fun with you.”
Outside, what might have been upwards of thirty people stopped what they were doing and gazed at me, watching as I descended the steps. My trunk grew heavier.
“Goddamn, finally!” hollered the man behind the barbecue pit. He put down the charred tongs, grabbed the Coors sitting atop the ice chest behind him, and walked over. Everyone resumed what they were doing, the adults forking their plates, talking with their mouths open, the children remembering the rules of whatever improvised game they were playing. “Happy you could make it.” The man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, but the residue of beer still hung to his mustache. He was wearing an orange Hawaiian shirt with the silhouettes of palm trees speckled throughout, and gray shorts that could have been mistaken for swimming trunks. “We got some beer if you want.”
“The man’s gotta show to do, Sam,” said a woman behind him.
A girl with large foam-rubber Hulk hands ran between all three of us, and a boy holding an invisible rifle in both arms followed, the sound of pretend bullets spurting from his mouth.
“Maybe after,” said Sam. The woman held a large purple bowl with foil paper sealed around it. She circled Sam and walked toward the house. Sam took a sip from his Coors, leaned over, and whispered, “The wife’s mad.” He took another sip. “She doesn’t like it when she pays for things that come late.”
“Sorry,” I said. “The place was hard to find.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, chuckling. “She’ll get over it.”
“You can set up right over there,” Sam’s wife said. I turned around and saw her handing the bowl to the girl who showed me in. The woman wiped her hands on the sides of her sundress. She turned around and pointed to the corner of the yard. I didn’t find her particularly attractive—her hair tied sloppily in a bun, her body following neither an apple nor pear shape—but I was drawn to how she descended the backdoor steps like a fairytale servant turned princess ready to enter a ball.
She walked toward the corner and I followed. I scanned the yard trying to get a feel for what I’d have to work with. Although the neighborhood was still technically blacklisted by Giggle Face, I wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference between this yard and the countless others I performed in. There was a playground set, picnic tables, a shed, a tangled water hose with its nozzle inside a blue plastic pool.
“Wish you would have gotten here like I had scheduled with your boss,” the woman said.
“I’m sorry. Wrong directions.”
“No need to apologize. You’re here now. So is everyone else,” she said, grabbing one of the trunk’s handles with both hands. Together we set the trunk down, and as she bent over, I caught sight of her cleavage, of those short stretch marks flaring away from the curved yet soft darkness in between her breasts. She stood up and before I could look away, we made eye contact. Because this is the kind of creepy thing people would expect from a birthday party clown, I began frantically swiping the air.
“Mosquitoes are really out this summer, aren’t they?”
“They sure are,” she said, smiling and walking past me. She placed her hands on her waist and watched the children running around the yard, playing what appeared to be cops and robbers; the mouthed gunfire and explosions growing steadily louder. She surveyed one end of the yard to the next, then rested her attention on her husband standing back at the pit. There were a few other men gathered around Sam, each with a koozied beer in their hands, and each looking like different versions of him, one with a black cap and a purple polo that gave the impression he was a football coach, another with a handlebar mustache, a red bandana, Ray-Ban sunglasses hanging from a strap around his neck, and shorts showing off the surprisingly white complexion of his legs in comparison to the rest of his skin. And there was one that looked like his brother, same face, same laughter, although he was slightly shorter, with a rounder appearance, the kind of man who seemed like he had spent his teenage years playing catch up with his sibling’s accomplishments.
"Always drinking, I tell you," the woman said as I opened my trunk and started sifting through my props. "By the way, I'm Debra, Sam’s wife, if you haven’t already guessed. And this here," she said excitedly, opening her arms, "is the birthday boy." Ira ran straight at her with a pair of Hulk hands he was waving above his head. He was wearing a blue Marvel t-shirt, and he punched the air repeatedly in front of his mother. Debra laughed and before she could wrap her arms around him, he darted across the yard and joined a group of kids weaving around the playground set, using the swings and slide to their advantage.
“Ten years. Can you believe it? Monumental really. It was a pretty big deal with my daughter as well, but this second one seemed more like I had to prove myself, like I had to make sure that raising the first one as well as we did wasn’t just beginner’s luck or anything. It sounds cliché, I know, but they grow fast, and they age the heck out of you in the process.” Debra turned around. “Are you ready?” she asked.
I stood up and pulled out the paper where I had written Ira’s name. “Almost,” I said, “just gotta set up a few things.”
“And you’re gonna make Hulk balloons, right?” she asked.
I reached into the trunk and opened the plastic pencilbox where I kept my balloons. I fingered through them, wasn’t sure if I had enough for every child at the party.
“Yeah. I usually do that at the end of the show, if that’s alright,” I said, thinking a broken air pump would be a good enough excuse.
“Sure thing,” said Debra. “Good luck. See you in a bit.” She smiled and walked toward the house.
