Clown Girl - Monica Drake [31]
“Information,” a voice said, in a way that hovered between statement and question.
I said, “Hello there, Information. Could you give me the non-emergency cop number? I mean, the police. Baloneytown precinct.”
When I got through to the cops another woman answered, and I realized I didn’t have a name for the cop I wanted. Not that I wanted to talk to a cop at all, but I needed my gear. I said, “I don’t know his name.”
“Sounds like he a real good friend of yours, right?” she said.
“He’s got sort of light brown, golden hair.”
“That’s a few of’em around here.” I heard her gum crack. “The ones that got hair.”
“His pants hang too long?” I offered.
She said, “Well, I guess that might narrow it. I’ll keep an eye out. A cop that needs a tailor.”
I said, “Listen, he’s got something of mine I need to get back. He’s not too tall. He has freckles on his arms. He smells like cinnamon and Sunday breakfast.” It was all I could come up with.
“Honey, we’re not writing personal ads. If you don’t got a name or a badge number, I can’t help you.” Click.
GOVERNMENT-SPONSORED ACUPUNCTURE WAS UPSTAIRS in an old house, over a needle exchange, part of a methadone program at the ragged edge of Baloneytown. DownSide Up: Sharp-Shooters Rehab Day Treatment Center, a sign said. Clean Up With Our Services Before We Attend Yours.
Treatment in the clinic was dirt cheap. “More if you can, free if you can’t” was the motto, and as far as I could tell the government didn’t even ask what it paid for—that’s how little they wanted to know.
I wanted a quick fix for my busted crotch, an easy cure, cheap and fast, that would send me back out ready to hit the pavement and tie balloons, juggle pins, make lots of funny.
The clinic’s wooden porch steps were steeped in sun-hot piss. I took a breath, straightened my big straw hat, then started in. Each step up, my inner thigh burned. W. C. Fields, a tiny devil’s voice in my ear, slurred, “Suffering sciatica.” I pushed my cane against the stairs one at a time, lifted my bum leg, and pulled on the shaky wooden handrail. I wore one regular-sized, black Keds tennis shoe and one size fifteen clown shoe turned orthopedic; it helped my hip to have a wider base so my foot could spread inside. That big shoe made sense out on the flatlands of Baloneytown’s sidewalks, but once I reached the clinic, the rubber toe of the clown-sized Keds caught against the lip of every wooden step.
Inside, the needle exchange wasn’t open yet. Men and women sat in orange plastic chairs around what had once been a living room. A man with a purple welt on his cheek cleaned his teeth with his driver’s license. A pale girl in a black dress tweaked her nose ring. Over her head, a giant sign said, No Drugs, No Weapons, No Money Exchanged. No Loitering, No Cell Phones, No Beepers. No Alcohol, No Hand Signals, No Whistling. No Profanity, No Name Calling, No Racial Slurs. No Remaining on Premises Once Your Business is Over. If You Are Visibly Under the Influence of Controlled Substances, You Will Be Removed. ABSOLUTELY NO HORSEPLAY WHATSOEVER.
The waiting room was decorated with flyers of runaways, missing wives, and men who slipped the guard at outpatient centers. Needs medication, every flyer claimed. A picture of a red-haired girl said across the bottom, We love you. We won’t lock you up. Below that, a second hand had scrawled, Yeah, rite, Suckah. A few plaques said, In Loving Memory of.
There was a stack of pamphlets, From Here to Paternity: Surviving Early Fatherhood, and a glossy poster that read, Be Up-Beat, Not Beat-Up! with a picture of three happy women, heads tipped back, perfect makeup. A Friendly Message from BAPP: Baloneytown Abuse Prevention Program.
I stole a tack from the BAPP poster and added my own cry for help: Missing, Rubber Chicken. Plucky.
When I reached the front of the line, the receptionist gave me a clipboard with a form to fill out and a greasy pen dug from a cup on her desk. I sat lightly along the front of an orange chair, bad leg out in front. On the form,