Honk Honk

The mishapen sun, distorted in vision from the heat haze of summer, beats down on me like a hammer. From within my uniform of choice, the same I’ve worn for most of my known career, the heat intensifies. From this prison of pink polka-dots and loose cotton, I begin to feel the dampness of an untreated armpit dripping. Sweat beads down from my bald cap, a few stray hairs of my original color breaching their tight beige cage. The red pile of fuzz representing a full head of hair per this event sags, uneven due to an effort to entertain via simple gymnastics. My palms, the calluses of which created a shielding layer to my long-weary grip, began to secrete the same clear but putrid liquid in a display of both overexertion and anxiety. The nebulous scent of red rubber all too familiar to me threatens to be interrupted in the coming seconds. Not by the smell of perspiration, but rather a different beast, something I can tell from Paul's expression toward the vultures circling our routine. 

Unlike our usual display at events such as these, I could tell his desperation for victory, given our current track record these past few months. In his hand, a sterling silver disc (to which I bought at my convenience he’d mutter to me, about our tools of the trade) piled high with peaking whites only achieved through hand-mixing heavy cream and sugar. Under the layer of typical dessert delight, a graham cracker crust barely baked sandwiched between store-bought banana cream. My eyes fluttered within two seconds of its reveal, a growing worry in my chest from the implication of such a gag. 

This wasn't planned I want to mutter to my partner of seven some-odd years, but breaking character is nigh impossible because---

a. Interrupting the act was discouraged, even from our perspective as performers. It was something instituted in our schooling, and to which we both agreed amicably as business partners when signing our names on the dotted line. 

b. Paul’s current circumstances are not ideal outside of our arrangement, the stress of the IRS finally catching up to his fraudulent payment methods was compounded with the death of his dear parakeet, Scooter. 

Needless to say in this brief period of time, Paul was not happy with his lot in life. How could he be? Another thought that quickly passes through my mind, no positives in sight for what I could consider a friend. I think to my own choices, my own failings in the past half decade that drove me to my current employment. Instead of the ideal of my family in going into medicine, or my eldest brother’s work in public sanitation, I was proven to be fallible at the sight of injured human flesh. As such, I learned to rely on what little wit I had and my ability to accept public humiliation, resulting in the work I do as a pierrot today. It isn’t a good thing, being educated in the arts of self-deprication and slapstick. However it’s the only job that’s stuck, and upon graduating near the top of my class, I believe it might be the only one that works for me. 

I spy the creasing in Paul’s techno-colored blouse as he bends his arm back, charging the energy that will be exerted in a matter of milliseconds. His smile is painted on, both in terms of make-up due to a satirical level of lipstick, and his recognizable “failed actor’s” grin. His wig, a weave of blue trailing down his back, gave the illusion of a male Rapunzel without the fairy tale allure. His trousers were ripped at their bottoms, making way for a male size twenty-five painted wood clogs, something I chose not to buy for the sake of my own comfort. They had complained earlier about the lack of said comfort such an outfit exudes, physically to him and emotionally to the audience. I simply reminded him as we entered of the importance of the masquerade, the act of simply hiding your true humanity through the veneer of humorous disguise. You’re an asshat, he muttered, before quickly changing gears to a boisterous laugh in the backyard of the Fieldman’s backyard. I followed suit, and before we knew it we had reach the climax of such an event. 

After many a failed attempt at causing laughter, which to me is a death sentence for our review score, this was the last resort of my dear business partner. A simple plan, sure, but not something I personally agreed on. If anything, I found more complex antics to be entertaining to an audience, but at the current size of the party it was not logical to employ them. Instead, an old trick. A playful excuse to get a cheap laugh, something I don’t pride myself on with what little pride I have. Pride, to Paul, is an apparition, a phantom of something that he once had. Instead, all that remains is a desperate attempt at a paycheck, a decision he had made long before I had met him. 

I’d ask myself why we’d work together if not for his natural talent for the art, the effort he’s still able to exert regardless of the audience. I’m in awe of him everytime he pulls off a stunt like this, the sight of the little boy whom this party is for has changed. He is no longer resting his head on his right hand, balanced against the picnic table in boredom. Instead, the sight of a smile growing with dilating eyes, the rush of his head forward at the mere thought of my demise. Paul’s arm has now extended forward, a furiosity similar to a wild cat pouncing upon its prey. Only now, that prey is me, that fear a gazelle would feel is mine. It is almost too quick to resign to my fate, to close my eyelids in anticipation for impact with my face. Instead, my vision is blocked out with an eggshell colored eclipse, all light dying befoe even having a chance to respond. 

I take in the scent of what is called a fruit commonly as it seeps into a gap between the rubber and skin. The feeling of tinfoil doesn’t even register as it was blocked by the remainder of the afro, now on the grass behind me. I take in what tiny amount of force he’s given and amplify it, all my training leading up to this particular moment of comedy. I sell my fall with the kick of a shoe off into the crowd, considering the idea of allowing the lucky winner to keep it as a memento as I hit the ground. I spread my arms almost to make a snow angel, proud to hear Paul’s perfectly unfunny punchline. 

Guess he was banana...creamed!