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The Big Empty Thing
By
Jon Alan Carroll
Kirk sat in his seat and pulled the rubber nose out of his bag. It was torn and dirty, with a grease stain right on the bridge. It'd been hard to keep his nose clean in prison.
The bus made its last stop on Folsom and the stragglers piled off. Kirk picked up his bags and walked a few blocks up to Mission. The streets were even grimmer and grimier than before he'd left. More bandages, more shopping carts, a long line already forming for the free meal. The sex workers waved at the passing Saabs, but no one stopped.
Kirk walked up the Hotel Royale and knew he'd found a place he could afford. A famous ex-con depot, the Royale was easily the dumpiest of all the dump hotels on Mission. Everyone knew the Royale was the local headquarters for the national losers union.
A bunch of old guys were sitting in the lobby watching the tube. Kirk went over to the window, said he'd called earlier, then pushed $400 under the bulletproof glass. Sal Batel, a balding Indian gentleman who looked to be about fifty, counted the money and slid Kirk a key. Kirk said he was going to have a visitor over at about four. Sal Batel looked up and nodded, yeah, so what.
He walked up three flights of threadbare stairs and opened the door to room 310. One room, torn curtains, flower bedspread. Paradise, with a bathroom down the hall.
Kirk slammed the door and flopped on the bed. Now all he had left was $450 and the suit they gave him when he got out of clown prison. The money would last maybe two, three weeks. He'd need more money immediately.
He had a lot to do that afternoon. Visit his old job, call the ex, catch up with his only friend. And return the library books. They were about five years overdue.
Kirk stared at the ceiling for about an hour, then combed his hair and put on the suit.
He walked down Mission and cut across to Market. Even the business guys were haggard and scraping their heels. Times were tough all over.
Kirk stopped at a coffee cart and pulled out two bucks for a double espresso. He drank the double down in one shot. He'd missed his coffee.
A few blocks more and Kirk stared at his destination, 445 Market, a second-string skyscraper trying to pass as modern. He cut through the lobby, nodded at the guard and walked over to the elevators. Two bankstas in dark suits got on the elevator with him, talking frantically about minor partners and the carrier's refusal to provide a defense. Nothing but trouble all over.
He got off on 15 and walked down the hall into the office of Happy Time Entertainment, Inc.
"Can I talk to Jimbo," he asked the receptionist. "I don't have an appointment, but we're old friends."
The receptionist, a warship in a gray suit, turned in her chair like a battery of cannons and gave Kirk a look he remembered from prison. "Oh, you're Mr. Guard," she said. "I'm sorry, but Mr. Condesto asked me to say he won't be able to meet with you. Nothing personal, but the new owners don't allow the hiring of...felons. Role models, all that. Mr. Condesto hopes you'll understand."
Kirk shrugged and rode the elevator back to the street. Back on Mission, the sex workers were still waving at the passing Land Rovers without success. They were a mean-looking bunch of hookers, with that hollow look that comes from too much crack and TV. He doubted they ever had customer appreciation day.
A large baldman, wearing solid leather, walked over between two parked cars and asked Kirk if he was looking. "Got what you're looking for," the baldman said.
Kirk shook his head. "Maybe later."
He went back to the Royale and up to room 310. He changed out of the suit and stared at the walls for a while.
This is it, he thought, it's time. He dug out some quarters and walked over to the payphone in the hall. The number used to be his number.
"Hello," she said. It was her voice again. Boney Fingers, his own soul mate. Five foot one, 245, raggedy hair, ears that stuck out to Moline, Illinois. She'd been the funniest-looking girl in the whole clown school.
"Boney, it's me," Kirk said.
"Kirk," she said, "I heard you got out."
"You get the papers I signed?"
"Yeah," Boney said.
Kirk said nothing for a minute. "How's Red?"
"He's fine. Kirk, I'm with Jimbo now. Jimbo's his daddy now."
"Uh, Boney, look, I..." Kirk stared at the payphone. He couldn't believe it--his son called another clown Daddy.
Boney interrupted him. "Look, Kirk, just go away. Everything's changed. Stay away from us."
"Uh, Boney..." Kirk said. "I...."
"And stay off the dope, jerk," she screamed, and hung up.
Kirk went back to room 310 and resumed staring at the ceiling. Things were going just great.
He dozed for a minute and woke to somebody doing a shave-and-a-haircut on the door. Kirk got up and answered the door.
It was Laz, his last and only friend. Laz was still hefty and Italian, but now looked all office-casual. He was armed with a bottle and some plastic cups.
"Kirk, dood, you're finally out. Hell, you're looking good. That prison weight room really agreed with you."
Kirk hugged him. "Thanks, Laz. You're looking good, too."
Kirk sat on the bed and Laz flopped in the only chair. They drank and laughed. It was almost like being a human being. Kirk had missed his booze.
Laz had left the profession a few years back. Now he worked with at-risk clown youth at some nonprofit.
"Damn, Sam, it's just as well," Laz said. "Lazarus the Clown, what was I thinking?
When the dead return, we will see we have not lived."
Kirk leaned on the headboard and worked on his whiskey. "We were young and smart-dumb," he said. "Kierkgaard, the Leap of Faith Clown. Yeah, that was gonna work. We were going to change the world, but something else changed instead."
"Yep," Laz agreed. "Everything's changed since you left. Jimbo's the alpha clown now. The right-wingers took over completely. Daniel the Gospel Clown has his own cable show."
Laz gulped down his drink. "Kirk, there's no place for clowns like us anymore."
Somebody started pounding hard on the hotel door. "Too loud," Sal Batel yelled through the door. "People trying to sleep. Hold it down or get out."
"Alright, we were just leaving," Kirk yelled back at the door.
Laz and Kirk finished their drinks in silence and then walked back down to the street.
"Kirk," Laz said, "I know it's tough, but it'll work out. It's all about the work, as you used to say."
"Yeah, thanks, Laz," Kirk said. He gave Laz a hug and headed back down Mission.
Across the street, the big baldman in leather was shouting something at the hookers. The sex workers all howled, slapping their thighs, laughing hysterically.
Kirk dodged the cars and walked over to where the big baldman was standing. "Hey," Kirk said. He still had $450 left. He'd get a little taste, for later that night. It had been a hard day and he'd missed his drugs.
If there is a moral to Kirk's story, it is this: Laughter is the best medicine, but narcotics don't wake up the neighbors.
Copyright © 2004 Jon Alan Carroll
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