Re story ending

Dear Peter B, this story taken from my book The Literary Lunch has the kind of ending that I was telling you about on the phone – like it could have ended with the words…sorting out the state of the art.’ But, with the ending I did give it, I was trying to add a further dimension to the clown’s character – a man who can overcome adversity rather than being just a poor put down clown. And it also throws up a greater intrigue - was the gun real or wasn’t it? Let the readers work it out. And because I didn’t network along with the rest that day I got the story did I not? And by the way, the other 17 stories in TLL are just as good.   

 Clown/Juggler/Magician

and the Literary Barbecue

 

I first see him on the brow of the hill looking down on us. Even at that distance it is possible to recognise that it is a male figure and that by his attitude he is contemplating possibilities. But of what, I have no idea.

    But then my attention is taken by a nice line from the woman sitting on the collapsible canvas stool right in front of me. ‘It was so hot today even the flies seemed stunned,’ she says.

    She is leaning back against the rough bark of a Jelly Palm and addressing her friend who sits on a carry-rug at her feet but the voice is loud enough to encompass others in the vicinity who may be interested in her brief revelation. She is holding a transparent plastic cup in one hand and a sausage in the other. Both she and her friend are dressed in smart pant-suits of earthy toning reminiscent of Bali. Having made her point she lowers the sausage and frowns in the general direction of the setting sun. ‘Ah, Adelaide,’ she drawls, and there seems both awe and regret in her following sigh.

    Her friend nods acknowledgment as she beats at the hot, still air with her Writers’ Week program, and they both lapse into a contemplative silence. Beyond the tops of their nicely tinted hair (perfect yet, in spite of the heat), I see the distant, dark figure moving down the springy bank of grey buffalo grass towards us; although at this point there is some doubt in my mind that the crowd gathered around the barbecue is his eventual goal, for there appear to be several shifts in his intention. A moving first to the left of the crowd then a cutting back to skirt to the right.

    He has a loping sort of a walk, and a leaning, as if he may be favouring an old injury, and when once again he changes direction — this time heading into the very centre of the crowd — he is caught briefly in full silhouette against the setting sun. A bent stick of a man with a dome-shaped head. It seems now that rather than moving towards us he is simply growing — looming upwards out of the blaze of evening light.

    It isn’t until he is quite close that I realise the shape of his head is due to the fact he is wearing a bowler hat with an unusually narrow rim. Underneath this curious object his painted paste-white face is covered in red and green spots. Black brows ride ridiculously high over each eye and curl around to fade eventually into the spotted hollows of his cheeks. The general effect is an unyielding expression of sickly surprise, which will undoubtedly surmount all other expressions. No joke, no matter how hilarious, or pain excruciating, could possibly crack through that fixed intention.

    As he swings out of the sun’s glare other details emerge. His top half owes quite a deal to the tradition of the cockney ‘Pearly King’. Buttons of many shapes and hues decorate his frilled dress shirt in a series of Vs and scrolls that could have mystical symbolism, and his bottom half is clad in a black leotard, which sports random jagged holes through which rising welts of pinkness lend what is possibly an unintentional provocation of skin and flesh.

    I see he is carrying a silken brocade bag with leather straps slung over one shoulder. He bends slightly with its weight and I realise this accounts for his strange, lopsided walk. He stops, finally, directly in front of the two women in the pant-suits, lowers the bag onto the grass and immediately begins taking several items from it. But his concentration is elsewhere, for as his hand dips in and out of the bag he continues to peer about with little shifts of his head. He reminds me of someone unpacking a bag of groceries while they are watching television and I realise then that underneath the facade of painted surprise there are rapid calculations taking place. This man is a professional — a performer preparing to engage in his legitimate trade and he expects a just financial reward like everyone else.

    With his paraphernalia finally settled he stands upright and, like a swimmer on the blocks, his hands, arms, shoulders, droop and flick. His neck stretches and retracts. His eyes fall eventually on the two women under the Jelly Palm. He catches the eye of the one sitting on the stool and despite his surprised eyebrows he affects an expression that is at once cheeky, sad and appealing. ‘Ullo Maa-dum,’ he says, and the two simple words border on hilarity — restrained hysteria lurks in the quivering of his lips. He bends suddenly and whips a hideous light-green spotted handkerchief out of thin air. The spots look like dried snot randomly scattered across the handkerchiefs surface. He sweeps it up to his nose and blows noisily and then with the same spectacular flourish passes it on to the woman.

