“Unimpressed clown left with unfinished puzzle.” The headline is impressive, if unusual. I feel amused but unenthusiastic in retrospect. I have lingering, youthful clown trauma. After much deliberation, I find absolution. The only answer: become the hated.
Greasepaint and varicolors hide my identity. In this drag, I walk nocturnal. Lamplight and shenanigans fill the evening. Dreamlike, the night aggressively closes in. Tender sounds of insects accompany me. I flap my way into night.
My clowning objective becomes suddenly clear. The Ring cameras line the block. I walk to each and cavort. I caper; I preen; I gambol. In ten houses, no human stirs. No doors open to my escapade.
Dejected, I return home and surrender. I wash my face and weep. I reject the memory of failure. However, I cannot avoid the inevitable. With regrets I place the ad.
“For sale. Floppy shoes. Worn once.”