I dug deeper through my trunk. I took out the bowling pins, a bag of balloons, a few rainbow-colored slinkys I’d give out in between acts, and a bubble machine that added, I thought, a certain awe factor. I laid them on the grass. A handful of kids I assumed were either Ira’s cousins or friends walked up to me, but didn’t say a word. I was foreign, unlike anyone they had met, and although I had a body that resembled most of the adult bodies at the party, my face was unfamiliar. The semi-bruised circles beneath my eyes showed through the white blotchy paint, and the brown paint rendered into a slight frown around my lips made me look like a hobo clown from the Depression era. And perhaps there was something even stranger when the kids watched me switch my baseball cap for a latex one, how the top of it was bald, ridged with wrinkles, how the dirty-orange hair, greasy and clumped with leaves and dirt, seethed out from the sides; an eccentric style that contradicted the sad expression on my face, as though my personalities were constantly shifting, and as though at any moment I could morph from simple ugliness into the monster these kids envisioned.
I looked up and the kids scurried away. I retrieved my makeup kit and touched up the spots where my skin was exposed and then I clipped a large blue bowtie to my collar. I stood, scanned the yard, spread my arms, and took a deep breath, and just as I was about to shout for everyone’s attention, I heard someone rummaging through my trunk. I turned around and watched as Ira went from unraveling a ball of multi-colored handkerchiefs to shaking a tambourine above his head. The Hulk hands he wore to pretend punch his mother rested by his feet.
“Hi,” I said.
Ira turned around. “Hey there Mr. Clown Man.”
“It’s Vince— I’m Twinkie the Clown,” I said in a semi-squeaky tone, adjusting to my alter ego’s voice.
Ira smiled, then tucked his lips inside his mouth, closed his eyes, shrugged his shoulders, and crouched over like an old man that had long since lost his battle with gravity. He began tapping the tambourine on his thigh, then circled around the trunk and slapped his free hand on his other thigh, matching the rhythm of the tambourine beat per beat. For a moment, I thought he was about to recite scripture.
Ira stopped. “Anyone ever tell you you look like a Juggalo?”
“A what?”
“A Juggalo,” said Ira. “One of those people that follow that Clown Posse group, the music and all.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”
“Well you do,” he said, not amused. “Just so you know. People might think you’re one of them. Or that you’re part of a freak carnival or something.”
I walked over and extended my hand. “Do you usually care what other people think?” I asked.
“Sometimes. But I can tell you don’t,” said Ira, handing over the tambourine. He picked up the Hulk hands and began backpedalling from the trunk until he stopped and asked, “How long you been a clown?”
I forced a smile. “For a few years now.”
“And do your parents know?”
“Of course they know.”
“Do you have a wife?”
“I don’t have a ring on my finger. So I guess not.”
“Yeah your fingers look pretty dirty. Don’t wanna know what you do with them. Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Do you ever stop asking questions?”
“Sometimes,” Ira said. “So do you?”
I tapped the tambourine against my palm. “Maybe.”
“Nah,” he chuckled, “I don’t think you do.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Because clowns are liars.”
“Are you saying I’m a liar?” I tapped the tambourine again.
“You’re a clown, aren’t you?”
“Am I?”
“If it walks like a clown and talks like a clown, it must be a clown.”
“You’re funny. You’d have a good act if you were a clown. Could even make a career out of it.”
“Clowns don’t have careers.”
I tossed the tambourine inside the trunk. I cupped his hands together and then adjusted my latex cap. “I’m here ain’t I?”
“I didn’t ask you to be.”
“No, your parents did. I guess they didn’t think you were old enough for a real birthday party.”
Ira crossed his arms together and leaned slightly back. “Does your life suck?”
“What?”
“I said, ‘Does your life suck?’”
“Why would it suck?”
Ira tilted his head down and began pacing in a slow, contemplative manner. “Because number one, you don’t have a wife or a girlfriend. Number two, your parents don’t care about you,” he said, giving me a look of disappointment, “and three,” he raised his hand and pointed at his outfit, “you’re a clown.”
I moved in closer as a spurt of cackles followed from Ira’s mouth. “It’s called entertainment, kid.”
Ira’s cackling became snorting and the snorting quickly turned into coughing.
I rolled up my sleeves. “Sticks and stones,” I said. “Sticks and sto —”
“Stones may break your bones,” interrupted Ira, “but you are still a loooser.”
I took a deep breath. “Whatever, kid,” I said, turning around and walking toward the trunk. I squatted and sifted through the props for nothing in particular when suddenly an object I knew could have only been a Hulk hand hit my back.
“What the hell?”
“What?” answered Ira.
“It’s not nice to throw things.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Ira, smiling and swaying the upper half of his body side to side. He had his hands behind his back and I could see the other Hulk hand swinging from one hip to the other.
“Look, I get that it’s your birthday and all, but still. Just calm down,” I said. I turned back to my trunk, and as soon as I closed it, the other Hulk hand hit my head.
“Quit your shit!” I yelled, though not loud enough for anyone to hear. The other kids were still screaming, running around the yard, tossing imaginary grenades and racking up another kill.
“Ha!” laughed Ira. “Mr. Clown Man is mad.”
I sighed. “Come on. I’m about to start the show.” I reached out and placed my hand on Ira’s shoulder so I could direct him elsewhere. “Let’s go.”
