Clappy

(trigger warning for coulrophobia)

Farrell sat comfortably before the over-illuminated triple mirrored make-up station. It was a new mirror but it was the same kind he’d sat at for so many years he could no longer remember the first time. Inching closer to the mirror he whispered to his reflection who was also moving closer.

“Are you happy?”

He sat in silence for a moment, uncertain if he was waiting for the doppelganger to reply, or whether it was waiting for him to. After a brief hesitation he sighed deeply, then clapped his hands. That is after all, what Clappy the Clown did, especially when he was unsure, just like yesterday, just like right now.

Parkdale Amusement Park is, and has been, the only permanent carnival grounds to operate in the Mechanicsville district of Ottawa for close to a century. Clappy the Clown has been a part of it for just as long. Oh, Clappy has changed his appearance once or twice as experiments, but the schtick was always the same. He claps when he’s happy and he claps when he’s sad.

Farrell had been doing this since he was twenty-five. He was now one-hundred and twenty-four. Tomorrow he would turn one-hundred and twenty-five

There were two things he never did. He never received his paycheque while out of costume, and he never let anyone know he had been the same clown all these years.

When he first donned the grease paint so long ago, he loved it so much he vowed to continue being a clown as long as he lived. He had purchased his grease paint from Madame Lucille, a bordello Madame extraordinaire. All her ladies wore make-up that Madame Lucille created herself. The grease paint however, was for a different clientele.

Upon hiring Farrell, Mr. Poirier the carnival manager, introduced the two to each other. He had even arranged to have the first batch of grease paint supplied on the house.

On his first meeting with Madame Lucille, they talked about why he chose the clown profession. Jokingly he replied that he hadn’t chosen it, it had chosen him. He was glad that it had, saying he could do it for all eternity. They made arrangements for him to pick his supplies up a week later.

Farrell sat there reflecting on how the grease paint felt the first time he had applied it all those years ago. It tingled his skin, tightened it. He touched his face. It still tingled whenever he put it on. He didn’t know it then like he does now, but he had made a deal with the devil because of a few carelessly spoken words.

It seemed that with the make-up on, somehow his body returned to the age when he had first applied it so long ago. When he removed it, he reverted back to his true age, blemishes and all. He kept to leaving it on more often than not. Death eluded him.

He opened the small drawer on the dresser and took out the gun inside, then held it five inches from his head. He watched himself in the mirror and slowly pulled the trigger.

The trigger clicked. Instead of the led bullet he wanted, a mechanism shot forth from the barrel with a red flag which had large black letters spelling BANG! He shrugged his shoulders and reloaded the prop, placing it back in the drawer then shut it. Once more he looked in the mirror, sighed deeply, sadly, and then clapped his hands.