The runaway Clown Part 2- Copyright Robert Fullarton 2013

The runaway Clown Part 2- Copyright Robert Fullarton 2013

                                                         

 II

I was lucky enough to make an acquaintance of a studio producer. Antonio Vorelli is his name. He himself works out at the Free mantle studios about a mile outside of the city. He himself has written the scripts and of course helped to produce many infamous children’s shows. He helped me on me that very afternoon, seeing me alone in the rain begging, he naturally enough took pity on me. He stood before me, like the ominous presence of an angel, glowing with the radiance of success with his ubiquitous acclaim for popularity ringing out.

“Clown, why do you beg by the road”, he said to me with a tone of pity resonating through his deep Italian pair of lungs.

“I have no where else to go. I escaped from the circus, where I was maltreated and abused by my employer, the ringmaster himself.”

“Well it seems to me that you are the most wretched thing I have ever seen, but I still pity your cursed life. You must seek refuge with the home for the dispossessed.”

“I have tried that. They are a bunch of crooks and criminals; every man is brought in, and is simply used for scientific research, which is part of a national inquiry into the state of wretchedness and poverty. They have abused their position. They tried to capture me and they offered to drug me up to my eyeballs, get me drunk on whiskey and then ran many degrading, invasive tests on me.”

“Oh that is not right! They have no right to do that to you! In Italy clowns are respected as the great artists and performers they are. When we Italian boys see a clown on the street, we tip our hats, we laugh and joke with the clown and give him money, for his very presence. Clowns often perform in restaurants while the people are eating their favourite pasta dishes.”

“Really?”

“Yes, laughter is good for the digestion. Good for the mind. We Italians love the common artist, whether he is a clown or pavement painter. We love art and we love women, with lots of laughter and spaghetti.”

“Really?”

“Yes! Its true and I might need your services for one of my shows. Since you have experience behind you. I am sure that you will be perfect entertainment for the children one of my shows, its called Travelling town. You will fit right in. What is you name, may I ask?”

“Parmy?”

“Parmy! What a great stage name. It reminds me of Parmesan cheese! Makes me feel hungry! I think I need no more convincing. You will come and meet my agent and my personal assistant along with the director himself. I will introduce, you all in good time. Come tomorrow to Free mantle studios, its at number 19 Lower Sandwich street. Just beside the children’s hospital. Do you know this area very well?”

“Yes, I think I can manage. I have passed through it before, it’s a mile outside of the city centre.”

“Yes. Don’t worry get the number 7 bus and you will get off on Sandwich Street.”

He then handed me several hundred Euro and advised me to go to the nearest hostel, to get a refreshing nights sleep, a hot bath and to buy some clothes for tomorrow.

“Why are you taking pity on me?”

“Hey don’t worry I am helping an investment grow, if I profit off you, it doesn’t matter what happens to you, as long as you help to boost my ratings, then I will be a very happy Italian”

“Well alright then, that is an unusual thing to state, a bit unscrupulous, but I trust you and you have been the only kind stranger I have met so far.”

“Yes that is the spirit. You now see that we Italians love clowns too. I will provide for you and you must provide for me. Call it an oral contract, consideration and acceptance has been made on both sides.”

“Alright then, I agree to the contract. But what are the terms?”

“Terms? Oh don’t worry about that, you will find out everything tomorrow once I have you on the set. With pies flying against you, and children laughing in chorus to your slapstick entertainment, then you will be right at home again, doing what you do best.”

“Alright then mister…?”

“Antonio Nicholo Vorelli. Pleased to have met you.”

“Same here sir.”

We both shuck hands parted ways for the moment.

I spent the night in Darby Hall and for the first night I didn’t have to fight a pack of tough, ruthless tom cats for an old stale bucket of Mc Donald’s in a dumpster or a bag of chips with fungus growing out of the side. I dined in the hostel that evening, with a full stomach, and a tear rolled down my face. That night I prayed earnestly and sincerely for the health and welfare of Antonio Nicholo Vorelli.

The shadows of teenage kids had gathered outside my bedroom window, sounding like a hysterical pack of hyenas, they laughed and concocted their devastating plans of destruction, as each menacing child took turns to taunt the policeman that stood beside them and when this nervy figure of would be authority questioned each boy on their motives, one boy- the supposed leader of the pack- knocked the cap off the policeman’s head, mockingly in an effort to entice the policeman into rage.

“Hey I can have you arrested, for obstructing police inquires and for assaulting an officer of the law.”

