Peter Mooney shouldn't have broken open the piñata.
For a moment Timmy Barnes was sad, then a little angry. It was his birthday, his backyard, and he should have been the one to split the piñata. Candy spilled from the torn paper belly and all of the children, except for Timmy, ran forward. By the time Peter slid off his blindfold, there was no room for him on the ground and all the good stuff had been taken. This made Timmy a little happier. Peter's eyes began to water. The hindquarters of the piñata dangled over his head from a purple streamer.
"Hey, there's no need to cry," Timmy's mother said to Peter. "I'm sure there are some goodies left inside." She shook the dangling piece and the final trapped surprises slipped free: a few Tootsie rolls, a plastic spider and a water pistol. Timmy reached for it, but fat Teddy Allen was in the way. Peter scooped it up, his eyes sparkling, the tears gone.
It wasn't fair, Timmy thought. He hadn't even wanted to invite Peter to the party, but his mother said he had to invite all the boys in his class. Peter was gross. He liked to roll boogers around on his desk and make his hand smell like a fart then rub it in your face. I bet my mother wouldn't give him that water pistol if she knew all that, Timmy thought.
Timmy jumped at Peter and tried to grab the water pistol. He got his hands on it and almost wrestled it free, but his mother seized his arm and spun him around. She gave him a very mean look. He stared at his shoes.
"It's your birthday, which means that all of your friends brought you a lot of nice presents. Look at me when I'm talking to you. You don't get everything. You have to learn to share. I want you to apologize to Peter or we'll send all of your friends home with their gifts, and there'll be no cake and no clown."
Peter tugged on Timmy's shirt. "If you want this, you can have it," Peter said, offering him the water pistol. "'Cuz it is your birthday."
Timmy reached for it, but his mother pushed his hand away.
"That's very sweet, Peter, but you won that and you should keep it." She turned toward Timmy. "You see how nice Peter is? He knows how to share. Now apologize."
Timmy said he was sorry, but he didn't mean it. He knew Peter wasn't being nice, not really. He just wanted to make Timmy look bad. Timmy wasn't fooled, not for one second, not for a million seconds.
Timmy's mother smiled and said, "Who wants to play hide-and-seek?" All the kids cheered, and everyone -- even Peter -- said Timmy should be It. "You can anywhere in the yard, just don't go in the house," said Timmy's mother as she returned to the ring of other mothers around picnic table and filled her plastic cup from the big green bottle.
Timmy hid his face against the big oak in the corner of the yard. He heard the other kids run away laughing as he counted slowly. He wanted to peek, he wanted to rush right through the teens, and he wanted to catch Peter Mooney first. His sneakers fidgeted in the grass.
"...24...25! Ready or not, here I come!"
He looked under the picnic table where the mothers sat. Nobody. He looked in the bushes that separated his yard from the DeMarco's and found Elliot Petersen. Danny Newman crouched next to the sun deck steps. There were still eleven others to find, but Timmy only wanted to find Peter. He tried to think where somebody as sneaky as Peter might go. The answer was obvious: in the house. Timmy saw that the sliding glass door to the kitchen was open. The white curtain rolled in the breeze. He climbed the stairs and pushed his way through. The lights were out and everything seemed really dark after being outside in the sun. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but he knew someone was in the room, crouching behind the island of cabinets.
Timmy crept to the edge, ready to jump around the corner. He heard rustling. A zipper was pulled. It sounded like a rattlesnake. Something smelled stale and sweaty.
He peeked around the corner and nearly screamed.
A big man jumped up from the gym bag he'd been searching. He wore baggy yellow pants and suspenders. His pink, hairy belly bulged from beneath an old T-shirt.
"Whoa, kid, you startled me," he mumbled around a cigarette. A wild smile was painted around his lips, but his mouth really bent down like a bow. "You shouldn't sneak around like that. Take it from me, if you start spying on folks, you won't like what you find." He folded his meaty arms and started to lean back against the counter, but the trip was further than he expected. He caught himself on the counter's edge and gained his balance.
"Say, are you the birthday boy? What's your name? Tommy or Timmy or something, right? Yeah, you look like your mother."
