Clown Girl - Monica Drake [30]
Crack counted out the cash, dropped a wad of bills at my side. She said, “That’s just the way of it. I do all the grunt work, I’m the brains of the operation, and old Valentino goes for the jinx. Go figure.”
“The figure is the answer,” Matey said. “Which one was Valentino? That dishwasher was hot.”
“Hot like a steamin’ pile of greasy dishes,” Crack said.
I said, “At least the dishwasher’s humble. That other guy creeps me out.”
“Sure. All high artistes are creeped out by anyone with cash, but that’s your neurosis, not mine. And not his.” Crack counted her share of the money one more time.
“Not mine!” Matey chimed in, and raised her hand like a prize student.
To me, Crack said, “We know you’re the toast of Baloneytown, living the high artiste life, but that don’t make you too good for practice.”
I said, “I practice all the time. I did a good job with the penguin waddle.”
She said, “Do you see me injured? Is Matey on the floor with a pulled crotch?”
“It was that strobe light. They mess with my head …”
“Listen, Hot Stuff. Ice the leg, then put heat on it. Back and forth like that. And next time, get in a few warm-up stretches.” She took off her bowler hat, pulled off the wig, and shook out her short hair. “I’m not just channeling Marcus Welby here. I’m giving you the first aid rap because our next big deal is right around the corner, see? A publicity shot. It costs money. We’ll only do it once, so be on time and go all out. And, I already took your share out a your cut.”
Behind her, Matey said, “In this racket, you want to be the grand artiste, start with a sex change. No joke.”
A fine tip. I said, “That’s one act I’m not interested in.”
“Well, Grimaldi the Great, then you’ll have to work with the boobs, not against ’em. And don’t think your sisters here didn’t have higher aspirations once too,” Crack said. We didn’t start as sellouts, money found us. I’m glad it did. See you at the shoot.” She headed down the long white hall.
“Pssst,” Matey said, in a stage whisper, and knocked a hand against her head. “Here’s a clue: Women wear makeup, right? But a man in face paint, people see aahh-rt. You and me, we top out at birthday gigs, and that hurts more than anything I’m doing now. That’s the meat o’ the matter.” She tipped her Chaplin hat. Was it true? Was there a latex ceiling, a made-up makeup finish line?
She said, “Careful getting home.”
“Careful getting up, more like it,” I said.
Matey added, “Call the Tux. Easy cash. For reals.”
At the end of the hall, Crack picked up one of the pink nylon bags. Matey grabbed hers. Then there was only my bag, far away, against the shine of the bare white linoleum. Rex, my bag, family, fame and Kafka—why was everything so out of reach?
My leg was a torn rubber band. The swarm of bees drifted toward the center of my head. I used the chair to stand, then sat on the chair and rubbed a thumb along the heart meridian on the inside of my wrist, the acupuncture spot, the baby-heart-spot center. That spot that says: Get back to who you were meant to be.
Crack and her jobs—that was my whole plan, the way to get back to who I was meant to be: Rex’s girl, me and Rex performing together, delivering art, not commerce.
Matey pushed the exit door open. Crack called, over her shoulder, “Practice up if you want to stay with us, Sniffster. Otherwise, kaputsky. We’ll cut you loose, understand?”
7.
Hostility Shoots from the Hip
THE NEXT DAY, I COULDN’T DO A PRATFALL IF MY ASS DEPENDED on it. The pulled muscle or tendon or rubber band in my groin from the Chaplin gig had stiffened with pain overnight. When I tried to start my day’s urine collection, no way could I sustain a high crouch over the jug and hold the jug over the toilet. I leaned against the wall. Urine ran sideways. Piss on the toilet seat. Piss on my hand. Piss on the whole homework assignment. I gave up, tossed the jug aside, sat on the wet seat, and let the urine flow.
I needed that funnel back from the cop.
I had the phone, on its long cord, in the bathroom with me to call Rex.