The House of Clowns

The playing cards flickered like butterfly wings, shuffled like a rattlesnake’s tail. The crisp oracles flew, wrinkled and expert hands loosing forth in red and black. The towers formed, the first three cards drawn - an ace! A good omen, or so Darrell thought. But he corrected himself. Cross-stitch Maggy taught that an incomplete casting means nothing. Only when the game is over is the meaning clear.

So Darrell sat patiently in the smokey back room of the cigar store, old chair creaking as Maggy’s hands moved through the afternoon dimness. Each pause, each draw, each move of the cards felt pregnant with meaning. But Darrell only had snippets of insight, that and his assumptions, which were dangerous in divination. So he tried to take joy in watching the craft.

Cross-stitch Maggy cut off the reverent silence: “Divining by cards is a largely solitary practice, initiate. We so often divine for ourselves alone.” She paused, painted jaw wagging in thought, before continuing, “But when one casts the cards as service to another, it is customary to fill the silence with jokes and stories. It is speculated this distraction makes for more intuitive casting. I do not cleave to that belief, but it’s something to be aware of. So, a joke, or a story. Which shall you offer me?”

Darrell scratched his chin nervously. “What do fish learn in math class?”

“They learn about manta rays.” Maggy looked up through her long gray hair. “Perhaps a story, then.” The cards fluttered in her hands as she returned to divination.

Darrell thought for a moment, and began:

* * *

He met Lily the Tramp at the Funny Bone, a hole-in-the-wall comedy club on the south side. She wasn’t Lily then, but Simone, all long red hair and freckles and pearly whites that glowed like her green eyes. It’d been a blind date. Accomplished businesswoman, meet dropout loser. She was so cursedly out of his league. But she’d smiled, and taken interest, and was so, so good.

It was her laughter that struck him most, a throaty cackle that warmed him inside, especially when he somehow made her laugh. That and the touches on his arm, uncomfortable and mesmerizing, lingering just long enough. He relished it like fine chocolate melting in his mouth.

Sometimes, when you hate yourself, you can love someone just because there’s something in them that loves you.

That was how it started, anyway. What followed was a whirlwind romance, first lovely nights out, then movie nights in, the slip into a private world only they understood. It was in that context, one night of cuddling and conversation, that she first told him of the House of Clowns…

* * *

Cross-Stitch Maggy smiled. “My wife is long dead, cub, but I still feel the warmth and fear of those early days. Before we knew what could really go wrong.” She went through the deck one more time, pulling cards out by threes until none were left. “The reading is done. Hear what it means.”

The heart was great within him, the first ace played. But the suit was incomplete, and so would his love always be. Diamonds had not gone far, indicating he’d grown up poor and probably would die poor. Spades and clubs were strong, in contrast, indicating he may go far in the House. Would knowing these things change anything? Who could say? No game played the same twice. “We must do the best we can with the cards we’re dealt,” she concluded, sweeping up the deck. “Lily is a great clown. You are lucky to follow her down the path. May your way be clear and your gaffes land true.”

* * *

Rimtoe and Feste wanted to perk Darrell up after the reading. They took him for a drink, which became several, which became a jaunt to the railyard. The air was thick with oil, the yard alive with the cries of metal and horns. Advantageous for sneaking around and finding an old, abandoned caboose. ‘The Red Room’ was scrawled in graffiti across the rusted door. Feste and Rimtoe pulled the door aside with a screech and ushered Darrell in. The inside was fragrant with incense. By the glow of Rimtoe’s flickering lighter, Darrell saw a beautiful rug whose patterns weaved with his blurring vision. Lush piles of pillows and folded blankets lined the walls. “A sanctum, and a refuge,” Feste said with his mischievous smile as he closed the door.

Feste and Rimtoe, the whimsical bard and the cynical hobo. When Darrell had gone to the House of Clowns to file as initiate, they swore themselves as his brothers. They’d become mysterious, sometimes inscrutable friends. Feste spoke with his hands and orated as a lecturer. Rimtoe was more taciturn, quick with little else but sardonic wit. Darrell couldn’t figure how they could stand each other.

As Darrell sat, Feste produced a secreted bottle of wine and let out his hearty laugh. Darrell smiled. Rimtoe didn’t, but he rarely did. The hobo in green overalls took off his shabby bowler hat. Tufts of red-blond hair shone by lighterlight, jaw slack with exhaustion at Feste’s antics.

Feste pulled a corkscrew from his bag, popped the cork, and whispered, “Story time.” The fool handed the bottle to Darrell, who took a reluctant swig of the sour red. How drunk was he, really? “Well, friend Darrell, yours was the first drink, so yours is the first story!”

“I think I got enough of storytelling with Cross-stitch Maggy for the day,” Darrell said, grinning.

“No choice for you, cub,” Rimtoe said. “Tell of your first time in the House. We only saw you later.”

