Kelly L Howarth

 

Lost 

“Look, Steve! Over there.” Yolanda pointed to a commotion at the edge of their manicured lawn. It was 8 a.m., and Yolanda and Steve were taking their early-morning tea on the terrace. They were hoping for a glimpse of the doe and her fawn, which often passed through the strip of lush forest separating their sprawling property from the back neighbor’s in this gated bedroom community.        

Beyond the blooming colors of the flower garden, the crystalline waters of the swimming pool, and past the delicate ivory lawn ornaments, Steve fixed his gaze upon a clown. He furrowed his brow and narrowed his eyes: A clown? The clown had just collided with their Italian porcelain birdbath, sending a spray of water over himself and his bright suit—purple polka dot pants, supported by red suspenders, and a yellow shirt. He had stubbed the base of the birdbath with his too-big, red floppy shoes, causing it to fall over with a thud.

“Oh, my! Now, who is this dubious guest?” Steve wondered aloud. He and Yolanda watched incredulously as the clown tried to reset the birdbath with his white-gloved hands.

“Maybe we should go help him, Dear.” Yolanda offered.

“I’m not dressed to meet people, Yolanda.” Steve reminded her, nevertheless pulling his blue silk robe closed and tying it with the sash. He reluctantly extracted himself from the cushioned chaise lounge, forgetting to put his kid leather slippers on, and rushed toward the end of their property with Yolanda at his side.

The dewy grass lapped at the bottoms of Steve’s silky pajama pants, soaking them. He’d never walked barefoot on the plush lawn and could now feel the softness of the grass. Ah, Preston, our groundskeeper’s meticulousness pays off. He thought. “Promise me you’d not do this—uh, approach a stranger—a clown, no less—if I weren’t around,” Steve cautioned Yolanda as they walked toward the hapless buffoon.

“Of course not,” she replied too quickly.
“Because you never know…” Steve’s voice trailed off.

 They were now standing at arm’s length from the scene: the clown was doggedly working to fix the toppled birdbath. The grass around him was spongy with the fallen mixture of water, bird droppings, and feathers. Steve took in the dirty wet stains on the clown’s white gloves. The nest of his ocher wig framed his pasty face as the clown concentrated on fitting the bath to its stem. His painted red smile swallowed half of his face and was bleeding into his bulbous cherry nose.

Imagine that—a 21^st century jester lost in suburbia! Steve mused.

“It’s alright. Never mind.” Yolanda patted the clown’s arm, taking the dish of the birdbath from him, and wrestled with its weight before Steve rescued it from her delicate hands. He turned it over; the base had broken. No wonder the fool could not put it back on! He thought.

The clown blinked robotically, his mouth now an upside-down U. With a muddy gloved index finger, he pointed to a make-believe tear sliding down his cheek.

 “It’s fine,” Yolanda said. “It was an accident. We’ll have it fixed or get a new one,” she reassured the clown. Steve knew how much Yolanda loved looking at the birds through her binoculars, watching them alight and flit about, frolicking in the bath. The lawn ornament had been a costly delicious find on one of their travels to Rome. Now they would have to make do with a commercial replica from a local garden shop. “We’ll get Preston on it first thing tomorrow, Dear,” Steve patted Yolanda’s arm. 

Suddenly, Steve lost his footing and fell in the soupy grass, the wet mess penetrating his robe and lounge pants. He dropped the round dish of the birdbath. It cracked in two as it fell. “Damn clown!” He yelled. The clown pulled Steve to his feet with a soggy glove. “Now see what you’ve done—this mess! And now I’m all wet!” Steve lamented, smoothing the material of his sopping robe.

The clown’s sad face turned sadder. Yolanda smiled at the clown reassuringly: “It’s okay…he has to go in and get dressed anyway.”

“Yeah, and now I have to take a shower too! You damn clown! Get lost!” Steve shouted.

The clown made a great show of removing a skinny yellow balloon from the pocket of his red vest. With a series of short wet breaths, he blew it up into a grotesque sausage. He quickly twisted and turned the tube into a yellow bird with a beak, wings, and a tail. He handed it to Yolanda and flapped his arms at his sides. Yolanda squealed like a young girl at a child’s birthday party.

