Jingles

      I moved the knife quickly, slicing with apt purpose. The bell of the cat’s collar fell to the floor. Jingle jingle.

           This was the third time I’ve done this since we first got this cat; I just can’t stand the jingling of the collar, and I wanted it to look like the cat had somehow clawed it off, or had rubbed it against something outside causing it to scrape off. Hopefully, my family will stop insisting that the cat have a bell on her collar after realizing she’s just going to keep losing it.

           Nothing against the cat, of course. Each time I cut that bell off of her collar, she just looks up at me curiously – possibly even thankfully, as if she too can’t stand the sound of its jingling. Though I’m certain that the cat and I hate the sound of small jingling bells for two very different reasons.

           My wife, our three kids, and I recently moved to my old hometown. I was eager to leave this place as soon as I turned 18, and I couldn’t explain to my wife why I didn’t want to move back, the same reason why I can’t explain to her why I hate the sound of jingling.

           I was just a kid. One summer here, when I was twelve, my friends and I were hanging out on Main Street…

           “I want strawberry!” the little kid exclaimed. They were probably six or seven, and they bounced excitedly up and down with a shining grin from one ear to the other, their hands raised up – one clenched around a handful of change. They were smiling adoringly up at the clown who was dancing in front of an ice cream truck.

           Turning to the little boy with a smirk and a wink the clown sang, “For one buck, one strawberry – I’ve prepared it for you, especially!”

           The clown was tall and slender. The makeup around his face was white with dark pink triangles around his mouth as well as his eyes, which were both wide and kind. He wore a large, sky-blue drape over a striped unitard with different shades of gold and purple with bright red accents. He wore a thick belt around his waist. At points around this belt as well from threads of the blue drape hung small, brass, and shiny bells, which rang a chorus of jingling with every movement, and sang a nameless tune whenever he danced – and how this clown loved to dance.

           “Mr. Jingles, Mr. Jingles!” another kid cried, “can I have an ice cream sandwich?”

           The clown – Mr. Jingles – widened his eyes as he looked down at her. He took a deep breath as his smile grew, and said, “You’re the first today to say my name – this one is for free!” He gave her a free ice cream sandwich and did another dance. As his feet kicked out, revealing two more jingling bells, each one attached to the tip of each of his curled shoes, he did little magic tricks with his hands, and all the children around him laughed and cheered; some even tried mimicking his dance around him.

           My friends and I sat on our bikes at a distance watching the laughable spectacle. “I betcha he diddles kids,” Richy said with a snort.

           “Nah,” Brady retorted, “my mom says he’s retarded – he probably doesn’t even know what to do with his junk.” We all laughed at that. I scoffed, saying, “Whatever his problem is, he’s fuckin’ creepy.”

           “Ain’t that the truth,” Levi said, “I can’t be the only one who wants to do something about this guy.” Each one of us turned to look at Levi. We didn’t really have a leader, but if there was ever a titleholder for lead-trouble-maker it was Levi. We knew he had something brewing in his mind ever since he first saw Mr. Jingles, and I was eager to stick it to that clown. “Whatcha thinkin’?” I asked, a mischievously wide smile growing on my face. “Simple,” Levi said coldly, “we fuck with the clown until he leaves. And we make sure he stays gone.”

           I had the simple job of distracting the clown. I thought this was the dumbest role placement in the history of pranks, seeing as I was never much of an actor. So when I walked up to Mr. Jingles, I just did what first came to my mind and started asking questions. “Hey, clown. What, uh… What flavors you got?”

           Mr. Jingles whirled in my direction; the quickness of that sudden movement and my proximity to him, I realized I was much more scared of this clown than I had initially thought I ever could be. “Little kiddo!” Mr. Jingles exclaimed, “I’ve got flavors to match the rainbow!” he kicked a leg out in a small dance maneuver, “I’ve got sweets to make your hair grow!” he laughed, “I’ve got strawberry and chocolate, and long as you’ve got your wallet! I’ve got vanilla and mint, with a flashy green tint! There’s pistachio and neopolitan – but try not to get it on your chin!” he laughed and chuckled, and that innocent sound within it made me start to think that maybe he didn’t deserve to get ran out of town. I couldn’t explain it, but he soothed me; all the fear and enmity I felt towards the clown seemed so unjustified now. But it was too late.

           Richy and Brady started banging against the hood of the ice cream truck while making guttural monkey noises. Mr. Jingles turned, his wide smile melting away in a thin line of confusion. He walked over to my friends, saying, “Heyo, kiddos! How about a-” and was cut off when the truck’s engine started. The clown’s head turned and his mouth opened to a wide O of shock as he looked through the windshield. Levi was in the driver’s seat and had turned on the truck. He started to run, and shouted, “Oh no, kiddo! Mr. Jingles doesn’t think-” and was interrupted again when Richy pushed the clown over Brady who was knelt behind him. The two ran away laughing. I was about to run too, and that’s when I realized that Levi had more planned for what was meant to be a spread-out string of pranks on Mr. Jingles.

           As the clown gasped on the pavement, Levi revved the engine and then put the car in drive. He dove out of the side of the truck, and sprinted down the block, faster than I’d ever seen him run before. I turned back just in time to watch as Mr. Jingles’ ice cream truck ran over his mid-section. This caused the vehicle to swerve, forcing the rear tires to crush the clown’s face. The body of the clown convulsed and spazzed, a monstrous ringing of disturbed jingling from the bells overlayed the tones of crushing bones and a sound like that of a tossed watermelon.  I was motionless and numb in indescribable horror as the vehicle rolled softly away, and I looked at the smeared remains of what used to be a human face. Blood gushed spastically out of a gaping maw that was once the mouth of Mr. Jingles, and more of it oozed out of his ears and coagulated in the ruffled tangles of his dyed-pink hair. I stepped back, slowly at first, then turned and ran in the same direction as my friends.

           We were never named for that crime, though I knew my dad had his suspicions that we had something to do with it. It wouldn’t be for a few years later that I wished we had come clean – after all, it was just supposed to be a prank. I don’t think Richy and Brady thought Levi would do something like that, and I certainly didn’t. I think I was just scared of what Levi would do if he ever found out I ratted him out. So I stayed silent.

           Now that I’m back here, all these years later, I stood outside our house in the dead of night with my cat and her recently defaced collar at my feet, and I wondered. I wondered if the mysterious death of Mr. Jingles is still talked about and if anyone ever thought of any leads. I wondered why it was so difficult to get in touch with Richy or Brady, or their families. Maybe I would try to get in touch with Levi, but part of me doesn’t want to see the man he grew up to be.

           A thick fog was creeping down the street. I watched as it grew, frothing up my driveway. I began to wonder if the reason why I couldn’t get ahold of my friends was more simple and yet more outlandish than anything more feasible than moving away. The fog had reached my feet, and the cat meowled frightfully and, with a hiss, ran somewhere behind the house. But here I stood, watching the wall of unnaturally decisive fog move towards and envelop me. I stood here, waiting for what I knew I had been due for some time. I know it wouldn’t matter if I tried to run from it or not – because I’m here, in this town, and the consequences of my part in a joke gone wrong are here to greet me.

           Through the thick fog, I can hear the distorted sound of an ice cream truck's song approaching, and through the fainted beat can be made out the cacophonous ringing, as if some pair of jingling bells attached to two slippered feet.

           Jingle jingle.