Clown Girl - Monica Drake [79]
Stevie Wonder’s voice melted, then ground to a slurry, low halt.
A fist came at my face in scattered blows. I was blinded. No—not a fist. It was a hard blast, a bitter stream, a fire extinguisher beat against me.
“Coulrophobia !” I sputtered. The fire extinguisher gang !
The blast moved from my face down my arm, then was gone. I blinked until my vision cleared.
The first thing I saw was Herman’s naked muscled butt, his pants in one hand. He sprayed a white blast of fire extinguisher foam, but the extinguisher was small, and here size definitely mattered ; it sent a stream light as piss dancing over the sizzling yard.
“Get the hose !” He yelled. “Spray down the house.”
I tried to breathe.
When I didn’t move, he yelled again. “You’re out, OK? You’re out. So help with this shit.”
Out? Kicked out? I lay on my back. The Pendulous Breasts sat on my chest like twin demons. The sand was twice as heavy soaked by the fire extinguisher. I was beat up. Spent. “Out of the house ?” I asked.
Herman didn’t let on if he heard me. He ran for the hose.
Italia came from the house more slowly. Wrapped in a tiny blue bathrobe, legs naked, she sipped a carton of protein drink and leaned away from the smoke. She said, “God, you’re self-centered. He means out, like you’re not on fire, right?” Then she said, “Oh, wait. I see a spark.” With one long, muscled and tattooed arm, in slow motion, she poured her drink on me. The protein drink was a pale, lumpy cascading ripple from the dark sky, a thick splash against my open eye, and I jerked away. Nauseous. She tapped my scorched Big Booty with one foot. “Girl, you’ve let yourself go. The least you could do is get up.”
WHEN THE FIRE DEPARTMENT GOT THERE I WAS STILL ON my back on the ground, wet and cold, trying to breathe and wanting to vomit. The Juicy Caboosey tush put me in some kind of yoga move, with my back arched and head tipped.
My fake boobs were scorched, pocked with melted nylon.
I was sick. The yard was a blackened scar. Herman’s face was a dark mask, soot-stained, eyes red and rimmed in white. He was a Clown Prince of his own, or at least a Barenaked Baron. Once the fire was out, he stopped and put his pants on.
The paramedics knelt to check my vitals. “Just relax, OK?” A fresh-faced boy paramedic put a coat under my head to fix the angle made by the Ass.
“It’s my heart,” I said. I put a hand on the boob suit. “I have a bad heart.”
“We’ll give it a listen,” the fresh-faced paramedic said. “So, what’s your name ?”
I told the paramedics my name as many times as they asked—maybe five or seven. I told them my real name, Nita, not Juicy Caboosey or Sniffles. I held out my arm for the saline drip; that thin needle under the skin fed saltwater, a hospital-standardized taste of the ocean, to revive the premammalian center, bloodstream like an early memory.
“You’ll be OK,” a paramedic said. They lifted me, complete with the sandbag weight of the Ass and the Pendulous Demon Twins on my chest, onto their lowered gurney.
Where was Jerrod ? My cop, my safety net, that apple dumpling of a uniformed streusel. The EMTs buckled me in. My hands were hot under new burns. Herman brought his soot-streaked face toward mine. Behind him, the sign, Baloneyville Co op, was blackened.
He let me hold his hand and followed alongside the gurney. I wanted to squeeze Herman’s hand, to transfer heat, to make him my salve.
“Herman. I’m dying.” I coughed. My chest was tight. A paramedic shoved an extra blanket under the arch of my back.
Herman rolled his red-rimmed eyes.
“You’re not dying,” he said. “And you’re not getting out this easy. When you come back, house meeting. No fire tricks.”
Nadia-Italia yelled, “She