A Wonderful Life (9 page)

I got the call at 2 am. I don't know why, but I always seem to get the call at 2 am.

I put on my clothes using the neon light from across the street at the topless bar to dress and then checked my gun to make sure it was properly loaded. I didn't expect anything to happen, but you never know.

The place was this burger joint on 12th. Several cops were already on the scene, checking for clues and things that might seem out of the ordinary. The photographer was taking pictures of the small crowd; when there's been a murder, often the suspect hides out in the crowd, transfixed by the events caused by his violence.

But this was no murder. I took one look and immediately knew what had happened.  This clown took his own life. Yes, this clown.

Tonight, I mourn the loss of Ronald McDonald, clown extraordinaire.

Some kids are clowns who grow up wanting to be cops.  I grew up wanting to be a clown and then became a cop.

Ask the guys at the station, and they'll all tell you I'm the funniest guy they know, that I can always make them laugh.

But I always knew I was never on the same level as Ronald.  I mean, who could be?

When you join the force, no one ever tells you that one day you might be leaning over the dead body of someone you once admired as a child.  To me, Ronald was the epitome of clowns. The way he used to hold his head up as little kids, kids like me, used to come up to him and the way he would play with us.  There was no faking that kind of love he used to share for us kids. Sometimes it's....

Sergeant Crowley motioned me over.  "Seems to be a powdery substance all over the place. You think maybe he was high?"

I looked down, unbelieving at first. No, Ronald McDonald was not doing drugs. I knew him from childhood. He just wasn't the type. That was when I realized that the powder was just that: powder. The blast from the bullet knocked the powder right from his skin. I pointed this out to Sergeant Crowley.

He just shook his head. "What would make a clown want to take his own life?  I thought they were supposed to be happy creatures."

"Not this clown," I said. "Definitely not this clown."

By the time I got home, my wife was already at work so I made myself some eggs for breakfast.  I was about to serve myself when I heard a sound right behind me.  I turned around to see something that just didn't fit into my normal scheme of things.

He was tall, about six and a half feet by my best guestimate, and his clown make-up was smeared all across his face.  He looked like something that would scare children, not entertain them.

"Who are you?" I said, even though I already suspected the answer.

He just smiled, the make-up dripping down his face. "I think you know."

Yes, I knew. Even though it didn't seem possible, there he was, standing in front of me. The clown formerly known as Ronald.  "I don't normally entertain dead clowns, so forgive my manners. Would you care for something to eat?"

To my surprise, he sat down at my table and started in on my eggs. I was about to say something, but he spoke first.  "I've been eating Egg McMuffins for years; the change is good, and the food is not as greasy."

"Ronald, I don't mean to be rude, but what are you doing here?"

"I thought we could talk," he said.

I was confused. "Why me?"

He just smiled, but said nothing.  He started making balloon animals, creating a twisted looking dog and then placing it on the table.  "I needed someone to talk to, and you seemed like the logical choice.  I saw you out there, Flatfoot.  You seemed to care; not like the other cops who showed up on the scene."

This was embarrassing, if not a bit absurd.  Here I was, in my kitchen, talking to a dead clown who was eating my eggs for breakfast and telling me how I cared more than the other cops on the scene. This is one of those stories of police work they just don't tell you about at the Academy.

"You know something, Flatfoot, I wasn't always a clown.  I used to be an actor. I was pretty big, too, at the time. Then it seems this guy had an idea about promoting his new restaurant.  Asked me if I wanted to make it big. I said I did, and the next thing I knew, I was running this multi-million dollar corporation.  Oh yeah! I had my name in lights. Over a million served…and I remember every damn one of them.

"Oh, don't get me wrong. The early days were great. Back then, I was the only clown on the block. Other clowns came later, like that Jack kid. Came by and tried to muscle in on my territory. Oh, we fought big battles back then for burger supremacy, but in the long run, I won. After all, I was the better clown."

I was tired. Waking up at 2 am in the morning does not put one in the best condition to deal with a venting clown.  "No offense, Ronald, but can you get to the point?"

"I figured I had to tell somebody my story before I finally left.  Before, no one would ever listen to me, because they kept wanting to see the happier side of me, didn't want to see a sad clown.  I kept telling them over and over that I was hurting inside, that I needed something in return for all of the laughter I was giving the world, but they wouldn't listen.  They just kept asking for more. And I kept giving it, too.