    Her instinctive response is to take it, but she suddenly realises what she is doing and withdraws her hand hurriedly as she laughingly shrieks her disapproval. The rejected handkerchief disappears as mysteriously as it had appeared. The clown leans closer to her. ‘I am sorry, Maa-dum, I could have sworn it was yours because you have one just like it tucked into the collar of your exquisite little outfit.’

    The handkerchief re-appears and flutters under her nose and she again rocks backwards with little screams of protest. She tries to hide her embarrassment by covering her face with pale, delicate hands. The clown immediately flicks his attention to the second woman, whose tentative smile displays uncertainty. She is not sure whether she should implicate herself or not. But she hasn’t the choice, for he lunges forward, the obscene rag out-thrust. In unison both women sway away from it with further cries of protest.

    The noisy hilarity has had the effect the clown intends. With a quick, backward step and a swinging glance he includes several more curious onlookers with his cheeky expression of surprise. His hand dives into his bag of tricks and comes out holding a cardboard carton of eggs. He grabs up a handful and holds them up for the scrutiny of the growing number of uncertain participants.

    ‘Are they real?’ he asks. He waves a hand into the air and an egg drops. He catches it neatly on his shoe. ‘Ooh!’ someone cries and as more people glance towards the agonised sound he repositions himself to a spot that takes advantage of their interest. ‘Are they real?’ he calls again.     Conversations are cut as more heads turn. There is an increasing sense of anticipation as he begins to juggle several of the eggs. Again one slips and falls to perch precariously on his outstretched toe. He is now juggling and hopping in circles. There is a settling taking place in the crowd’s attention and an increasing hush as more eggs flip through the golden evening light. Higher and wider, spinning up and arcing down. His hands flash, to the right, to the left, above his head, between his legs. He projects the wayward egg back into the concentric swirl of flying objects. He is dancing, backwards and forwards, his body swaying, twisting, contorting into quite amazing shapes.

    ‘Are they real?’ he shouts breathlessly. A hand flashes out, just in time to save a breakage on the shirtfront of a mesmerised watcher. No one yet dares to answer. Eggs are flying perilously close to heads, to arms, to bare shoulders. A woman in a white dress cringes with a moan of protest and several men in the forefront grin bravely, holding their ground, books and clip folders raised to protect light-toned safari suits.

    Juggler/clown/magician, he does a quick pirouette, rips the narrow-rimmed bowler from his head and lets the eggs fall one by one into it. The crowd groans, envisaging disaster as he bends with a swirling flourish to finish. Is it a momentary lapse of concentration due to his flush of triumph or a further deliberate act of perversity in the name of entertainment that he replaces the bowler on his head? The crowd waits breathlessly for a result. Will the smashed eggs dribble through the rim and down his face and neck?

    He waits. Stretching expectation to its very limit. Then casually he removes the bowler and slowly turns it upside-down. Nothing happens. He shakes it vigorously and eventually holds it out for general scrutiny. It is undeniably empty. He looks surprised and so do they. There are several sporadic bouts of appreciative clapping, especially from the two women whose attention he had first attracted. They seem to expect some proprietary right to share in his modest success. They step forward to congratulate him personally.

    But as yet our clown has not been paid for his undeniable expertise. Admiration is not enough. He places the hat on the grass and whips out a water pistol from under his decorated shirt. His voice mocks aggression. ‘Okay you lot,’ he snarls, ‘put your money and your valuables into the hat or yer get a jet of filthy Torrens water fair between the eyes.’

    Polite (albeit nervous) laughter ripples through the crowd. Half a dozen coins flick into the hat. Juggler/magician/clown! highwayman; he is not impressed. ‘Pathetic,’ he snarls. He sweeps the gun around again. Heads and bodies sway away to avoid the meagre jets. ‘Give, give.’ A few more coins flutter towards the hat. There seems genuine surprise expressed in his hand-on-hip stance as he gazes down into the hat. Then with an exaggerated shrug he suddenly bends, dives his hand back into his bag and comes up holding another handful of eggs which he promptly begins passing out to those nearest him. With the pistol waving again, he indicates the eggs should be held high. ‘Up, up, swines.’