Timmy couldn't say anything. He wanted to call for his mommy, but his throat was locked. His feet wouldn't move either. The man's face was a patchy white. The color started around his neck and covered up to his cheekbones. It was like his skin had been partially peeled away to reveal the bone beneath. Timmy's vision went blurry with hot tears.
"Now don't get all blubbery on me, kid. I've got a ball buster of a headache, and I don't need to listen to your screeching."
He balanced the cigarette on the edge of the counter and leaned forward. Timmy's hands started to quiver. "Calm down, you little snot. I'm not going to hurt you. Look, I've got a gift here." He reached into his gym bag and retrieved...nothing. His hand was empty, but only for a second. Something popped and an orange paper flower exploded between the man's yellowy fingers. Timmy took it timidly. For a moment the tears were under control. With his other hand, the man pulled a square brown bottle from the bag. He unscrewed the cap and tossed back a mouthful.
With the tears wiped away from his eyes, Timmy got a good look at the man's arms. They were covered at odd angles with pink knotty scars and brown welts that puckered like old pudding.
"Yeah, the flower always makes them happy. You better enjoy it kid. In a couple of years squirting flowers and balloon animals won't do it for you anymore. Christ, even this doesn't even do it anymore." He raised his bottle and took another slurp. "You know what makes a clown laugh?"
Timmy shook his head.
"Not a whole fucking lot." He moved his face down close to Timmy's. His hot breath smelled like Timmy's father's did sometimes. "You see, Tommy, I know how all the magic is done. I know how the rings get unhooked, and I know the milk goes down a tube when I pour it into the newspaper. I may say I've got nothing up my sleeve, but it's a lie. I'm a lying bastard. Denise knows it. She always knew it.
The man chewed his lower lip for a moment. Some of the white make-up had smeared into his mouth, discoloring his tongue. He took a long drink that made his face twist up.
"Do you know what the one fringe benefit of this crappy job is?" Timmy didn't know what a fringe bunnyfit was. He shook his head as the big man rummaged through his gym bag and produced a red foam nose, a wild rainbow wig, and a pistol. He pushed the gun towards Timmy, who didn't want to take it.
"Go ahead. Don't you want to hold it?" The man pushed it into his small hands. It was heavy and cold. Nothing like the toy he plugged into the TV to play Soldier Force.
"Don't worry, it's not loaded. I'm a clown, not an idiot." He laughed wetly at his joke. "Like I was saying, the only benefit is that a clown can get away with anything. No one takes you serious. Sometimes I'll pretend to fall against one of those pretty mommas. I'll rub up good against her tits. Sometimes I even grab one, right in front of her husband, give it a squeeze. No one says anything. They just laugh."
The man stared at the rustling curtains for a moment and smeared more white paint across his face, around his eyes. Smoke uncoiled from the cigarette at the edge of the counter. The ash had grown long and crooked.
"No one takes you serious, so you can get away with murder." He pulled the pistol from Timmy's damp hands and popped open the barrel. He fished around inside his spotted baggy pants and came out with a palmful of bronze bullets. One by one, he slid them into the gun.
"I'll tell you something else, kid. I get hurt. It stings when I get hit with a hammer, even if it is fake. I mean, I never thought any of this shit was funny, but I figure, what the hell it's a paycheck. But pain's not funny. Is this funny?"
He picked up the cigarette, and with his bloodshot eyes locked onto Timmy's, he drove the glowing tip into his own cheek. It hissed and smoked. He ground the cigarette down, his eyes never leaving Timmy's, never betraying the pain. Timmy smelled the skin burning. He screamed as tears leapt from his eyes. He felt the man's big hand on his shoulders, shaking him.
"Shut up you little, shit. Quit that noise. I told you I've got a ball buster of a pain in my head." But all this only made Timmy cry louder. The man's breath was rotten, the flapping lips were blood red. And with their faces so close, Timmy could smell the greasy make-up, the singed hair of the wound. He tried to shake loose, but it was no good.
Suddenly, he heard his mother's voice. The man let go, and Timmy fumbled blindly for her, grabbed her thigh, buried his face in her pants, smelled her.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Barnes," the man said. "I think I startled him. He came running in here like a little puppy, and I don't think he expected to find anyone. Especially a big, ugly guy like me." He gestured to himself with a shrug. His hands were empty. The gun was gone.