“I can have my father put you six feet under!” Said the leader trying to sound tough in the presence of the other boys.

“What! I will put you boys in a cell for the night, if you don’t apologise.”

“Apologise! I would rather rob you instead!”

“What? You bunch of little terriers, wait till I get the officers of the law after you, we will pound you to death and have your flats demolished in a heartbeat. We’ll come down hard on scum like you.”

“Well you are all talk and no action. The police are the ornaments of our old system. No one takes you lot seriously these days. Its pure anarchy on the streets, everyone runs riot with guns, flamethrowers and machine guns. Gangs, drug pushers and sex traffickers are everywhere and your courts only have the nerve to remain in service, when they don’t actually confront the escalation in violent crime itself. The courts are filled with old rotting bankers and other charlatans who have openly robbed many a nation and yet they have gone on holiday, evaded justice and have never even returned yet”, said one of the youths, who appeared to be the ring leader, with his raspy adolescent voice, his pimply complexion and his evil dark hollow eyes, which bore through the hollow interior of the authorities.

The policeman was taken aback, stunned and surprised to have confronted a youth, who was so well spoken, utterly cheekier and more ignorant than before. Teenagers now show no scruples and respect where previously their mothers would slap their arses with a wooden spoon if they spoke disrespectfully to a member of the police force. “Now if you’ll excuse me officer, we have a building to torch. Excuse us sir!”

The three youths ran off like wild animals, nearly on all fours, in ecstasy while the officer pursued them through the blackness of the city streets that night.

                                                           III

Parmy met Vorelli at the Free Mantle studios on the outskirts of the hustling, bustling mechanical jungle, which they called the city and invited him to partake in a live performance of the Game of Life- back by popular demand- which offered steady employment to a number of junkies –on a whole bunch of miscellaneous addictions and vices that made them run and crawl like sorry lab rats in a human vivi-section.

There were many games to partake in, the contestants –the addicts- would wade through several metres of thick disgusting gunge, climb up several moving escalators, to swing and leap either through rings of burning fire or over a large octagonal shaped containers filled with either hungry vicious alligators or a batch of electric eels that would put a 50 watts through the heart of any human agitator.

The choice was bleak, but it was for a fix, the crowd laughed until men in fancy tuxedos came down the aisles with handkerchiefs and wiped the tears from their eyes. A latest instalment included a game of cat and mouse between wanted criminals and desperate policemen through a stage produced labyrinth construction –made of wood and polystyrene- the criminal would evade conviction or sentencing if only he could make it to the end of the labyrinth. It was up to the policeman to put on a good show, if he got anything less than a five off the judging team then, he could expect to be sacked –ratings had to be maintained- or else he would get a bucket of gunge in his face. But the heroin game was the crowds favourite; there was general uproar if the heroin game was to be substituted for the cocaine game for instance –the cocaine game by the way was for rich bankers to guess what was contained in each white bag, some of the contents in each bag were lethal and some completely innocuous  (but on one occasion a contestant had sniffed half a gram of anthrax up his nostrils and as a result lost his job and his life in the process. Vorelli and Parmy sat opposite each other discussing matters before the nights’ show had even begun. They looked out from one of the side dressing rooms as the first contestant had made a run for the prize –which was a hypodermic needle hanging, suspended in the air- and the side commentator began to cry out to the audience.

“Oh he’s making a run for the rope, he misses it, he losses the fix and lands in the tank with the electric eels, oh what a shame ladies and gentlemen –Ahhh!!”

“See clown, what my show offers, it is the most highly evolved form of entertainment, survival shows, have a new meaning and a sense of comedy to them now with my money and my team of financiers, we have a show that makes the people laugh, it reminds them of the everyday misery of life, turns it on its own head and converts it all into laughter. It is rather quite funny if you see it like I do”, laughed Vorelli as two contestants clumsily bashed into each other and landed in the Alligator pit.”

“They will have to work extra hard for their bread, if you know what I mean! But once they win they usually overdose, when they get what they want and I have to find new contestants off the streets every week.”

“Sir, I think you take the whole blood sports thing a bit too serious, its rather barbaric sir what your doing to these poor degenerates. I wont sign the contract, I wont take your money and I wont participate in any of these social experiments”, said Parmy in a rage of defiance.

“Well then I guess its back to the circus with you. The whip may work more efficiently on you than a contract offering you feasible wages and even modest accommodation, you ungrateful clown! Get out of my sight!”

