That One Time with the Clowns

Those orange circus peanuts aren't as bad as I thought. They feel kind of like a pillow for your teeth. Left behind by the clowns, naturally. It's not like I bought them.   

Living with clowns sounds like a laff riot but it ain't easy. They're up all hours, their wig gets caught in the toaster. They frighten the dog, who counters with a healthy wet crap in the middle of the livingroom floor. I became a broken record, saying, "Get your big red shoes off my couch." I was seeing red, always. Red polka-dot bloomers hanging on the towel rack.  A red plastic nose in the sink...

They couldn't leave soon enough to suit me. I told them clowns were like hobos, just with better makeup. They seemed to take offense at that, but it got them packing.

The whole lot of them rode off into the dark one night. Their friend in the Volkswagen bug had come, just like they said he would. I had started to doubt it, but there they went. All 12 of them spilled from my door a mass of clown limbs, like a tumor expelled. The night air displaced by their irregular shapes filled in again. Held its breath with me, making sure.

The bike horn honking faintly down the road was the last I heard of them.