Topping the Clown’s Nose

 

Phil Jeffries was not a mimic. Let's be sure that point is fully understood. His knowledge of Hollywood trivia was minimal. He had stage fright. There were other reasons.

But Lane Johnson could top the clown's nose. All night long. Singing on slow songs coming from Shakey's Wurlitzer. Rolling the sand beneath her feet over the smooth wood floor of the hangout. She could shoot pool, too.

Phil watched her watching him/Paul Newman. He smiled a little, just barely, then blinked his eyes, looked beyond her, shuffling his feet, putting a hand in his jeans' pocket, pulling his Marlboros out of his back pocket and lighting up, a pensive calm. Shorty Peters came bobbing into the lounge. He's playing with a Sony Walkman, but he can't seem to get it working. He hands it back behind him to some dirty-faced kid who immediately turns and dashes out the screen door, down the porch steps, one-two-three, and into---not the sand----the street for five more steps, then; the sand. The kid thinks Millie Potts has gone to the beach with her two younger sisters. Gee, he loves the way Terri looks.

For Phil -- other problems. They've exchanged looks. Smiled at each other. Communicated to one another that they are acceptable. That they want an introduction. But how? Look at the paths. Screw that!

Phil moved toward the bar. He ran a hand over his head, scratched his crown, taking a deep sniffly breath in the same way Jack Nicholson might. He turned in his empty beer and ordered another one, turning as he waited, smiling at Lane with his eyes, the look of a man eyeing prime rib with diced carrots. She pretended to be watching the game. That's a crackpot idea, I'd say!

Well, Phil threw some wadded bills into some spilt beer at the bar and made his way to the pinball game. Sam Cooley was about to win a free game. About. The ball bounced over the bearded lady to the juggling seals and somehow managed to miss all three; instead it fell between two 10-point bumpers (missing them) and caromed from one side of the machine to the other. It touched a circus tent, the bell light, a cheap bell, a cheap score: 10 points. Across the main roll above the flippers, arcing, arcing, and right into the gullet. Goodbye. Long. Game Over. Naw. You ain't gonna match. See. THUG! Machine goes off. He'd needed 20 points. Who could believe that if you hadn't seen it happen?

Ceiling fan hums, dusting the shirtsleeve of Bart Lydie, not perceptibly pestering his railer. Good for the seven but no leave. No, stay. Play another game? No way.

Nor a comic. "You know, Sammy, you'd figure to make at least 20 points, even if you didn't get a flip. Huh?" Lane chuckled though, anyway. A silly girl was feeding playing cards to her dog that promptly chewed them up and spit them on the floor. Lightning seemed to be enjoying it all. Who knows? Who could figure a dog? Know? Stay.

With your fake string of pearls you take away the night and transfer goodness on

waves to the party. "Hey, Lane, like those Pearls." A kid, perhaps Opie. She smiles. "Oh yea. You know they're all real?" By the fat drunk, the red-haired girl with braces, around the pole.

"I bet." Perhaps the Beaver. (If at all possible.)

"Yea, I know, like, for sure my old man's gonna buy me real pearls. Really." (Laughing.)

"Yea. Really. So, uh, what do you think? You wanna get a coke, or, you know, a beer or something, take a walk outside? There's a constellation out there----incredible! You've never, you know, it's like, you know, the Big Dipper and Orion have merged, it's, you know, it's like, it looks like a humongous Spiro Agnew." Whoooooa!

"OK."

Jesus! Thank God! Where is the fuckin' oxygen? 0!

"Another Bud, Bill." Clint Eastwood? Chevy Chase? Hand to back; (your older brother, dumbo), out the door and cool sand in the toes. No moon out. No Agnew. No waves. Ebb tide resurging. Over his singular passion for love.