Ira squatted and swooped out of my grip, and as I moved closer and extended my hand again, Ira jerked his shoulder back and with his right foot angled like a soccer player’s, kicked my shin.
“God-fucking-damn it!” I hollered, pulling my knee to my chest and attempting to rub the pain out with my palm. “The fuck is wrong with you?” A few adults seated on the nearest picnic tables—some with a half-gnawed corncob or chicken breast in their hands—looked our way, scrambling to make sense of the scene.
Ira shut his eyes, tossed his head back, and began shouting “Danger! Danger!”, as though he had used the phrase once or twice before to get out of a situation he didn’t like. Ira swung again, only this time he missed. The force behind his kick, however, caused him to lose his balance, and as I, still standing on one leg, hopped to avoid it, I lost my balance and fell forward, pushing Ira down. Ira landed on his face, while my shoulder broke my fall. Numbness spread throughout the left side of my body. I turned over on my back, then rotated to my other shoulder and sat up. The yard was blurry, but I could make out a few kids gawking at us. The adults at the picnic table stood from their seats, but none showed any signs of urgency.
“It’s alright, it’s alright,” I said, waving my hand in the air, expecting the gesture to diffuse the situation. I picked up my latex cap, tried to adjust it on my head. I got to my knees, swung one foot on the grass and placed my hands and weight on my thigh to lift myself up. Then Ira, grunting and growling like some feral animal wary of anything encroaching on its territory, tackled me from behind. My neck snapped and my face hit the ground. The grass did indeed taste parched. Ira lifted himself up and stood above me and shouted “Danger!” again. He began pushing me, trying to cram my body into the ground. Like any attacked prey, I twisted my torso and shoved him off.
“Hey!” someone shouted.
“What are doing?!”
“Yo yo yo yo yo yo!”
“Daddyyy!”
“Sam!”
“Debra!” yelled someone else.
But I ignored every shout, felt myself undergoing an out-of-body experience. I saw how quickly I stood and grabbed Ira by his ankles, jerking him closer, then gripping his shirt collar and yelling, “You don’t do that shit to Twinkie! You don’t do that shit to Twinkie!” Then I reached beneath the squirt flower pinned to my chest and squeezed the small pump rabidly, aiming the warm water directly at Ira’s eyes and mouth. Ira attempted to spit it out, gurgling while uttering an incoherent “Help!”, hoping that Twinkie would stop, show mercy, let him breathe long enough to not feel as though he was being waterboarded.
“Don’t! Sam don’t!” shouted Debra. Before I could look up, Sam shoved me off of Ira. I rolled back and in one fell swoop got to my feet.
“You goddamn prick! What the hell are you doing to my son?!” shouted Sam. He lifted Ira to his feet and gripped his head, inspecting his face for any cuts or bruises. Ira rubbed the water from his eyes, opening each with caution. A crowd had gathered around them, with Debra pushing through the middle, bolting toward Ira, asking if he was alright as she wiped the dirt off his back and adjusted his collar.
“Look sir— Sam, I mean, sir— I was talking to your son and he started throwing shit at me.”
“Language!” yelled Debra. “Jeez.”
Sam looked at Ira. “Is that true? Did you throw things at him?”
“N-no-no, I didn’t. I was jus-just asking him questions and he-he just started pushing me,” said Ira, rubbing his eyes harder.
“You’re alright, you’re good, honey,” reassured Debra.
“He’s not even crying,” I said. “He’s faking it. Look.”
“Shut up,” said Sam. “Shut the hell up,” he reiterated. He patted Ira on the shoulder and began walking toward me. The men that stood around him at the barbecue pit handed their beers to the closest person and stepped through the crowd, ready to assist Sam’s impulses with a few of their own. “I swore upon my life that when he was born I would pro—”
“Don’t come near me,” I said, squeezing the squirt flower, and almost yanking it off. “This thing has mace.” Sam and the men stopped.
“Bullshit,” said Sam.
I stepped forward and Sam and the crowd took a step back.
“I’m warning you!” I shouted. “I know how to use this.” No one protested. “Your kid’s a goddamn punk,” I said. “Now, I’m just gonna get my stuff and leave.” I backpedaled to my trunk, bent down, and without looking grabbed the handle. I tugged it and began walking sideways toward the side of the house, leaving behind the bubble machine, the Slinkys, the box of balloons.
Sam stepped forward, squeezing his hands into fists.
“Stay where you are!” I yelled, puffing out my chest. I turned every few seconds, trying not to bump into anything, but Sam sprinted when I stumbled, and I hurled my latex cap at his face from the ground. Sam crossed his arms into an X and jumped, intent to kick the cap out of the air, but his ankle twisted when he landed. I snatched my trunk and ran around the side of the house.
After smashing into the car in front of me, and after watching the man I thought was Sam’s brother slamming his hand on the window, yelling “You son-of-a-bitch!” and “We will find you! We will hurt you!’’ and trying to dislodge the side mirror, I found myself seated at a McDonald’s booth, staring at my burger and fries.
