Hello friends and neighbors. I hope I didn’t alarm anyone by skipping yesterday. Apparently not, because not a single one of my devoted followers reached out to see if I was dead in a ditch. Although to be fair, my nearest and dearest knew what I was doing and where I was. Anyway, I’m fine, it just boils down to me being a procrastinator extraordinaire and didn’t bother getting anything put down before I began my journey halfway across the state. Then after dinner and maybe some two-for-one beers, I no longer felt the supreme drive to write. So, since I’m writing today, in my rules in Amy Land, I still say this counts and it’s not cheating. I’m just a day late. And I have addressed my problem head-on. But the “dead in a ditch” phrase reminds me of when I worked for the fencing outfit and I would call all the crew leaders at 2:00 on the nose (unless I was asshole deep in alligators, but typically things had mellowed by that point in the day). The purpose of the call was to make sure they were on schedule either to finish or they would be on overtime to finish or needed an extra day (that was very bad and I hated to hear those words). Also, just to make sure they hadn’t died from heat exhaustion, rattlesnake bite, bear attack, truck fire, angry neighbors….any number of things could befall them. I never knew fencing carried so many potential hazards. And yes, we faced all of those at one time or another during my two years there. Well, no one was ever actually attacked by a bear, but they saw plenty of them, including Annie at Anakeesta. And nobody was bitten by a rattlesnake, but they saw plenty up in Townsend on the guardrail job. That was the time that one guy who claimed to be hardcore and could keep up with anybody (he was a gym rat and used to a climate-controlled environment, not 100° in the shade) called an ambulance for himself at about 3 in the afternoon on his very first day. This is the type of thing that can be headed off by a check-in.
ANYWAY. I’m a little low on inspiration (well, of the family-friendly type, and also from my observations today I will be writing another blog with yet another prompt later). So here goes nothin’.

Writing Prompt #431 “The clown was drunk”

It was my five-year-old’s birthday. He had been obsessed with clowns for two years. It’s a little hard to find a clown in Witchita, Kansas. I was thinking back in the eighties when I grew up they were a dime a dozen. Like, you just flipped through the yellow pages under “clowns” and BAM, presto-chango, here was a three-column wide selection. Of course, now we don’t have Yellow Pages, we have Google, and all the listings looked a little suspicious like they were actually a front for running drugs. So I asked around to the playgroup moms if any of them knew an entertainer for children’s parties. It’s amazing to me the lengths people go to to ensure a good time for little Suzie and Billy these days. They’ll rent out entire venues instead of just a room. They get chauffeured limos to transport their offspring and guests around town to the movies, the ice cream joint, the zoo, or whatever activity they’re partaking in. When I was growing up, we just had a sprinkler in the birthday boy’s backyard and some of those crepe paper streamers slung up around the porch. Rich kids got helium balloons, the rest of us just had a few taped to the mailbox to alert attendees to the correct house. If you were a working-class family and wanted a clown, you went to the circus, unless you knew somebody with a clown costume that could be paid in beer and pizza.
But my kid wanted a clown, and clown he would have if I could just procure one.
Luckily, one of the moms did and could vouch for the excellence of service. She still had the number in her phone. They doubled up on business by offering bounce houses, as well. With water features. That sounded like an ER bill waiting to happen, to me. No bounce houses in our future.
So I hired the clown. I ordered the cake (circus-themed). I hung the streamers. I picked up the balloons and bought the ice cream and grilled the cheeseburgers and hot dogs. Kids arrived, presents in tow, Moms looked relieved to have an afternoon off. They weren’t bothered in the slightest to leave their little cherubs with a family they’d met a time or two in a public place.
3:00. Cue the clown.
3:15. Clown is late. Children are beginning to whine.
3:30. Call the company. Closed on Saturday. Of course. That makes perfect sense. The biggest party day when you’ll have the most product out and nobody in the office.
3:45. A beater Honda Civic pulls to the curb and a clown way past his prime tumbles out. I’m hoping it’s part of the act, but it quickly becomes apparent it most certainly is NOT. I had been anticipating a Bozo the Clown type, and this was more like one you’d see on Southpark. He cussed and kicked his door shut, adding one more dent to the chipped gold paint. What was one more? Certain memories of John Wayne Gacy surfaced, flashbacks of news coverage when the story broke. I was somewhat mollified to remember that everyone said he was a FLAWLESS clown. The tiny partygoers that had immediately flocked to our current clown began to shrink back. I approached him cautiously.
“Uh, hi?”
He appraised me and all I can say is I wish I had opted for a turtleneck sweater and ski pants. I find clowns marginally creepy at best and this guy was off the charts for Ick Factor.
“You’re a little late, but come this way and I’ll show you where to set up. You brought balloons to make the animals with, right?” I asked because I noticed his hands were empty.
He uttered yet another expletive. “I forgot them. But I can improvise. Got any condoms?”
A stupid question to ask, not only because he was at a KID’s birthday party, but because we’re at a KID’s birthday party. The inappropriateness was off the charts.
“Uh, ya know, I think we’re good here. We’re just fixing to have cake and ice cream and I believe it would be best if you just went back the way you came.”
He spread his hands. “Whoa whoa whoa. No reason to be hasty! We can still have a good time.” He flashed a grin made much more sinister by the hastily applied paint and produced two handfuls of airplane bottles. “Whaddya say?”
I all but pushed him back down the driveway. “I say you should probably call someone to pick you up. Please leave now.”
He collapsed in a pile of sighs. “I always wanted to be a clown. But Ringling Brothers went belly up and nobody else wanted me. Not even the rodeo. Do you have any idea how hard it is to come by work? I’m living in my car!! It’s a small car!!! I had to get rid of my dog, he was the star of my show. Only the true freaks call me, I thought you were one of them! I didn’t know it was a wholesome kid’s party, I swear! I have to get drunk to endure the stuff people ask of me! Can I sober up and come back tomorrow?”
I regarded him incredulously. “Are you kidding me??? The party is today! It’s RIGHT NOW. And not only are you late, you’re drunk and wanting to entertain children. This is the most ludicrous thing that’s ever happened to me, and that’s saying a lot. I’m calling your company Monday. My suggestion to you is to find a new dream. Maybe something in spirit sampling, because you appear to be very good at that.”
And I all but stuffed him back in his car, rainbow wig and all. A solitary tear rolled down his cheek.
And that is how you make a drunk clown cry.

Can’t you just see this happening??? I sure can.

Love and procrastination from Appalachia,

~Amy