"There's nothing to be scared of," Timmy's mother laughed and stroked his hair. "It's just the clown. You see. It's just Uncle Willy, not someone scary."
"Sure, Tommy," Uncle Willy said, patting him on the back. "There's nothing to be afraid of. I'm just a clown." Timmy's muscles tightened with every touch.
"Come on, let's get some cake." Timmy's mother guided him to the patio door with a gentle hand on his shoulder. She glanced back at the clown. "Please don't smoke in the house."
"Sorry, ma'am." He crushed the butt out in the sink, aimed his index finger at Timmy, and brought his thumb down, blowing an explosion sound through his lips. "Catch you later, birthday boy."
Timmy and his mother stepped onto the sun-baked patio. She told him to go play with his guests, then left his side. He looked down at his friends who had forgotten all about him and the game. Even in the hot glare of the July sun, he felt cold. His lips still quivered, but seeing Peter Mooney stopped him. He refused to cry in front of him. The tears didn't come, but he didn't really feel any better. There were streaks of white greasepaint on his arms and the muscles beneath were sore. He tried to rub the stains away, but they only smeared wider.
The cake was brought out. It looked like a race car, and underneath the icing, it was pure chocolate. Everyone sang "Happy Birthday" and Timmy blew out the candles. His mother sliced it up, and Mrs. Petersen flicked a scoop of vanilla ice cream onto each paper plate. The plates were decorated with cartoon clowns, and Timmy let his ice cream melt, then smeared around some cake to hide the leering faces. Barry Polk told a joke about a white ape that Timmy didn't understand, but he laughed because everyone else did. Paper cups with balloons on them were filled and refilled with cherry Kool-Ade. Peter Mooney kept opening his mouth to show off the pink mush of cake on his tongue, and Timmy felt like he was sitting at the bottom of a pool, listening to everything through green water.
The mothers cleared the soggy plates into a black trash bag, then herded the children into a semi-circle at the bottom of the patio steps. Timmy tried to hide off to one side, but Mrs. Petersen moved him front and center saying the birthday boy should have the best seat of all. All around him the other boys giggled and threw handfuls or torn grass at each other. Timmy just stared across the concrete stage at the white curtains. They swelled and rustled as if some dragon hid behind them, breathing in and out, waiting.
Suddenly, Uncle Willy jumped out from behind the curtains. The kids screamed with surprise. He waddled around, his floppy shoes slapping the patio. His smile was bright red, his eyes ringed with blue. He looked happy, but Timmy wasn't fooled. The face reminded him of a photo in Ranger Rick. At first you could see only tall, tan grass and fat, orange leaves, but, as you stared at it, you could see a tiger glaring back, hiding in the undergrowth. It's square black and orange face merged almost perfectly with the jungle, but the eyes were the giveaway. They were small and black, and once you saw them, you couldn't miss see the tiger.
Uncle Willy set his bag down. It was big and sagging and sewn together from patches -- not the same one Timmy had seen before. He wondered if the cold, heavy gun was in it.
One of Uncle Willy's floppy scarecrow arms spun over his head with a wave. "Hi yi-yi- yi-yi--"
His nose wrinkled, and he squinted like he was going to sneeze. He controlled it and smiled.
"Hi, everybody! How ow-ow-ow-ow--" His lips fluttered and his face contorted, but the sneeze was silenced again.
"Ahhh," he sighed and smiled serenely. "AHHH-CHOO!"
He flung handfuls of red glitter into the air. It slithered down onto the squealing kids. It hung on their hair and landed in the grass. Timmy brushed it away like hot ash.
As the giggling continued, Uncle Willy patted his pockets for a handkerchief. He found one inside his tattered jacket and pulled. Red, yellow, and polka dotted scarves followed. Each new pattern and flash of color brought gasps of delight until a big pair of boxers with hearts on them popped out.
The clown froze in exaggerated embarrassment, then wadded the scarves up and tossed them over his shoulder.
"Hey! I'm Uncle Willy," the painted face yelled, "and we're going to have some fun!"
"Yeah!" all the boys, except for Timmy, yelled back.