"The little kids were the worst.  They'd come to me, sit on my lap and then tell me what they wanted for Christmas.  Me! Do you know how many times I wanted to lash out at these little morons and say:
Hey! Wrong department! Santa's workshop is that way!
But I never did. Had to always toe the line, say the right thing. Let these little bastards feel that everything was hunky dorey. Just once I wanted to take my fist and rip it into..."

"Ronald! You're dead. Why did you come back?"

"You know, Flatfoot, when the business really picked up, when we were all over the world, things really started to change.  My old clown friends didn't want to hang out with me anymore, said I was too big for my own good.  My only friends were other big stars. We used to hang out together. We were the only real friends we had.   Did you know I was there when Mickey and Minnie overdosed on ratnip?  Yeah, he thinks I was too wasted to remember. But I did.

"All this time, I kept building and building, stretching that empire thicker and thicker.  We reached over a billion served and just kept on going.  We were everywhere. And no matter where we went, people just wanted me to make them laugh. Do you know what a burden that is? Just once, I wanted to be myself. Walk into a crowded room and just say nothing, do nothing, with no obligations.

"You know, Flatfoot, this may sound strange, but my whole life I've just wanted someone to make ME laugh, to tell me a joke, even a bad one, but they never do. They expect it from me, and I always delivered. No complaints, no protests. One joke, one lampshade after another. And I always left them laughing. Just once...."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Just once WHAT? Look at yourself. You're a clown, for Godsake, and you look terrible. You know? You used to mean something. You used to be something. A lot of people respected you, looked up to you.
I
used to respect you. You know? When I was a kid, I saw you for the first time, laughing and telling jokes. You made me respect clowns, and I never forgot that."

"Do you know what a life it is having to make people laugh day in and day out? Do you even understand the sacrifices I have to go through to do such a thing?  Do you even care, Flatfoot?"

"Hey, Ronald, you signed up for this job. You're a clown, and that's what you do. Are you trying to say you can't cut the mustard after all of these years?"

Ronald just stared at me, tossing a balloon animal to his side.  "Flatfoot, I'm tired.  I couldn't take it anymore.  No one should have to make everyone laugh and smile all of the time.  It's just not...human."

Then he went silent and didn't say anything else.

For a long time, neither one of us said anything.  There just didn't seem to be anything to say.  Finally, I spoke:

“Hey Ronald! How many clowns does it take to screw in a light bulb?”

He looked up at me.  There were tears in his eyes.  "I don't know. How many?"

"Ten. One to turn the light bulb, the other nine to pile inside."

He started to smile. Then the smile turned to a laugh. Then he was laughing hysterically. “That's funny, Flatfoot.  That's really funny.”

Then he turned to go, and he was gone.

THE END

I was seven years old when my dad died; someone killed him for no reason, at least that’s what they told me. Oh, it’s okay. I’m ten years old now, so that was a long time ago. I don’t cry about it as much as I used to.

My mom was alone for a long time until she met Tom, and he kind of moved in for awhile. He was always okay with me, although I used to hate how he used to mess up my hair all the time. Then he and my mom got married, and he became different. I mean, he was the same guy, but he was like not the same guy. It’s hard to explain. My mom doesn’t like me to talk about it.

“Carol, I don’t know why you baby the kid. If he doesn’t start standing up for himself, he’s going to get pushed around for the rest of his life. When I was a kid, my dad taught me the way things were supposed to be, and I learned them.  You don’t see anyone taking advantage of me these days, do you?”   “
Oh, he’s just a kid?
  When are you going to realize you’re not doing him any favors? That’s not a son you have here, it’s a little girl, and if you don’t do something about it, he’s going to live the rest of his life as a little girl!”

Whenever I used to come home from school, I used to keep my eye out for Billy Porter. Billy Porter was the biggest kid in our school, and for some reason I still don’t understand, he started following me home and throwing rocks at me.  He has a lot of friends, and they come with him, so I’m always having to run the last five blocks with them chasing me on their bicycles.  One time, Billy threw a rock and hit me in the back of the head; when I got home, no one was home, so I went to lie down as my head was hurting a lot.  My mom came home a couple of hours later, and she noticed there was blood all over my bed.  The doctor told me I might have died.

I don’t like Billy Porter very much. I don’t think he likes me either.

I’ve never had a lot of friends. The other kids don’t really like me. I guess I get on their nerves. So I started finding things I could do by myself. First, I played a lot of board games, pretending there was someone there playing with me, but after Tom got laid off from his job, he was around the house more, so I didn’t like being there when he was there. Plus, he used to want me out of the house.