    I see some of the more mistrustful participants pass the eggs on to anyone who will take them. He continues to move quickly around the circle, taking hold of hands, re-adjusting heights. I recognise several well-known writers holding up eggs for other well-known writers and their friends to see. Editors and literary agents pass tolerant smiles between each other as they wait impatiently.

    The water pistol squirts aimlessly in their general direction as he again tries to extract the required answer from them. ‘Are they genuine farm-fresh eggs? Sirs, Madams?’

    Beyond his imploring, perambulating frame, I see two small boys move in to explore the discarded bowler lying in the grass. The clown’s voice rises to a crescendo. ‘ARE THEY REAL?’

    ‘No,’ shout the kids. They have found the eggs in the hat’s lining and are banging them together. One boy holds an egg above is head. ‘Ya, they’re made of rubber.’

    Our clown swings around and drives the boys off with his water pistol. They scuttle away to safety, still jeering. With one quick notion he whisks the bowler into his brocade bag. His pistol is left on the ground. One of the boys returns, swoops it up and aims it at the clown. Two quick squirts hit him in the face. The crowd applauds. The boy who has got the laughs for being so clever continues to squirt and gets more laughs and claps.

    Our clown acknowledges the kid’s smartness by offering him an exaggerated clap too, but I am close enough to hear his urgent plea. ‘C’mon kid, fair go. I need the gun for the next trick.’

    The boy backs off, still squirting.

    Clown/magician/juggler/desperado; he glances quickly around the crowd. Concentration is eroding rapidly. Arms are beginning to falter above heads. Desperate measures are called for; he grabs an egg from the nearest hand and tosses it into the air. It arcs and falls. He heads it neatly. Orange and silver slime dribbles own his surprised face. A few people laugh. Someone even manages a lone clapping. I suspect from its direction it’s one of the two women in pantsuits; remaining true.

    There is an increasing sense of frustration as the clown begins to stalk the boy through the crowd. ‘C’mon kid, quick, I need the gun.’ He holds out his hand, pleading. The boy is not impressed. His role as tormentor has already been condoned by most. He slips deeper into the forest of legs, reappearing occasionally to deliver the odd shot in the direction of the pursuing clown. The crowd, deprived of further entertainment, returns to its own pursuits. A prize-winning author, cheekier than the rest, cracks her egg onto the barbie hotplate. So inspired, two lesser-known writers follow suit. Three eggs (they are real after all) sizzle alongside the next batch of sausages.

    At the crowd’s edge I see the clown returning with his bowler tucked under his arm. There is no sign of the water pistol. Despite my earlier opinion that the fixed painted surprise could override all other expressions, there is a distinct scowling.

    He stands for a few seconds in his old position, looking around. The small, huddled groups seem even more impenetrable than when he first arrived. This time his hand-on-hip stance seems to express genuine antagonism as he spies the eggs sizzling on the barbecue. With great deliberation he tips the few coins out of his hat onto the dry, dusty lawn. No one notices the gesture. He grabs up the remaining eggs, real or otherwise, stuffs them into his bag, spits at nothing or no one in particular and lopes off in the direction he had first come from.

I glance around. Hot sausages dripping sauce (looking like blood) are squeezed into open mouths. A fairly well known writer is waving his sandwiched sausage under the nose of a little known editor of a small magazine. The editor counter-gesticulates and looks perplexed when he finds he is clasping a forgotten egg in his hand. One of the boys who uncovered the magician’s trickery is on his knees on the lawn scrabbling after the discarded coins. The other boy is showing off his new water pistol to his admiring parents. I decide I am not hungry enough to burrow my way into the tight throng around the Barbie so I leave them to it — sorting out the state of the art

 Later that evening I pass another crowd assembled on the concrete at the back of the Festival Centre. I see the clown/juggler/magician holding a handful of eggs for all to see. ‘Are they real?’ he shouts.

    There are many tourists present. An entire clan of Aborigines sits astride a concrete wall. There are off-shift bus drivers and office workers and ordinary families taking in the hot night air. There are kids galore, of all colours, shapes and sizes. ‘Yes,’ they chant in unison. ‘Yes, yes, yes.’

    Our clown, despite his benign, fixed expression of surprise, seems more confident, more aggressive. He holds the eggs high with his left hand and in his other hand I see he is holding a new gun—black this time and shiny. He is waving it under the noses of those kids who come too close. Forcing them off his patch.

    The gun, like the eggs, looks surprisingly real...