Uncle Willy squirted himself in the eye with a flower on his lapel. Next, he took off his jacket and tried unsuccessfully to hang it in mid-air three times. He pulled an impossibly massive mallet out of his bag and started pounding an imaginary nail into a nonexistent wall. He bashed his hand once, then pulled an eager Peter Mooney from the audience and handed him the mallet. Peter cocked the hammer behind his head like a baseball bat, knocking Uncle Willy in the face. The clown stumbled around, his red nose flashing. Teddy Allen, his mouth ringed with red Kool-Ade laughed until tears came to his eyes. Finally, Peter drove the invisible nail into nothing. Willy hung his jacket on it, and it stayed put. Everybody, except Timmy, clapped and cheered as Peter returned to the crowd.
Uncle Willy rummaged through his bag and retrieved a fistful of limp pink and yellow balloons, then jumped out to the children. With great unbalanced strides, he stepped over shoulders and heads, his arms waving for balance. He dropped in front of Donny Wilkins and blew into one of the skinny balloons. With quick, squeaky twists, he created a long-necked, four-legged thing.
"Here's a giraffe," he said, handing it to Donny.
Barry Polk received a short-necked, four-legged horse. Peter Mooney got an alligator, which didn't look much different. Uncle Willy moved from child to child, inflating, pinching, and twisting, and always avoiding Timmy. At last he stood, got his feet tangled around Peter and tumbled back into the table of mothers, who tittered with surprise. He fumbled with Timmy's mother, trying to gain his balance, then rolled onto Mrs. Petersen. She laughed so hard she nearly fell from the redwood bench. When Uncle Willy finally righted himself, Timmy saw a hint of a smile beneath the greasepaint. His black eyes stared out at Timmy and said, you can keep a secret, right?
Then Uncle Willy asked who the birthday boy was, and everyone pointed at Timmy. Uncle Willy's pink, moist hand wrapped around Timmy's arm and pulled him up. Little hands pushed him from behind. He went up the two patio steps and turned to look at everyone.
Uncle Willy's face swelled into view. He was asking Timmy questions, but Timmy couldn't make sense of the words. He just stood still and stared. He smelled the clown's minty sweet breath. He could see the welt of the cigarette burn beneath the paint. Sweat and clots of make-up soaked into Uncle Willy's collar.
A crown of balloons was wedged onto Timmy's head, and the clown turned to find something in his bag. Timmy could see the pistol in there. For a split second, he thought Uncle Willy was reaching for it, but instead he pulled out a small, plastic clown mask and snapped it over Timmy's face.
Uncle Willy kept talking and started another magic trick, but Timmy could only hear buzzing, could only look at the black, heavy gun. Uncle Willy searched the bag again. This time he removed a full pitcher of milk.
I just have to lean over and grab the gun, Timmy thought. All I have to do is squeeze the trigger and this bad, mean man will go away. He won't make me feel bad, and he won't do bad things to my mother anymore. It would be just like playing the video game Soldier Force.
Uncle Willy crouched in front of Timmy. For a moment he looked up at the boy, and those black eyes in the bloodshot webs looked up sadly.
He wants me to do it, Timmy thought.
Then the clown lowered his head. Sweat collected under Timmy's plastic mask, and trickled down his cheeks. He heard Uncle Willy's voice in his head through the buzzing: A clown can get away with murder.
Uncle Willy stood suddenly and went behind Timmy.
The gun was less than two feet away, but the little boy couldn't move, couldn't reach for it, couldn't even wiggle a finger. He could see himself doing it. Grabbing the gun quickly. It would be heavy, but he could point it up towards that laughing, lying face and pull the trigger. The head would split open and blood would spray over the children like red glitter, like goodies from a piñata.
Uncle Willy poured the pitcher of milk into a newspaper funnel over Timmy's head. Nothing spilled. The milk vanished. Uncle Willy crumpled up the paper and threw into the clapping audience.
Beneath Timmy's clown mask nobody could see the tears begin to fall from his eyes. But they did see the dark stain spread across his shorts.
The clapping stopped.
Timmy walked down the stairs, past the staring faces. Warm urine ran down his leg. He wanted to go to his mother, but he couldn't even look at her. Instead, he turned to Peter Mooney and punched him in the stomach. Peter's knees quivered, and he threw up. Red vomit splashed across Timmy's shorts and splattered the nearby children. No one laughed -- no one but Timmy, and he couldn't stop.
Copyright © 2003 Geof Smith.