Tally, the Clown From Hell!; Chapter Three

Chapter Three:

     Tally’s oversized clown shoes slapped out a rhythm of desperation that echoed off walls and returned empty-handed to his ears.  It was 2 in the morning, and the streets and sidewalks were both empty.  Bart staggered blindly ahead, with no destination in mind, and in a alcohol-fueled fog.  That he still wore his clown shoes, was completely due to the fact his mind was totally preoccupied with the problem of figuring out his next move.  He’d been let go from Wacky Ranger Frank’s Family Circus, and Big Jim’s House of Guns, and now he was one pathetic clown, indeed.  He’d started drinking at The Crazy Tankard Tavern, and finished by drinking what tasted like, and may as well been, paint thinner he’d made himself, out of the leftover dregs of several liquor bottles he had at home, and despair. 

 

     He came to, blinking in the harsh morning sunlight.  Where was he?

     “Hey, mister, do something funny!”  The voice belonged to an elementary-aged kid, one of several that surrounded Tally.  His blurry, bloodshot eyes took in the sight, and he struggled to get to his feet.  Empty beer cans fell off him, as he wearily rose. 

     “Come on, Mr. Clown!” encouraged another in the crowd.

     “Screw you, kid; in fact, screw all of you!  Get away from me; go home!”

     The kids looked at the sorry excuse for a clown, and walked away in a group, but not before Tally heard,

     “Man, he’s not very funny!”, and, “Suck it, clown mother f****r!” from the group of retreating kids. 

     Man, if he had talked like that when he was younger?   Just where he’d acquired beer was a mystery to him; as far as he knew, he was completely broke.  Maybe he didn’t want to know!  He watched as liquid spears of the beer left in the empty cans ran in mini-rivers into the gutter.  Fitting, because that pretty much summed up his life; in the gutter.  Now what? 

 

     He had been unemployed for weeks now, and was reduced to sleeping on park benches, because he’s long ago lost his apartment.  Landlords frowned on deadbeat tenants who didn’t pay their rent, on time, or ever.  Summer had given way to fall, and soon he could give his Frosty the Clown impression.  He sure wished he had some different clothes, but his landlord had locked him out of his apartment one night he had a show for the kids, and when he’d returned, the locks had been changed, and there was a note on his door:

     “To Bart Hoover; you’ll get your possessions back when you pay ALL of the back rent!”

     The hell with that; there wasn’t much that he’d wanted, but his clothes might have been nice!  Oh well.  When he’d awoken this morning, he’d been surrounded by down and out people, one of whom had stolen his shoes!  After ranting and raving for about an hour, and trying to think about what he could use for footwear, a dude had waddled by, with the awkward gait that Bart knew well, and Bart had recognized him from his audience upon waking, and yelled for him to return the shoes.  The guy replied,

     “Fine; take your damn shoes; I don’t see how you clowns walk in them, anyway,” and he’d flopped down and untied the floppy shoes, handed them back to Bart, and walked away, both limping and cursing. 

 

     Bart slapped his way into the convenience store with a help wanted sign in the window.  Up to the counter he went, getting incredulous looks from the other customers, as well as the middle-aged man behind the cash register. 

     “Hey clown, what can I do ya for?” and then he erupted in laughter.  

“Hey clown!  Hey clown!”  Eh, ha, ha, ha!”

     Man, the guy should have gotten his own act together; his obvious comedic talent was just wasted here! Bart thought.  “Yeah, the sign in the window says help wanted. Is the job still available?”

     “For a clown like you?  Eh, ha, ha. A clown like you!”

     Eh, ha, ha, fricking ha!  “Yes, is it?”

     “Well, you’ll have to speak to my manager, but as far as I know, yeah.”

     You mean, with brains like you’re sporting, you’re not the manager? thought Bart.  “Fine, can I?”

     “Can you what?”

     S**t! thought Bart.  “Speak to your manager?”

     “Sure dude; wait here please,” and he left, in search of intelligence.  Good luck with that! thought Bart.

 

     After a couple of minutes, that Bart had had a couple of customers where the beef jerky aisle was, and to which he replied rather testily,

     “Does it look like I work here?”, a short man with a beard came up, and said to the employee Bart had sent to find the manager,

     “Is this the clown?; eh, ha, ha!”

     Bart rolled his eyes; why me, he thought.

     “Yeah, this is the clown who wants to work here; eh, ha, ha!”

     “Well, let’s see your routine.”

     “Pardon?”

     “Well, to be honest, I’ve already hired someone else, but we could use the entertainment; that is if you’re any good!”

     “Well, s**t, mister, thanks for nothing!”

     “That’s it?  Pal, you’re act blows; I mean, “Well s**t, mister”?!”

 

     So, once again, Tally was a clown without a big-top!

    

 

    

 

Reviews

[char]

Poor Tally. To read the downfall of an individual is awful. I like the descriptions you added. I could actually imagine Tally. A clown with bloodshot eyes. That reminds me of a parade back when I was tiny. The clown was being goofy and making everyone laugh. But when I got a close-up, the guy had the deepest frown lines and he looked at me with dead eyes. It was a bit disturbing.

[Michael Stevens]

Yeah, there's something quite disturbing about clowns; makes for good comedy though. Think 'Crusty' on 'The Simpsons'!