I adjust the squirt flower and look at Billy. He’s almost a goner. I slam the button with my palm, but the box doesn’t budge. A ponytailed girl seated in the middle of the semi-circle raises her hand.
“Yes,” I say.
“Maybe it just disappeared,” she says.
“That was the point, Hanna,” says the boy next to her. “It was supposed to disappear, but he said he was gonna bring it back.”
“I did say that,” I say. “But… but,” I pull my hand from behind the table, “sometimes Freckles likes to go to his secret hiding place.” I lean over and place my hands on my knees. “Don’t y’all have a special hiding place you go to?”
Billy’s father clears his throat. “Mr. Gomez— Twinkie, sorry. You can continue with your show. I’m sure that ferret will appear soon enough.”
And so I do as I’m told, proceed to a juggling act that has Billy tossing in brass rings, followed by a music-and-dance bit that includes bobbing for apples in a red metal bucket. Midway through, I open another bag of Granny Smiths, and as I’m about to dump them in, I trip and fall sideways, crash into my table. I hear the kids let out a collective gasp. I stand but notice that some kids are pointing while others are shielding their faces with their hands. One kid utters, “Finally!” The ponytailed girl screams with excitement, “Look, he’s back!” I turn around and see the secret compartment opened with Freckles sprawled beside it—his hairy eyelids shut, his tongue sticking halfway out. I turn back to face the kids.
“Ta-da,” I say, fanning my arms, puffing my chest. I almost believe their laughter will go on forever.
The kids wait. They sit cross-legged in a semi-circle, bodies hunched over their shadows, their cake-, ketchup-, and mustard-stained cheeks resting on the back of their folded hands. Some study my yellow jumpsuit, the pattern of blue diamonds checkered on one half of my body, the white ruffled collar sagging from my neckline. Others shift their short attention spans to the ground, where they pluck the blades of parched Bermuda grass scabbed across the backyard.
There’s a line of adults standing just behind them, but they keep their focus on me, Twinkie the Clown. The name Twinkie came to me nearly a decade ago when I one day decided to cheat on my vegetable shake-only diet with a boxful of snacks. After the sixth Twinkie, I began to believe that everyone, regardless of age, would associate my personality with that golden and cream-filled pastry that had become synonymous with American sweetness.
“Kazam!” I shout for a second time. I reach inside my hat. Empty still. With my left hand tucked beneath the blanket-draped table, I push the button that should open the compartment where Freckles the Ferret is hidden. Billy, the birthday boy, is seated in front, head tilted, face loyal with the afternoon drowsiness weighing down his eyelids. If I was in his position, I too would lose interest and question the credibility of a clown whose face paint has begun to drip along his cheeks like melted crayons. I’d scrunch my face every time I laid eyes on the jumpsuit stitched with a labyrinth of patches plagiarized from some storybook quilt. And I’d wonder why this clown was wearing lime-green tube socks and Velcro sandals instead of those floppy red shoes.
It’s June. The humidity burrows into everyone’s skin with a sense that it will fester there all summer, be the main attraction for the mosquitoes that once exhausted with the morning puddles of standing water, will squat, like they are beginning to now, on the sticky surface of another host.
As I again push the button, jerk the table forward, I see a few children slapping the spots of flesh that lack the repellant the Rosenthal’s were applying when I arrived. I thrust my hands up and began fiddling with the squirt flower pinned to my chest, a prop I haven’t used since my time at Giggle Face Inc. Although it’s been years since I quit and started Smile Productions—a name that sounds like a photography business rather than an entertainment company—I’d often remember my last day at Giggle Face, the party, the house, my escape from it and my drive to the nearest McDonald’s, where I sat in the parking lot to gather my thoughts, watching the smoke seep from the hood of my van.
Inside, the patrons waiting in line to place an order gazed at me, not only confused about why a clown had just entered, but concerned that because a clown had just entered—perhaps being part of some promotional event—I’d be given special privilege and be allowed to cut. The teenage workers at the counter, which without the face paint I still looked like and felt no different from—even if I had just turned 20—tried to contain their smiles and laughter behind their hands, as the cooks in the back, peeking from behind the wall or shifting their attention from a deep fryer or a tableful of wrappers and meatless buns, gawked in the same fashion, and whispered to themselves about how they’d like to have their picture taken with someone who looked like he didn’t give a damn. And after accepting their requests, posing with each of them—as well as with the manager who ensured my order was on the house—I couldn’t help but chuckle uncontrollably to myself when I sat down with my burger and fries, feeling justified in using my squirt flower on the birthday boy Ira.