Vorelli snapped his fingers and in an instant two stage hands came out and grabbed Parmy by the shoulders until he was dragged out through one of the studios many side doors –with little protest or resistance- to be thrown out onto the concrete pavement.

“I think I will go back to the circus and perform until my final days,” said Parmy with an air of dismay”, to the stranger that stood before him.

“Have you only woken up to the fact, that most of us here in the city, are performing one way or another to simply live. We all have labours that steal our youth, that ware us out and finally leave us tired and impaired from the masters we serve”, said the janitor that stood outside the side door smoking on a butt of a withered cigarette.

“I have travelled through the city and seen nothing but servility, crime, hostility and submission.”

“Yes, the ones that take the pain, are the good ones I am afraid. You wont find any alternative wherever you go to, either the circus or the crack comedies of the theatre.

I know a man, a good father of three for instance, who tried desperately to get his, utterly beautiful, eldest daughter a contract in the modelling business. The best he could get was the wax museum over on Halifax Street, where she poses for four hours a day, holding a falsified smile, standing nimbly, looking pretty, donning silly hats, without moving for tourists. She now has to go for sessions with a chiropractor on her day off and a further session with a psychiatrist for the damage the modelling business has done to her brain.”

“That is quite tragic.”

“Yes, it is. I’m a mere janitor; I evade the horrors inundated by Vorelli’s so called modern entertainment. I slip by, I come and go, I keep my head down and get the job done, sometimes it is quite disgusting, trying to sanitize the studios, where horrific acts of human cruelty are engaged in, but I still make it home each evening to my loving wife and kids. My advise for you is to keep your head down, save up what money you have and leave this land forever!”

“I have no money at the moment!”

“What about the circus? Surely you must have gotten something for that!”

“Yes, I got a small wage, just ample enough to get by on. But the cruelty of the ringmaster drove me away.”

“Why don’t you return to the circus, bare the brunt like the rest of us, save up those small wages and go and buy your own place. Have you ever desired to find your own piece of earth?”

“Well I wouldn’t be that sentimental, but I have an attraction to the countryside.”

“Well, why not?”

“Well, I have to be realistic, I have no savings, whatsoever and I am currently unemployed and technically I am homeless.”

“I might have the number of a company that needs a new janitors assistant. I think I might be able to get you some part-time work at least, how does that sound?”

“Sounds too good to be true!”

“Well you’ll need to ditch the clown costume and dress like us ordinary citizens!”

The janitor laughed and Parmy noticed that he had no teeth left as he bore his brown gums for a second, but his eyes twinkled with the merits of kindness and goodness.

“Yes that’s true.”

“Well I might have a spare pair of overalls in my locker, I think they might fit you. Your about a medium like myself, am I correct.”

“Yes I would say so. Thank you by the way.”

“Oh, no need to thank me, I just feel sorry for you, that’s all. I witnessed the whole thing with Vorelli and his goons “, as he smiled again he handed Parmy a small piece of paper, which Parmy received in good spirits.

“This is an address”, exclaimed Parmy in surprise.

“Yes it is, it’s the address for a homeless shelter, that will offer you free food and lodging until you get yourself back up on your feet again.”

The name struck Parmy as somewhat familiar.

“Hmmm……..St. Andrews…………Oh Lord no!!! Not that place again. I’m not going to go back to them!!!”

“Whats’ wrong??”

Asked the man somewhat taken aback by Parmy’s almost hysterical response.

“Oh bad memories in that place……didn’t work out, I’m afraid.”

“Oh sorry, I just happened to have the address in my pocket book for a friend of mine. Nothing sinister though, don’t worry. Hmmm…..If you wait around for a while, I’ll be finished work in about fifteen minutes, just have to finish my routinely inspection of the toilets and then you can accompany me home. I have a spare bed. Your welcome to come and stay with me tonight….at least until you get your thoughts together.”

“Thank you again”, said Parmy with the widest grin he could just about manage, without hurting his wisdom teeth.

“Your welcome, just wait for me around the front of the building near the main gate and I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Alright?”

“Sure.”

Visions of nature, of far-flung hamlets, animals, the sound of a dead silent wilderness, a mountainous dreamscape, a place where droplets fed a waterfalls’ hungry mouth, filled the mind of Parmy the clown, with hunger, a hunger to leave the land of his birth and his captivity. Hopes of the future raised high, freedom was a long arduous process, but it was the risk and the gamble he would take for all or nothing, to be rid of the city. In those fifteen minutes, the visions seemed so real that the sound of rushing water and the little cottage were alive and waiting for him to go to them.