Sad Clown

Paul Bowers

A mellow jazz DJ’s voice floats smoothly out of the alarm clock, caressing Joe’s ears and slowly pulling him out of bed. He stumbles wearily to the bathroom, where he stares into the mirror, scratching his stubbly chin thoughtfully. Another day, another bunch of screaming kids, he thinks.

He grabs his colorful, curly wig and stretches it around the top of his head. I look like an idiot, he reflects. The things I do for money. He begins to put on the white make-up powder, turning his face an ashen white. Next, he paints, the big, silly smile from cheek to cheek. Reluctantly, he puts the bright, red ball over his nose.

Joe ponders his reflection. He looks so giddy, so joyful, so free of cares. This ridiculous mask this pathetic attempt at covering his pain, imprisons him.