Nothing to Laugh At

Nothing to Laugh At

  By Greg Wilburn

  Copyright 2014 Greg Wilburn

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  NOTHING TO LAUGH AT

  THREE HOURS AGO (Back at the apartment)

  It began today, just like it began eight years ago. It began, and that’s as best as I can describe it. More like it restarted, as if I’d been sent double-backing into a past that I’m always running from.

  I was having such a lovely day too. I was sitting at Marcel’s Bistro on the corner of Luden Street and Stamen Avenue, enjoying some biscotti with my caramel latte, when amidst the bustling hoards of fashionistas, construction workers, secretaries, gangsters, and graphic designers I saw it. It was the only stationary object in the middle of the crowded intersection, unaffected by the rushing hours of the day.

  I don’t imagine that it should care about time of any sort. If it did, it wouldn’t feel the need to waste its valuable time on me. And it would have a watch. Any good person who wants to keep on top of their schedule has a watch of some sort. Why me, anyway? I’m no one of value, at least by the way of being valued in a society like ours.

  Even when I recount my life, as I often do when I remind myself that I’ve really nothing to offer society in general, I see that there’s nothing exceptional about my existence, and the same goes for my contribution to the world period. That’s not to say that I’m not content, though. I like giving a realistic view of me to myself, which I think justifies me in sticking to my monotonous routines with unwavering faithfulness.

  Where the others around me in the endless maze of cubicles at the accounting firm constantly complain about the unsatisfactory nature of their unfulfilling lives, I find solace in not having to worry about answering the bigger questions of life. I don’t have to try to be a philosopher like them because as they whine and ponder the unanswerable questions of the age, I’m simply happy knowing I’ve got a steady job, a well-kept apartment, a tabby cat with unwavering loyalty—named Charles, of course, because honestly, is there really another name more perfect for a tabby than Charles—a nosy girlfriend who wants nothing more than for me to pop the question, a brand new toaster, and a dependable car that’s never let me down, even to this day.

  And I really have no subdued interests about my life or my character that could really warrant such an incessant pest latching onto my comings and goings, thirsting for me. I say thirsty mostly because that’s how I feel at this moment. Those stupid plumbers that Mrs. Atlee—a sweet but quite stupid landlady—let into the building wrecked the pipes and now the only thing spouting from the faucets is rusted water. Although inconvenient, I’ve been content with walking to Lana’s place for a quick shower and a nice glass of water. She’s always been the accommodating sort, a quality for which I can now appreciate all the more.

  But as I said, that thing—that stupid clown—was standing motionless and ethereal, untouched by the people passing through it and the cars zooming past, waiting for me. I wonder if it’s real, when all’s said and done. What am I saying? Of course it’s real! I alone know all too well how real the horror of that lifeless figurine is.

  I couldn’t believe that it was there when my eyes first chanced upon it. I accidently met its gaze, and as my mouth gaped open in disbelief, I dropped my latte all over my lap. If that moment had been a dream then I would’ve surely woken up, but the scalding liquid that seeped through my shirt and pants, painting me with throbbing burns, reminded me that the happening was the reality in which I was present.

  I realize now—if only I’d realized eight years ago—that there’s something entrancingly hollow about its gaze. The best way to put it is that in the moment when your eyes lock and you’re lost in the middle universe where time and people and birds and motion—the whole goddamned universe—stop, it’s like having a staring contest with an open mouthed cave. On my end, I focus intently at the core of my opponent, hoping to dominate and win the battle, but on the end of the cave, it exists as a fixed body that can stare on indefinitely, unwavering in its dominance over me. And, in continuing this comparison, a cave is hollow inside, empty of life and feeling, but it still stands, a permanent and immovable barrier in my path.

  And, as the darkness in caves often does, the mouth swallows whatever enters and slowly digests them by eating away at the senses until starvation leads to death. That’s really how it feels to stare at it. Just like being lost in that slimy, hollow, dark cave, clamoring about in the dark with no hope of return.

  What makes the existence of this horrid clown worse is that I’m the only one who can see. It was true of eight years ago, and it remains true to this day. Although the searing pain of my spilled latte ate away at my crotch, I directed a few of the chuckling bystanders towards it, asking if they saw the unbelievably obvious clown standing as a statue in the bustling intersection. Their looks of curiosity found nothing to behold, and their empty eyes couldn’t find the all too present clown standing right in front of their faces.

  I was so disgusted with the truth of eight years ago coming back to haunt me—alongside the embarrassment of my spilled drink—that I sped off in a panic, eager to retreat to my apartment and think about how to escape that clown, and also think of a way to prevent a reoccurrence of eight years ago.

  And I’m not crazy either. At least that’s what I have to remind myself sometimes. I bet that’s what lunatics often do to reassure themselves that their delusions aren’t a psychotically induced paranoia and are, in fact, the real reality that the others refuse to see. Not to say that I’m a lunatic of any sort; I’m just saying that I can understand the feeling.

  I know that I’m as sane as can be, despite what others would say. It’s because of something—a feeling, an instinct—that’s swelling within my gut as I stand guard at the veranda window now, watching over Humboldt Street as a vigilante does the night, telling me it’s coming. I believe that if I watch the street long enough—my most definite instincts tell me—I’ll see that rainbow vomit clown clop out from behind an alleyway and edge its way towards my home. I want to look away—to start running altogether—to escape the feeling that it’s coming and not very far off in this moment, but my fear won’t let me.

  I stand guard, ready to sound the alarm, as these moments when the star-gazed sky is a distraction more than a beauty, every flickering streetlamp a silent siren flashing of the impending danger, each clattered footstep along the walkway a threat upon my life, and every soft breeze a whisper of defeat, I find myself reliving those horrible moments eight years ago, when it came for the first time.

  It didn’t seem so bad when it appeared then, but I know now that it was just my weakness, my naivety—my blind hopefulness—that did me in. That clown, seemingly innocent in its hollow gaze, is really a menace and a murderer. And if only I’d known what it wanted and was capable of those many sorrowful moons ago, I could’ve saved them.

  I wanted to save them, I truly did, but it was too late. That clown, with its powers of evil—at least that’s the only thing I can equate them to—had taken everyone from me by the time I realized what was happening. And it did happen, which is all the more unbelievable when I’m the only one who could see, the only one who could run. I guess that makes me a coward for running, in the end. But I’m okay with living.

  The clown only has one objective: me. At least that’s the only conclusion I can come to, as conceited as this sounds. What other reason does it have for remaini
ng eerily close to me alone, invisible and unknowable to anyone else?

  It seems to be a watcher, a petulant violator of my space and sanity. Even though it hasn’t taken a single physical action against me—well, none that I’ve seen—it’s taken everything from me. It’s erased those around me and left me with empty visions known only to my mind in memories, but nonexistent to anyone else.

  Maybe that’s why, because of what happened eight years ago and me being the only survivor of that calamity, it wants me. It could be that I’m that last object of its desire, the only catalyst left to complete the cycle, and the clown will stop at nothing until it has me for that sole purpose.

  But before I throw myself upon the altar and make the sacrifice, I have to be sure. No one should die—especially me—for some silly notion such as that without some sort of evidence dictating that my death be the only solution. First I’ll watch it and remain at a safe distance until I can be sure that………