I had just finished a party for a young girl when my supervisor called. In a tone I had only heard my mother inflect on nights when she’d call and inform me that it was past 10 p.m.—the panic in her voice asking why I was out so late and, if I liked the idea of having a roof over my head, when I was planning on coming home—Roland began detailing the company’s predicament, how Hannibal the Clown, or Steve when he wasn’t in costume, had become suddenly ill—fever, diarrhea, vomit that had moved on from the contents of his stomach and began draining his blood—and how I was the closest clown in town to fill in on such short notice. A Why not spilled from my mouth, and a My man! You’re a lifesaver. We owe you big time spilled from Roland’s. Giggle Face was desperate for business and they had begun booking parties in neighborhoods they wouldn’t have taken months prior, areas that although appeared quaint and welcoming on the surface, gave off the vibe that something was off: the children-at-play signs bent and twisted, as if they had been repeatedly crashed into; the stop signs graffitied and vandalized to mark either the presence or encroachment of another gang or crew; the cars parked along the curb for what seemed like centuries, their tires deflated, their windshields covered with piles of foliage. And there was the untrimmed grass from the fenceless lawns spilling onto the sidewalk, and the weeds sprouting between the cracked concrete, where barefooted boys and girls bicycled and ran, and where whole families, as curious as families drawn to uncertainty could be, stood listening to those incessant police and ambulance sirens that kept coming closer, closer, engulfing the entire street.
Peaks Crossing was no different. The house rested on the last lot of a dead-end street. Behind the DEAD END sign, there was a warped chain-link fence enclosing this section of the neighborhood in, and a line of trees crosshatching the ground with shade. I parked across the street, the other half already congested with haphazardly parked vehicles. When I got off, a handful of dogs came up to me, skinny mutts with matted hair and flies that hovered over their head like halos. They whined, tried to lick my hands, but when they realized I had nothing to give—no affection, pats, scraps—they trotted off, some bending their backs beneath the chain-link fence, others beneath the porch I walked toward, their bodies squirming between the dilapidated cinder blocks.
There was no doorbell, only torn wires of where a doorbell used to be. I knocked. I knocked louder. I heard voices in the backyard, but none inside. I looked around, studied the slanted porch columns gnawed by years of heat and termites.
The door opened halfway, and behind it stood a teenage girl, her hair tied back in a ponytail, her brown eyes adjusting to the light.
“What do you want?” she asked, unsurprised to see a clown at her doorstep, and even less concerned with introductions.
“Uh –” I muttered. I checked the time, knowing it was almost 3:30 p.m. “I’m here for the party. Well, I’m part of the party.”
“The party started more than half an hour ago,” she said. “You’re late.”
“Yeah, well you know how these things are, I couldn’t find the place.”
She studied me up and down, a slight expression of disgust flushed across her face. “Come in. You know it was Hulk-themed right?”
“Excuse me?” I said, dragging my trunk in.
“Hulk-themed. Your show has Hulk themes, right?”
“I wasn’t told that. I thought this was a birthday party for…” I reached into my pocket and pulled a slip of crumbled paper I had written the name Roland gave me, “for Ira.”
“Yeah, he’s right outside.” She led me through the living room, past the paisley-patterned couches covered in plastic and a sea of Legos scattered across the linoleum. In the kitchen a half-cut Hulk birthday cake rested on the table, along with plates of barbecue, rice, and beans, and styrofoam cups with soda beaded along their rims. Next to the stove, there was a refrigerator I wanted nothing more than to stick my head in, cool down for a moment before I started. And next to the refrigerator was a screen door where I could see picnic tables, a small moonbounce with a blur of children jumping inside and running around it, Hulk banners strung on an old aluminum shed, and a Hulk piñata dangling from a tree branch, disproportioned but still intact.
“We started without you,” she said.
I squatted and lifted my trunk. The girl, who I assumed was Ira’s sister, opened the door.
“He should have fun with you.”
Outside, what might have been upwards of thirty people stopped what they were doing and gazed at me, watching as I descended the steps. My trunk grew heavier.
“Goddamn, finally!” hollered the man behind the barbecue pit. He put down the charred tongs, grabbed the Coors sitting atop the ice chest behind him, and walked over. Everyone resumed what they were doing, the adults forking their plates, talking with their mouths open, the children remembering the rules of whatever improvised game they were playing. “Happy you could make it.” The man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, but the residue of beer still hung to his mustache. He was wearing an orange Hawaiian shirt with the silhouettes of palm trees speckled throughout, and gray shorts that could have been mistaken for swimming trunks. “We got some beer if you want.”
“The man’s gotta show to do, Sam,” said a woman behind him.
A girl with large foam-rubber Hulk hands ran between all three of us, and a boy holding an invisible rifle in both arms followed, the sound of pretend bullets spurting from his mouth.
“Maybe after,” said Sam. The woman held a large purple bowl with foil paper sealed around it. She circled Sam and walked toward the house. Sam took a sip from his Coors, leaned over, and whispered, “The wife’s mad.” He took another sip. “She doesn’t like it when she pays for things that come late.”
“Sorry,” I said. “The place was hard to find.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, chuckling. “She’ll get over it.”
“You can set up right over there,” Sam’s wife said. I turned around and saw her handing the bowl to the girl who showed me in. The woman wiped her hands on the sides of her sundress. She turned around and pointed to the corner of the yard. I didn’t find her particularly attractive—her hair tied sloppily in a bun, her body following neither an apple nor pear shape—but I was drawn to how she descended the backdoor steps like a fairytale servant turned princess ready to enter a ball.