Darrell sighed, and began:

* * *

“A clown knows the world is laughing, and it is not laughing with you.” It was the first words he heard in the House of Clowns, the words Simone said before he knew her as Lily the Tramp. She said it in a sea of white faces, like a river of cream had washed through. It was not a good first impression, making him feel so apart, like he had always felt. But Simone turned to him with her green eyes, smiled, rhythmically squished her nostrils together - honk honk. It should have made him feel more alone. But the jesters, the hobos, the augustes, looked on with a reverence reserved for baptisms. What Simone had said was a secret they all shared. Now, they shared it with him. He fell to his knees, weeping.

* * *

Feste nodded sagely. “A simple story, but one worth telling. Thank you, friend Darrell.” He began picking intricately at his lute, music filling the boxcar.

Rimtoe stared down reflectively into the neck of the wine bottle before taking a long drink. “Second drink, second story,” he mumbled, setting the bottle down.

“No sir,” Feste said gravely. “Not after what has been divulged. I would not ask you to follow such a performance. Though we would settle for a joke.”

Rimtoe nodded, countenance grim. “Initiate, why is it that the thirsty clown didn’t get the joke?”

Darrell shook his head.

Rimtoe reached for the lighter and closed it with a flick. From the darkness came Rimtoe’s answer: “He was too busy waiting for the punch line.”

Then, the first blow.

* * *

When Darrell came to, Feste was gone. Rimtoe sat with his back to the wall, lighter glowing on the floor. He looked unbearably alone.

“I’m sorry we had to do that,” he said. “Trust is such a rare thing in this life, and we betrayed it, however necessarily.” He went quiet again, head turned down, shoulders slumped.

“Was this the real test?” Darrell asked as he pulled himself up, sitting against the opposite wall. Rimtoe’s shadow flickered like the flame, making the clown seem so much smaller.

“More a suggestion.” Rimtoe sighed, and some of the tension left him. “You are going to be hurt. Nobody likes something so much as hurting a clown. Wiping the smiles off our faces. We are seen as servants at best, tools at worst. And this hurting can come from anywhere. You should know that. But you should also know that the house does not rise without the hammer. Even a tool can become dignified in its purpose. The one does not exist without the other. Setup, punchline. So, in the face of pain and betrayal, remember your true worth.” Then he smiled. “And just as easy as the hand builds the card tower, it can sweep it aside.”

* * *

After they fought, Darrell’s shoulders ached from more than the beating. He wanted to crawl into a hole and die. He wanted to beg forgiveness. He wanted to rage. He did none of these things. Paralyzed by cowardice, he let the roil of emotions bubble, shaking like a can of pop fit to burst. Bracing for the inevitable breakup, his shoulders were so, so tired.

Like most arguments, it started with that smallest seed of irritation. He played it over in his head, watched the seed grow:

Why didn’t you warn me? he’d asked Simone.

She’d grown solemn, and said, That’s not how it works, Darrell.

Then how’s it supposed to work? I get the shit kicked out of me and I’m supposed to be okay with it?

They explained why they did it.

And I couldn’t have gotten that beforehand?

It ruins the purpose. You wouldn’t feel this way if you’d known it was scripted.

You’re right, I wouldn’t feel like shit if I’d known.

Darrell, I don’t think you’re treating this with the seriousness it deserves.

And since when should I take a crazy clown cult seriously?

Darrell, I’m vouching for you. I want you to be a part of this, a part of my life.

And then he’d voiced his second-guessing: Well, maybe I don’t want to be a part of the House.

That went over well. What does that mean? she’d asked.

What do you think it means?

Darrell, you’ve already come so far. You’d make a great clown. Why are you thinking of giving up now?

As far as I’m concerned, I can give up on anything any time I want.

What about us, then? Are you going to give up on me when the going gets hard? How am I supposed to know if you’re just going to bail?

I don’t suppose you can know, and I don’t see why you’d give a shit one way or another.

That had proved to be just the right knife: with a whispered, Fuck you, she’d stormed out of his apartment, the door slamming with a clap you could feel. Afterwards, he reflected on just how good he was at self-sabotage. When it really counted, he knew just what to say.

He was drunk the rest of the weekend, ignored her calls and texts. Come Monday his head was a geode, split in half so you could see the shining insides. He worked his entry level office job, made coffee, took calls, printed off page upon page. Compared to the House, compared to her, it felt like one big joke. He’d laughed at that realization, and everyone looked at him when he couldn’t stop. Which just made him laugh harder. They sent him home early.

He thought of asking for forgiveness, but knew he didn’t deserve it. He thought of asking for another chance, knowing he could never earn it. He wondered, then hope, that the House of Clowns would have him killed, just so he could avoid the ignominy of his fuck-up. Losing the only woman who saw past his lowliness, the overwhelming weight of the guilt and self-pity that filled every crevice of his life before her. They had given him belonging, and friendship, and… But it wasn’t worth thinking about. When he got home, he planned to check his messages, see that she’d broken it off, and he’d go on from there. Or not. Whatever.

