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Clown Alley

chapter 1

By Chris MinnickPublished 3 years ago 6 min read
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As Mike was dying, he could only think of one thing. No, that’s not true. He was thinking of many things. The first was, “Am I dying?” The second was “It hurts.” The third was about how he no longer had control of his body. But, then as he settled into acceptance of these things, he could only think of one other thing: he regretted not having the courage to face his problems head on. He regretted spending so many years in hiding. He regretted that when he, for just a moment, and in a clown jail of all places, when he had a real connection with a person, he was too scared to treat that as the rare moment it was, to say and do the things that needed to be said and don’t. He chose hiding. Now, here he was dying, and that person was holding his hand, and he couldn’t get his tongue and lips to form the words.

Even now, there was still time to change, because this would be the 2nd time Mike died. The first time was a fake.

Having just escaped from clown jail, Mike and Jordan sat in a bar in Billings, Montana and he told her about the one good idea he’d had during the twenty years he spent hiding from the clowns.

“It actually came to me in a dream,” he said, “It’s a room with mirrors on all the walls, the ceiling, the floors – all different types of mirrors – convex, concave, you name it.”

Jordan raised her hand to cut him off as she took a long drink from her gin and tonic.

“So ... you invented the fun house?”

“No, this is nothing like a fun house,” said Mike. “In this room, the mirrors are constantly being moved, and the walls and exit with them – only the way the mirrors are set up, you can’t tell that they’re being moved. Loud music plays to cover up the noise of the machinery.”

“No, you’re right,” said Jordan, “This doesn’t sound like fun at all. So, what was the point again?”

“What’s the point of any illusion?” Mike pondered his own question then said the first pseudo-wise thing he could think of: “To confuse the people who know that it’s not real, and to amaze the people who know that it is.”

“That’s too heavy for me right now, dude,” said Jordan.

“Yeah, okay, fine. Another drink?”

“Yup.”

Mike ordered another round – a gin and tonic and a local IPA called Big Sky Moose Droppings or some shit. The bartender updated and replaced the tab in the lowball glass in front of them, and Jordan peeled another twenty off the roll of cash in her purse and put it under the glass with the previous four.

Having just escaped from clown jail, Mike wanted to talk about the experience and to apologize to Jordan for getting her involved in his nightmare life, and to tell her that he admired her somewhat unconventional but successful scheme that broke them both out. Mike liked to think he knew about illusions, about mind reading and palmistry, about escape arts and artists. But Jordan was a master of them all. Mike, on the other hand, felt like he had twenty years’ experience as a magician’s assistant – ready to squeeze into a box and disappear whenever needed.

Jordan wasn’t sure what to make of Mike. If he had any money or possessions, he would have fit her profile for an easy mark exactly – but that’s the thing. Middle-aged white guy with a boring life, depression, an alcohol problem, lonely, no friends or family. She took her Sharpie out of her purse and made marks on the back of her hand as she ticked through her list. But, he wasn’t gullible, and that changed everything.

He called her out on her standard sob story for middle-aged white dudes the day they met, and she was pissed, but she appreciated it. Not much of a talker, this one, but he was a great drinker, judging by how fast he put away that Moose Balls beer or whatever the fuck it was called.

Jordan slapped her hand down on top of Mike’s on the bar and looked into his eyes, making hers big and trying to imitate that corny thing Mike did with his eyebrow when he was thinking.

“Buck up and order us some of that fancy hootch you go on about, partner. The liquor’s free here.”

Mike ordered two double Scotches, neat, and with water backs. He was relieved to have something else to talk about, and he knew he could tell a good Scotch story.

Mike thought about when Mr. Schmid first introduced him to Scotch. Mike was a few days out of college, and returned to the circus as its business manager. Mr. Schmid, the owner of the circus, used Scotch to teach Mike about giving a shit and having respect for quality – quality of thought, quality of your work, quality of experience – and the importance of paying attention. Mike thought he understood, but putting the lessons into action was difficult, and Mike took the easy way out and it ruined the circus, sent Mike into hiding, and cut him off from his friends and circus family. Would things have worked out differently if he never learned about Scotch? “Quality time” has a very different meaning for most people than what Mr. Schmid taught Mike. But more on that later.

A sports bar was hardly the place for a lecture about quality and the different kinds of peat, etc. Jordan was waiting for him to say something. He’d only known her for a couple weeks, but they’d become familiar with each other’s ways and had a crash course already in each other’s strengths and weaknesses – as will happen when you’re locked in clown jail with someone.

Mike picked up his glass, tapped the edge of Jordan’s with it, and drank it in a single swallow. Jordan laughed and did the same. A good bartender would have been there right away to refill the twenty dollar pours, but this was shortly after noon at a sports bar called Hooligan’s on a Wednesday, and the bartender was laughing with the hostess about something on one of the bar’s thirty TVs. The hostess was keeping an eye on the door, and made a quick pivot and returned to the front when a stumbling drunk outside got too close to coming in. Jordan shouted, “Excuse me, sir, another round of your finest!”

The bartender, startled, returned and poured two more doubles just as the stumbling drunk managed to open the door and enter. He made a speech – something about being God, then left with the hostesses encouragement.

“Billings seems like a nice place,” said Mike, “Want to get an apartment and stay here for a while?”

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About the Creator

Chris Minnick

Chris Minnick studied creative writing at the University of Michigan and has authored over a dozen books about computer programming and two novels. He writes, lives, and swims in Astoria, Oregon.

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