Clown Girl - Monica Drake [92]
I cut in: “I do! I do! This is serious clowning. Performance.”
He tapped the daisy glasses. “I’d say the Elton John shades aren’t the way to show it.”
“It’s a paradox, I know, but I’m a serious clown.”
He shook his head. “I get the feeling you’re trying to hide…” He said, “This is the first time I’ve seen your hair. I’ve never seen your face without makeup.”
“Is that so different from other women?”
“I don’t know if I could pick you out of a lineup.” He opened another packet from the first aid kit, and unfolded the white baby-scented towelette. “So, why’re you hiding?” He started to wipe makeup from my cheek.
I ducked, dodged his hand. “I’m not hiding. I’m performing.” I smelled his sweetness, along with baby oil and antiseptic.
“You can’t perform all the time.” When he leaned in, I let him. Slowly, carefully, he wiped makeup from under my eyes. The cloth was cool against my fevered skin. He ran it along my jawline. My throat tightened. My eyes grew warm, like I was going to cry, and I felt like there was something I meant to say, but couldn’t remember what.
Jerrod said, “Maybe, sometimes, I hide behind the cop clothes too, in my own way. It’s a costume, sure, but what I know from experience is, you’ve got to let yourself breathe. Right? Keep some private time. Give in a little, and relax. I don’t even know your real name.”
If that was a question, I didn’t answer it. Jerrod ran his damp cloth down the side of my face.
I said, “I relax in costume.” I felt more at ease when I was close to Rex, and I was closer to Rex when I wore Rex’s clothes. The work was our work, Rex’s and mine. With each swipe over my skin, Jerrod moved me further from clowndom. Further from Rex. I grabbed his arm. “That’s enough. Don’t.”
The mattress crinkled. Here it comes, I thought. The moves, the fetish. The kiss. I held my breath. The warehouse hummed. The lights were bright and timeless.
He said, “OK. So show me something then.”
I turned, looked at him. What did he mean?
“A trick, a skit, a sketch… ” He waved a hand, as though at an invisible stage, and so called on the Clown Code of Ethics to hold me accountable: when in costume, in character.
“Fair enough.” His request wasn’t so different from every kid on the street, every coulrophile and corporation, but this time it was more than a fair trade for the return of Chance and Plucky. Besides, I could use the audience feedback. “I’ve got a little something I’m working on.”
I stood and found a spot on the floor in front of Jerrod. There was an awkward moment of calling up my character, getting into the swing. I wiped my hands on my thighs. “Don’t look at me,” I said, and gave a nervous smile.
“Don’t look?” With a hand on Chance’s back, he said in her ear, “We must have the cheap seats.”
I laughed, embarrassed. “Just give me a minute, like the curtains are closed?”
He averted his eyes, hummed, tapped his hand against the mattress. He leaned back against his palms and crossed his feet at the ankles. I looked to the ceiling as though to a guiding star. Then I turned my attention inward, took a long, deep breath, stood up straight, shoulders dropped, and counted backward from ten. Concentrating on each movement, I faced my audience, Jerrod and Chance.
“Here we go.” Right away my breathing was wrong but I plunged in. “This will be a brief presentation of the introduction to an interpretative version of Kafka’s ‘Metamorphosis’! My work in progress.”
Jerrod clapped, I gave a little bow, and took another deep breath to ready myself. Then all was silent except for the humming lights. I bent my knees, as though to sit in an invisible chair. My thighs ached, my groin muscle was tight. I straightened up, broke character, shook it out. “I should clarify, it’s not a literal rendition, if you know the story.”
“No need to explain.” He waved a hand, as though drawing me forward.
I said, “Ignore the bandages.”
He nodded, settled in, reclined with all the ease of a man eating grapes and wine in the grass on a summer day.
I bent my knees again, relaxed into