She walked toward the corner and I followed. I scanned the yard trying to get a feel for what I’d have to work with. Although the neighborhood was still technically blacklisted by Giggle Face, I wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference between this yard and the countless others I performed in. There was a playground set, picnic tables, a shed, a tangled water hose with its nozzle inside a blue plastic pool.
“Wish you would have gotten here like I had scheduled with your boss,” the woman said.
“I’m sorry. Wrong directions.”
“No need to apologize. You’re here now. So is everyone else,” she said, grabbing one of the trunk’s handles with both hands. Together we set the trunk down, and as she bent over, I caught sight of her cleavage, of those short stretch marks flaring away from the curved yet soft darkness in between her breasts. She stood up and before I could look away, we made eye contact. Because this is the kind of creepy thing people would expect from a birthday party clown, I began frantically swiping the air.
“Mosquitoes are really out this summer, aren’t they?”
“They sure are,” she said, smiling and walking past me. She placed her hands on her waist and watched the children running around the yard, playing what appeared to be cops and robbers; the mouthed gunfire and explosions growing steadily louder. She surveyed one end of the yard to the next, then rested her attention on her husband standing back at the pit. There were a few other men gathered around Sam, each with a koozied beer in their hands, and each looking like different versions of him, one with a black cap and a purple polo that gave the impression he was a football coach, another with a handlebar mustache, a red bandana, Ray-Ban sunglasses hanging from a strap around his neck, and shorts showing off the surprisingly white complexion of his legs in comparison to the rest of his skin. And there was one that looked like his brother, same face, same laughter, although he was slightly shorter, with a rounder appearance, the kind of man who seemed like he had spent his teenage years playing catch up with his sibling’s accomplishments.
"Always drinking, I tell you," the woman said as I opened my trunk and started sifting through my props. "By the way, I'm Debra, Sam’s wife, if you haven’t already guessed. And this here," she said excitedly, opening her arms, "is the birthday boy." Ira ran straight at her with a pair of Hulk hands he was waving above his head. He was wearing a blue Marvel t-shirt, and he punched the air repeatedly in front of his mother. Debra laughed and before she could wrap her arms around him, he darted across the yard and joined a group of kids weaving around the playground set, using the swings and slide to their advantage.
“Ten years. Can you believe it? Monumental really. It was a pretty big deal with my daughter as well, but this second one seemed more like I had to prove myself, like I had to make sure that raising the first one as well as we did wasn’t just beginner’s luck or anything. It sounds cliché, I know, but they grow fast, and they age the heck out of you in the process.” Debra turned around. “Are you ready?” she asked.
I stood up and pulled out the paper where I had written Ira’s name. “Almost,” I said, “just gotta set up a few things.”
“And you’re gonna make Hulk balloons, right?” she asked.
I reached into the trunk and opened the plastic pencilbox where I kept my balloons. I fingered through them, wasn’t sure if I had enough for every child at the party.
“Yeah. I usually do that at the end of the show, if that’s alright,” I said, thinking a broken air pump would be a good enough excuse.
“Sure thing,” said Debra. “Good luck. See you in a bit.” She smiled and walked toward the house.
I dug deeper through my trunk. I took out the bowling pins, a bag of balloons, a few rainbow-colored slinkys I’d give out in between acts, and a bubble machine that added, I thought, a certain awe factor. I laid them on the grass. A handful of kids I assumed were either Ira’s cousins or friends walked up to me, but didn’t say a word. I was foreign, unlike anyone they had met, and although I had a body that resembled most of the adult bodies at the party, my face was unfamiliar. The semi-bruised circles beneath my eyes showed through the white blotchy paint, and the brown paint rendered into a slight frown around my lips made me look like a hobo clown from the Depression era. And perhaps there was something even stranger when the kids watched me switch my baseball cap for a latex one, how the top of it was bald, ridged with wrinkles, how the dirty-orange hair, greasy and clumped with leaves and dirt, seethed out from the sides; an eccentric style that contradicted the sad expression on my face, as though my personalities were constantly shifting, and as though at any moment I could morph from simple ugliness into the monster these kids envisioned.
I looked up and the kids scurried away. I retrieved my makeup kit and touched up the spots where my skin was exposed and then I clipped a large blue bowtie to my collar. I stood, scanned the yard, spread my arms, and took a deep breath, and just as I was about to shout for everyone’s attention, I heard someone rummaging through my trunk. I turned around and watched as Ira went from unraveling a ball of multi-colored handkerchiefs to shaking a tambourine above his head. The Hulk hands he wore to pretend punch his mother rested by his feet.
“Hi,” I said.
Ira turned around. “Hey there Mr. Clown Man.”
“It’s Vince— I’m Twinkie the Clown,” I said in a semi-squeaky tone, adjusting to my alter ego’s voice.
Ira smiled, then tucked his lips inside his mouth, closed his eyes, shrugged his shoulders, and crouched over like an old man that had long since lost his battle with gravity. He began tapping the tambourine on his thigh, then circled around the trunk and slapped his free hand on his other thigh, matching the rhythm of the tambourine beat per beat. For a moment, I thought he was about to recite scripture.
Ira stopped. “Anyone ever tell you you look like a Juggalo?”
