Clown School
Part Four
The following paragraphs are from a book that I’m writing. You can read Part One here, Part Two Here, and Part Three Here. Please keep in mind that, as with any work in progress, there’s an excellent chance that the following text will be modified or possibly omitted from the final book.
The road that led Albert to the College Life Haunted House was littered with memories that he was either trying hard to bury or forget, but at least he was on a road now. He sat in the sparsely-appointed easy-up tent that served as the haunted house staffing center. A kid in sandals, surf shorts, and an Ocean Pacific windbreaker asked him to wait and enjoy a cup of coffee, which he did. It was the first hot coffee he’d had in more than a week, so, after he finished his first, he poured himself another. Sip after sip, he brought the Styrofoam cup to his lips with shaky hands, slowly, deliberately, trying not to spill. Albert was holding on, but just barely. He needed this job, so he was going to stay sober; going to behave; not let the bad thoughts worm their way into his mind.
Usually waiting for people caused Albert's Anxiety to peak, but not this evening, for some reason. He felt like he had been running for years and had finally found a place to sit and rest; to enjoy a hot cup of coffee on a calm Autumn evening. He smiled as the coffee warmed him. He sat back in the folding chair and, despite being surrounded by an expansive parking lot, he could hear crickets chirping as he enjoyed the cool breeze. A peace had settled upon him, and as he took a deep breath he noticed that even his hands had stopped much of their shaking. His mind was unusually quiet, free from the disagreeable, ranting voices that upset him, that urged him to do things that caused trouble. This really was damn good coffee. He took a moment to look around and to enjoy this rare moment of contentment.
There was laughter in the distance, college kids probably, he thought. He glanced into the corner to a stack of folding tables and boxes and noticed a brightly-colored wig partially protruding from the top of one of the storage containers. Clown wig. He said quietly to himself. He set his coffee on the card table in front of him and walked over. Lifting the container lid slowly, his eyes grew wide and his heart quickened. At first glance it was apparent that the clown costume was well made, customized, not off-the-rack. The details were exquisite; the stitching precise in the heavy fabric - the work of a talented tailor. It was adorned with details - savage, blood-colored tears that were double reinforced with stitching to keep them from ripping further when worn, realistically-colored and textured burn marks, other well-rendered rips and gashes, all expertly-done with the most precise care. Albert ran his fingers over the material; felt the quality of the seams, inspected the lining, the hems. It is immaculate, he thought. Worthy of a clown of the highest caliber.
Using both hands, he gathered the costume, pulling it carefully up from the container and holding it up to his body. It seemed to be the perfect size for him - perhaps custom fit? But they couldn’t have known my size, he pondered. He smiled. Albert turned the costume around and looked for the tag inside the neck. There was a bright white satin tag with deep red letters on it. He blinked twice as he read the name. Moved the tag further back from his face as if he had to refocus, but it wasn’t blurry, it was just impossible to believe. Hand-stitched in perfect cursive in the center of the tag was the name, Albert. He blinked again and smiled an even wider smile as a tear rolled down his cheek, nearly hitting the costume on its way to the ground.