Clown Girl - Monica Drake [91]
“Christ figure,” I said.
He fit the roll of gauze back in the tin box, and stacked the Band-Aids. “What’s that?”
“The one that looks like a knot? It’s supposed to be Christ after the deposition.” I nodded. “Crumpled on the ground. My own invention.” I flexed my arm and felt the muscles shift under the wrap.
He said, “The one that’s like a knot, with two balloons worked together?”
“Ah, the knot with two, that’s the Ascension. Kind of looks like an octopus. All white?”
“The one I saw was blue and white.” The lid of his box wouldn’t close. He rearranged tubes of ointment, scissors, and packets.
“That’d be Mary. Mary at her son’s feet.” I lay back against the mattress.
“With the little thing at the top?” He made a corkscrew movement in the air.
“The angel, at her shoulder? That’s the Annunciation. Completely different.”
“OK, then. The Annunciation. That’s something I know—you tie the Annunciation in blue and white.” He muscled the box closed and tried to work the latch.
“Anybody who’s seen my show knows that…Wouldn’t they?” I added, “If they get it.”
“Could be a big ‘if,’” he said. “And I know you love your dog.” He moved his arm to give Chance a stroke; his cinnamon apple smell reached me through the cindered bouquet of my own skin. “That shows compassion… And I know you look great in a leotard, up for anything, and equally stunning in a fat suit. Not every woman can pull that off.”
So that was how he saw me—as a girl in leotard paid to do anything. Crack’s words. I sat up again. He smiled, a slight and boyish smile, and ran a hand over my good arm.
“You’ve got me wrong if you think I’m a hooker, or a stripper, or a heavily made-up chick in Lycra paid to do anything. I draw a line—I’m not in the clown gigs for the free drugs, or the groupies.”
“Whoa, whoa!” he said. “Back up. You see me as a groupie?”
“I don’t know… I appreciate you returning my stuff. It’s wonderful even, but I have to tell you up front, I’m not looking to date, paid or otherwise.”
“Paid?” He got up off the mattress. “Do I have my wallet out?”
He had something out. Is that a pistol or are you happy to see me? I held the nervous one-liner back. “Could be you’re trying to buy me with favors. All I want to do is clear the air, lay my cards out, right?”
“Maybe you’re not used to anyone being nice.”
I said, “Nice? I’m used to nice. I’m not an S&M clown, in it for the degradation, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“That hadn’t even crossed my mind! Sniffles, you’re making some fast assumptions—”
“Well, that’s the world we live in. I know what people think when they see a girl in a clown suit. With me, it doesn’t apply; I’m a straight up performer, in it for the show.”
“Jeez. I wouldn’t think you’re a hooker when you’re out there tying balloons into the Madonna and Child.”
What could I say to that?
“I mean, if you were tying Mary Magdalene, or a flock of sinners, then maybe…” Jerrod sat back down on the mattress. “Sniffles, I see you as a person trying to do meaningful work.
Meaningful to yourself, at least. I like your work ethic. Letting people know you’re a clown takes at least as much courage as being a cop.”
I looked to see if he was serious. There was no hint of ridicule.
“The way you stand up to the world, despite the clown bashings, the clown flashers…”
“Flashers?”
“The exhibitionists. The stalkers…” he said.
“Stalkers?”
“And the clown identity theft, the big-shoe fetishists…Some say it’s a fool’s game to wear a clown suit in Baloneytown, but the same folks probably think I’m a patsy to wear a uniform, to be the one sworn to keep this burg together. You’re just like this room—everything you do, it’s all evidence of who you are. You’re a risk taker, wearing your art on your sleeve the way I wear my badge.”
“You mean that?”
“Of course I mean it. After all the times I’ve seen you, and talked to you…But you’re right. I don’t really know you. I’ve never once seen you au naturel.”
“Naked?”
Jerrod said, “You