So, I was walking by this basketball court that was all empty and stuff, so I got my dad’s basketball out of the garage and started to shoot with it.

At first, I wasn’t very good, but after a couple of days, I found that more and more of my shots went into the basket.  Then I started to watch a lot of basketball games on TV. But they were usually really big guys, so I just watched and knew a little guy like me would never be one of them. Then I saw the Globetrotters, and there was this little guy named Curly who could do lay-ups and shoot from half court. Right then and there I realized that I wanted to be just like him.

So, I started playing every day, and I got better and better. I also didn’t have to see Tom that much, and that was okay. He was starting to drink a lot, and he used to get really scary when he was drinking. Sometimes, if my mom was working late, I would stay out late and play basketball even after it got dark.

“Hey, kid. Come over here. I wanna talk to you.”  I could tell he was drinking again; he had that slurry sound to his voice when he spoke.  I always got scared whenever heard him like that.  “What the hell are you playing basketball for? What,
you
four and a half feet tall? Think anyone’s gonna let you play for them?”  For a second there, I thought he was going to get up off the couch and come at me, but I guess he was too drunk to do anything.  “What the hell are you staring at?  Your mother never teach you no manners?  I am an adult, and you’re just a kid! Do you think ‘cause your daddy’s dead that I won’t beat the living crap out of you?  Probably do you some good, you little piece of shit.”  Then he started laughing at me as I moved slowly away from him.  “Go on to your room. Go play with your dolls.”  He was really drunk this time.  “You know, if you were my kid, you’d be dead by now, you piece of shit.”

So I started playing more and more basketball. There were times when I imagined I was playing right alongside of the real Globetrotters themselves. I’d catch the rebound, toss it off to Meadowlark Lemon who would then throw it to Curly, who would toss it back to me, and in it would go. Score!

Then Washington would have the ball going the other way, and off the backboard it would come, right into my hands, back the way it was before, and down the court I’d go, the Washington team chasing close behind until…well, I’m sure you get the idea. We were a team; I was a globetrotter, and I’d have lots of friends, and the crowd would cheer my name along with their names, and people like Tom would leave me alone and people like Billy Porter would leave me alone and things would be okay, and my mom would understand that yes, Tom
did
hit me, and my dad would be alive again and I’d….I’d be a globetrotter.

The first time Tom hit me, it was when my mom was at work. He was drinking again, and he got all mad at me because I had returned home late from playing with the Globetrotters. The next day, he hit me because I came home too early. When my mom asked me about the bruises, I told her what happened, and she told me that wasn’t true, and I was never to say it again. The next night, Tom beat me up real bad, saying I should never have told on him because now it meant I was a tattler and tattlers got punished.

So I played more basketball. It was only a matter of time before Billy Porter and his gang figured out where I was playing, and they showed up one day.  I was making shots from the free-throw line when Billy Porter and then walked onto the court and grabbed the ball after it went in the basket.  I was hoping they were going to play with me, but Billy Porter threw the ball and hit me in the head. I fell down, and my head was hurting a lot. Before I could get up, Billy Porter was on top of me, and he was holding the basketball in his hands, telling me he was going to shove it down my throat, although I didn’t think that would really be possible, yet I didn’t feel like arguing with him either.

Then as it looked like he was going to hit me again, I saw colors of red, white and blue all around me, almost as if a dozen flags had suddenly been dropped onto the court. Billy Porter let go of me and stood up as the entire Globetrotter team gathered around us.  Curly, the shortest of the team, stood up in front of Billy Porter, and even he was bigger than the rest of Billy Porter and his friends. I’ll never forget his voice: “If you pick on one Globetrotter, you pick on all Globetrotters. I don’t think you wanna do that.”

And then Billy Porter and his friends were gone, faster than Meadowlark Lemon in a full court press. The last thing I remember was Curly asking me if I wanted to play another game, that we were ten points behind Washington, and we were in a crunch. To this day, I don’t remember how that game came out.

I guess I’d like to say that a happy ending came from my days as a globetrotter, but my career ended soon after that day. A couple of weeks later, a teacher noticed the bruises on my face and called the police. A foster home later, I was never put through that again.

I’m sure a psychologist would say that I imagined the whole thing, that the Globetrotters were just a figment of my imagination. But hey, I got to keep the game ball, and that’s got to stand for something.

THE END