“A what?”
“A Juggalo,” said Ira. “One of those people that follow that Clown Posse group, the music and all.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”
“Well you do,” he said, not amused. “Just so you know. People might think you’re one of them. Or that you’re part of a freak carnival or something.”
I walked over and extended my hand. “Do you usually care what other people think?” I asked.
“Sometimes. But I can tell you don’t,” said Ira, handing over the tambourine. He picked up the Hulk hands and began backpedalling from the trunk until he stopped and asked, “How long you been a clown?”
I forced a smile. “For a few years now.”
“And do your parents know?”
“Of course they know.”
“Do you have a wife?”
“I don’t have a ring on my finger. So I guess not.”
“Yeah your fingers look pretty dirty. Don’t wanna know what you do with them. Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Do you ever stop asking questions?”
“Sometimes,” Ira said. “So do you?”
I tapped the tambourine against my palm. “Maybe.”
“Nah,” he chuckled, “I don’t think you do.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Because clowns are liars.”
“Are you saying I’m a liar?” I tapped the tambourine again.
“You’re a clown, aren’t you?”
“Am I?”
“If it walks like a clown and talks like a clown, it must be a clown.”
“You’re funny. You’d have a good act if you were a clown. Could even make a career out of it.”
“Clowns don’t have careers.”
I tossed the tambourine inside the trunk. I cupped his hands together and then adjusted my latex cap. “I’m here ain’t I?”
“I didn’t ask you to be.”
“No, your parents did. I guess they didn’t think you were old enough for a real birthday party.”
Ira crossed his arms together and leaned slightly back. “Does your life suck?”
“What?”
“I said, ‘Does your life suck?’”
“Why would it suck?”
Ira tilted his head down and began pacing in a slow, contemplative manner. “Because number one, you don’t have a wife or a girlfriend. Number two, your parents don’t care about you,” he said, giving me a look of disappointment, “and three,” he raised his hand and pointed at his outfit, “you’re a clown.”
I moved in closer as a spurt of cackles followed from Ira’s mouth. “It’s called entertainment, kid.”
Ira’s cackling became snorting and the snorting quickly turned into coughing.
I rolled up my sleeves. “Sticks and stones,” I said. “Sticks and sto —”
“Stones may break your bones,” interrupted Ira, “but you are still a loooser.”
I took a deep breath. “Whatever, kid,” I said, turning around and walking toward the trunk. I squatted and sifted through the props for nothing in particular when suddenly an object I knew could have only been a Hulk hand hit my back.
“What the hell?”
“What?” answered Ira.
“It’s not nice to throw things.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Ira, smiling and swaying the upper half of his body side to side. He had his hands behind his back and I could see the other Hulk hand swinging from one hip to the other.
“Look, I get that it’s your birthday and all, but still. Just calm down,” I said. I turned back to my trunk, and as soon as I closed it, the other Hulk hand hit my head.
“Quit your shit!” I yelled, though not loud enough for anyone to hear. The other kids were still screaming, running around the yard, tossing imaginary grenades and racking up another kill.
“Ha!” laughed Ira. “Mr. Clown Man is mad.”
I sighed. “Come on. I’m about to start the show.” I reached out and placed my hand on Ira’s shoulder so I could direct him elsewhere. “Let’s go.”
Ira squatted and swooped out of my grip, and as I moved closer and extended my hand again, Ira jerked his shoulder back and with his right foot angled like a soccer player’s, kicked my shin.
“God-fucking-damn it!” I hollered, pulling my knee to my chest and attempting to rub the pain out with my palm. “The fuck is wrong with you?” A few adults seated on the nearest picnic tables—some with a half-gnawed corncob or chicken breast in their hands—looked our way, scrambling to make sense of the scene.
Ira shut his eyes, tossed his head back, and began shouting “Danger! Danger!”, as though he had used the phrase once or twice before to get out of a situation he didn’t like. Ira swung again, only this time he missed. The force behind his kick, however, caused him to lose his balance, and as I, still standing on one leg, hopped to avoid it, I lost my balance and fell forward, pushing Ira down. Ira landed on his face, while my shoulder broke my fall. Numbness spread throughout the left side of my body. I turned over on my back, then rotated to my other shoulder and sat up. The yard was blurry, but I could make out a few kids gawking at us. The adults at the picnic table stood from their seats, but none showed any signs of urgency.
“It’s alright, it’s alright,” I said, waving my hand in the air, expecting the gesture to diffuse the situation. I picked up my latex cap, tried to adjust it on my head. I got to my knees, swung one foot on the grass and placed my hands and weight on my thigh to lift myself up. Then Ira, grunting and growling like some feral animal wary of anything encroaching on its territory, tackled me from behind. My neck snapped and my face hit the ground. The grass did indeed taste parched. Ira lifted himself up and stood above me and shouted “Danger!” again. He began pushing me, trying to cram my body into the ground. Like any attacked prey, I twisted my torso and shoved him off.
“Hey!” someone shouted.
“What are doing?!”
“Yo yo yo yo yo yo!”
“Daddyyy!”
“Sam!”