Steve turned to the clown and in a clipped tone: “What, a bird balloon?! Are you for real?”
The clown shook his head “No,” pointing to the birdbath as if Steve had not gotten it, his intention.
“So, what brings you here?” Steve wanted him to cut to the chase.

The clown put a finger into the air to signal “One moment.” He reached back into his vest pocket and withdrew a tattered slip of paper, turning it over: 123 Lakeview Drive.

“Oh, you’re lost!” Yolanda guessed the mime—like she was playing a game of charades.

The clown ruefully nodded as Steve read the reverse side of the paper: Billy Weaver 10 a.m. He assumed it was a birthday party for a little boy. “You’ve got a party to do,” Steve acknowledged tightly.

The clown’s eyes brightened, and he nodded, “Yes!”
“You’re quite lost then. Lakeview Drive is on the other side of the lake,” Steve pointed out. The clown shrugged his uncertainty.
“But you can’t be walking, not around here,” Yolanda observed.

The clown shook his head and put both his hands out in front of himself as though holding a steering wheel, driving. His smile broadened. He then made a quick jerking movement, his body suddenly stopping. Next, he mimed getting out of a car and opening the front hood, leaning in to inspect the vehicle. He straightened and frowned, shaking his head.

 “Your car broke down,” Steve guessed, sighing. He was getting tired of this game.

The clown nodded enthusiastically, again pointing to a new make-believe tear under his right eye, the one outlined with a massive yellow star etched in black. Tiny droplets of sweat dotted his furrowed brow; his smudged melting macabre face looked distorted in the sunlight.

The clown put his finger up once again to signal, “One moment.” He went back into the trees and returned with a zebra-striped knapsack in one hand and a folded metal contraption in the other. He slung the overstuffed bag onto his back then opened the metal contraption with a series of clicks. It was a purple unicycle with a bright yellow cracked leather seat!

“You’re not going to drive there on that!” Yolanda queried the clown. He nodded with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

 “Well then, let’s show you the street,” Steve offered, turning to cross the lawn. The dewy grass was now drying in the morning sun in contrast to the clammy silk stuck to his body. Steve led the clown through the gate to the front.

He retrieved an area map from his Mercedes and opened it up flat on the black hood, blistering hot from the sun’s rays. He pointed out the best route to Lakeview Drive. The clown nodded, and Steve shoved the map at him.

“Oh, why don’t you just drive him, Steve?” Yolanda suggested. “It’ll be faster for him.” She was pleading with those big doe eyes of hers.

“I’m not dressed. Besides, I don’t even know this clown,” Steve told her.
“But he’s a clown, for goodness sake!” she protested.
 “Exactly,” Steve said.

The clown looked expectantly from Steve to Yolanda and back again. Then he raised a grimy gloved finger: “One moment.” He pulled a tattered brown leather wallet from his vest pocket and withdrew a sheaf of crisp bills—brightly colored Monopoly money!

“Very funny, Clown!” Steve was entirely out of patience. He just wanted to get back to the tea he feared was now cold with swimming bugs. Why did this clown have to barge in on our Sunday morning ritual anyway? Steve asked himself.

“He’s lost, Steve!” Yolanda insisted.

“Yeah, and he should get lost,” Steve commanded. “Well, good luck then,” he nodded to the clown. “Yoli, come!” Steve turned to go back through the gate as the clown struggled with the zipper on his knapsack.  Yolanda was not at his side. Steve stopped—watching and waiting—and tapped his foot.

“I’ll help you with that.” Yolanda worked to free the zipper from the striped material. The bag popped open to release an assortment of clown props; a gun clattered onto the uni-stone driveway. Steve ran to snatch it up. The clown was faster, but Steve wrestled the weapon from the clown’s grip.

Yolanda stood there, silently taking in the brawl. The trigger released, and a loud pop erupted, shattering the quiet of the neighborhood. A plastic red rose shot out of the gun’s barrel.

Yolanda clutched her stomach, uproariously laughing while Steve turned once more to go through the gate, barking over his shoulder: “I said, ‘Get lost,’ you damn clown—now go!”

Yolanda helped the clown stuff the items back into his knapsack. In his peripheral vision, Steve saw the clown mount his unicycle. He held the map open with one hand and waved with the other as he pedaled off down the tree-lined street. Yolanda gripped the red rose in her hand and waved back.