The Feet of God

81 - DINNER IS SERVED

Mr. Harry and I entered the mess tent.  An indistinct, warm moist smell filled my nostrils, and triggered another cramp of hunger in my gut.  As I stood there, scantily clad and mostly covered in paint, full of sores, I danced from foot to foot moving up the food Conga line.  I got me a tray, a fistful of paper napkins, and a plate and a spoon.  The spoon was just what I needed to scratch at my itching back where I couldn’t reach.

From my place in line I couldn’t quite see what dinner was made of.  When my turn came I held out my plate and a pile of noodles and peas and squash and onions and colors of red and white and yellow and green was slopped in front of me.  I was so hungry I was pretty sure I could keep this down.  Then I noticed Mr. Harry wasn’t eating since he had no tray or plate.

“Ain’t you gonna eat nothin’?” I asked.

“Oh, I had a bagel with cream cheese and jelly earlier.  Spoiled my appetite.”

I thought it inconsiderate of Mr. Harry that he didn’t at least fix an extra plate for me.  But I didn’t say a word, not wanting to come off as being too pushy during my first day on the job.

There was probably 20 folding picnic tables scattered around with six or eight places per table.  Each one had a pitcher of brown liquid I hoped was some kind of dark beer.  Along the back wall sat a long table on a raised platform for the stars of the show.  Mr. Harry led me (and an irritatingly underfoot puppy, Pulito) off to a table by the side, where only a single soul occupied the space.  “Scaly, I want you to meet Bobo the Magnificent.”

“Hi,” I said to the clown.  “I’m Scaly.”

Bobo nodded, and went back to slurping noodles down his mouth.

I slid into a seat a bit down the table from Bobo.

The clown’s shaky hands shook out some pills from a vial.  His whole face fell forward like he’d stuck it in the end of a huge vacuum tube.  His nose was a giant red knob, and his rubbery lips pushed out in a pucker while his eyes had the most downturned expression you ever saw.  His old man ears stuck out in an unnerving display, like flap ornaments with wild hairs.  The scariest part was, he didn’t have any makeup on at all.

I looked around, and from our seating arrangement we had a view of the raised table of The Amazing Stumppo and his guests, including Pyro-Tina, the Kennedy Sisters Act and the guy with the iron spike through his head.  I also noticed we was next to a table where some rough-trade carnies congregated.

“So, Bobo, how long ya been makin’ ‘em laugh at the Cirque De Bizarro?”  (I figured I’d attempt to be sociable and make some polite conversation with my dining companion.)

“Too fuckin’ long,” the clown spoke with his mouth full of food, even as he tipped the plate back and shoveled more food into his wide open maw.  “God damned lotta good it did me.  That sumbitch Stumppo has dragged my ass all over this damned country, and every time he finds a new act I move lower and lower on the billing.”  He wiped his mouth and muttered, “So, you got the Lizard Man gig, huh?”

I tried to explain.  “Seems so.  I’m still trying to get into character, though.”

Bobo the Magnificent yawned and seemed completely uninterested.

After a bit Mr. Harry leaned over and touched my arm, “Let’s go outside for a smoke.”

I spooned the rest of the slop down my gullet, then Mr. Harry and me proceeded to get up and head for the flap toward the back of the tent.

The room fell silent when Bobo raised his angry voice, “Your mothah work here, or what?”

I stopped dead in my tracks.  This was the meanest clown I’d ever met.

Bobo the Magnificent glared hard at me.  “You wanna bus your own damned tray, or what?  I ain’t paid to be your butt boy.”

I felt everyone’s accusing eyes upon me, heightening the awkwardness of the situation, and I returned and retrieved my dining tray and properly took it over to the bussing station.  After that uncomfortable moment passed, me and Mr. Harry slipped out back.  Mr. Harry produced a pack of Winston Menthols and we stopped by a parked trailer to light up.

“Bobo likes you,” he said.

“Well, I’d sure hate to be on his bad side.”

“Bobo hasn’t really been himself since the clown car accident took Kiki’s life,” Mr. Harry confided.

I didn’t ask a single question.  He shared more with me than I really wanted to know.

Mr. Harry and me smoked in silence when some guy suddenly snuck up from outta nowhere, in black underwear and whiteface with a black teardrop under one eye, imitating Mr. Harry puffing on his cigarette in the most exaggerated and flamboyant way.

I couldn’t help breaking out laughing.

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