“Debra!” yelled someone else.
But I ignored every shout, felt myself undergoing an out-of-body experience. I saw how quickly I stood and grabbed Ira by his ankles, jerking him closer, then gripping his shirt collar and yelling, “You don’t do that shit to Twinkie! You don’t do that shit to Twinkie!” Then I reached beneath the squirt flower pinned to my chest and squeezed the small pump rabidly, aiming the warm water directly at Ira’s eyes and mouth. Ira attempted to spit it out, gurgling while uttering an incoherent “Help!”, hoping that Twinkie would stop, show mercy, let him breathe long enough to not feel as though he was being waterboarded.
“Don’t! Sam don’t!” shouted Debra. Before I could look up, Sam shoved me off of Ira. I rolled back and in one fell swoop got to my feet.
“You goddamn prick! What the hell are you doing to my son?!” shouted Sam. He lifted Ira to his feet and gripped his head, inspecting his face for any cuts or bruises. Ira rubbed the water from his eyes, opening each with caution. A crowd had gathered around them, with Debra pushing through the middle, bolting toward Ira, asking if he was alright as she wiped the dirt off his back and adjusted his collar.
“Look sir— Sam, I mean, sir— I was talking to your son and he started throwing shit at me.”
“Language!” yelled Debra. “Jeez.”
Sam looked at Ira. “Is that true? Did you throw things at him?”
“N-no-no, I didn’t. I was jus-just asking him questions and he-he just started pushing me,” said Ira, rubbing his eyes harder.
“You’re alright, you’re good, honey,” reassured Debra.
“He’s not even crying,” I said. “He’s faking it. Look.”
“Shut up,” said Sam. “Shut the hell up,” he reiterated. He patted Ira on the shoulder and began walking toward me. The men that stood around him at the barbecue pit handed their beers to the closest person and stepped through the crowd, ready to assist Sam’s impulses with a few of their own. “I swore upon my life that when he was born I would pro—”
“Don’t come near me,” I said, squeezing the squirt flower, and almost yanking it off. “This thing has mace.” Sam and the men stopped.
“Bullshit,” said Sam.
I stepped forward and Sam and the crowd took a step back.
“I’m warning you!” I shouted. “I know how to use this.” No one protested. “Your kid’s a goddamn punk,” I said. “Now, I’m just gonna get my stuff and leave.” I backpedaled to my trunk, bent down, and without looking grabbed the handle. I tugged it and began walking sideways toward the side of the house, leaving behind the bubble machine, the Slinkys, the box of balloons.
Sam stepped forward, squeezing his hands into fists.
“Stay where you are!” I yelled, puffing out my chest. I turned every few seconds, trying not to bump into anything, but Sam sprinted when I stumbled, and I hurled my latex cap at his face from the ground. Sam crossed his arms into an X and jumped, intent to kick the cap out of the air, but his ankle twisted when he landed. I snatched my trunk and ran around the side of the house.
After smashing into the car in front of me, and after watching the man I thought was Sam’s brother slamming his hand on the window, yelling “You son-of-a-bitch!” and “We will find you! We will hurt you!’’ and trying to dislodge the side mirror, I found myself seated at a McDonald’s booth, staring at my burger and fries.
I adjust the squirt flower and look at Billy. He’s almost a goner. I slam the button with my palm, but the box doesn’t budge. A ponytailed girl seated in the middle of the semi-circle raises her hand.
“Yes,” I say.
“Maybe it just disappeared,” she says.
“That was the point, Hanna,” says the boy next to her. “It was supposed to disappear, but he said he was gonna bring it back.”
“I did say that,” I say. “But… but,” I pull my hand from behind the table, “sometimes Freckles likes to go to his secret hiding place.” I lean over and place my hands on my knees. “Don’t y’all have a special hiding place you go to?”
Billy’s father clears his throat. “Mr. Gomez— Twinkie, sorry. You can continue with your show. I’m sure that ferret will appear soon enough.”
And so I do as I’m told, proceed to a juggling act that has Billy tossing in brass rings, followed by a music-and-dance bit that includes bobbing for apples in a red metal bucket. Midway through, I open another bag of Granny Smiths, and as I’m about to dump them in, I trip and fall sideways, crash into my table. I hear the kids let out a collective gasp. I stand but notice that some kids are pointing while others are shielding their faces with their hands. One kid utters, “Finally!” The ponytailed girl screams with excitement, “Look, he’s back!” I turn around and see the secret compartment opened with Freckles sprawled beside it—his hairy eyelids shut, his tongue sticking halfway out. I turn back to face the kids.
“Ta-da,” I say, fanning my arms, puffing my chest. I almost believe their laughter will go on forever.
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Esteban Rodríguez is the author of eight poetry collections, most recently Lotería (Texas Review Press, 2023), and the essay collection Before the Earth Devours Us (Split/Lip Press, 2021). He is the interviews editor for the EcoTheo Review, senior book reviews editor for Tupelo Quarterly, and associate poetry editor for AGNI. He lives with his family in south Texas.
Social Media Twitter: @estebanjrod11 Instagram: @ejrod11 |
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