When he saw the letter taped to his apartment door, saw his name written in her handwriting, he plucked it reverently off. He went in, sagged onto his creaking, broken couch, and read:

* * *

A soldier, a priest, and a jester met on the road to the kingdom of the King Who Could Not Smile. The soldier brought with him a large, writhing sack. The priest brought with him an ornate reliquary. The jester brought with her nothing. Together they came to the halls of the King, where light showed but dimly through the covered windows. There the King bade them speak on what had brought them there.

The soldier was first to speak. The hearty man upturned the sack with an effort. Out spilled a large serpentine head of poison green and bruise purple, flailing impotently on the throne room floor. The soldier said, “I bring offering of a vicious beast subdued, that the might of your kingdom be always known. Perhaps it would give you reason to smile.”

But the King did not smile.

The priest was next to speak. The willow-thin boy opened the reliquary, covered in regal carvings and bespeckled with jewels. Inside was a bleached-white sliver of bone. The priest said, “I bring offering of a saint’s remains, that the holiness of your realm be ever unquestioned. Perhaps a smile will grace your face.”

But the King did not smile.

Finally, the jester spoke. “I bring nothing but what is mine to offer. First, I may offer a tale.

“We met before, in the days before you were king, when these melancholy halls were filled with laughter. You were a shy prince, and all the maidens at court longed to dance with you. But you did not, though your royal family chided you. In jest, your uncle made you dance with a fool, befitting your behavior. And in your kindness, you did. And though your steps were clumsy, your hands were warm and your smile warmer.

“I left this land soon after. But when I heard you could no longer smile, I could not abide that. Too serious a man to have come from such a sweet boy. So I offer you the only other thing I have. I offer you my heart. I may again take the stage at court. You may abdicate and follow me. You may take me as your queen and consort, and I shall never jest again. Or you may cast me away. But please, smile again.”

No more is said of the King Who Could Not Smile. It is only known that, whatever his reply to the jester, he was made happy, and smiled again.

* * *

Darrell read the story again, and again. Then he texted her: The King Who Could Not Smile made his choice…

* * *

Nights later, a trio of mimes washed Darrell clean, naked but for their facepaint. They anointed him, drawing on his initiate’s face. When he looked in the mirror as they were pulling on his baggy white suit with red puffball buttons, his face was a body of white against which his ears stuck out cartoon-big. “Will I always look like this?” he asked, before realizing his foolishness. He turned to them with a grimace. They smiled, bowed, looked at him with understanding. Then one of them, a young woman, ran her fingers up her torso, miming the buttoning of a shirt, ending with a pull of an invisible bow-tie. She gestured a hand toward him. You look handsome, she was saying. He smiled. These clowns, they showed kindness so easily. It was wonderful.

That night too he stood before the Clown’s Congress with the other initiates. The Congress was a rainbow procession winding around wooden tables set in tiers one above another, all before an arrangement of stadium seating. At first he did not recognize Simone blended in with the other Congress members. But then came the vouching. A name was called, an initiate would step forward. The head of the Congress would speak, an old jester in red and green motley, the bells of his floppy hat jangling. He would ask, “Who will speak for this clown?” And from behind them, in the crowd, there would come a shout of affirmation, such as, “I am Flip-Flop the Unloved, and I speak for this clown.” The old man would reply, “Then let them be spoken for.”

Then the announcer called out, “Darrell Thomas.” He stepped forward, his stomach doing backflips acrobats would envy. “Who will speak for this clown?” the jester said. From the left-middle row stood a woman in a ratty t-shirt and frayed jean-shorts, her white face smudged with red and blue accents around her eyes and mouth. “I am Lily the Tramp, and I speak for this clown.” His jaw went slack at seeing Simone as she truly was. He only returned to the line of initiates when silence fell in the hall.

After the vouching there was the gathering. There was no shortage of entertainment: juggling, balancing acts, acrobatics, mime’s cant, storytelling, magic tricks, stage shows, the cacophony of conversations barely rising above the roar of accordions and ukuleles and recorders. It was there, just a little in both their cups, that Lily asked Darrell to dance. They went off to a far corner, where a solemn-looking clown in blue hobo garb strummed his guitar, singing of a man losing his lady-love to a fancy clown.

Lily held him as they swayed to the music. Darrell looked into eyes at once familiar and alien. She even smelled different, almost like she hadn’t showered in a couple days, intoxicating because it was so her. As the song reached its end Lily leaned in to whisper, “I am so proud of you.”

With that, Darrell found his courage. “Lily?”

“Yes?” she asked expectantly.

“How is Valentine’s Day like April Fool’s Day?”

Tears welled up in Lily’s eyes. “I don’t know,” she lied.

“Because love makes fools of us all.”

Their kiss was the sweetest he had ever known.