Clown-shoes.
Clown shoes padding softly across a stage. Why is a perfectly rational guy wearing clown shoes? Why does he feel the need to be so quiet? Do not answer this question, *dramatize* it. Eventually, the phone rings, he answers it as if he’s someone he’s not. The audience is watching him, he’s watching the audience, feeling shame that he’s doing something wrong. If only he knew what it was. If only he could be the person that the person on the other end of the telephone wants him to be, then everything would be all right. But at the moment, the audience staring him down feels dangerous, they could rend him limb from torso, if they don’t get their entertainment value. He’s aware acutely that the clown shoes were a mistake, way too obvious, but they were forced on him, if only he could remember who forced the clown shoes on him, and why can’t he just take them off? Will that look half-hearted, dishonest, as if he doesn’t believe in anything? Is it worse that he doesn’t believe in anything than that he believes in something so fucking stupid? How can he make that decision in the moment, with all these burning hot lights on him, and the audience waiting, clearing their throats? He hears the click of texting, and he knows he’s lost the audience’s interest, at least the younger members of the audience. The voice on the other end of the phone is yammering, and he realizes the language is Finnish, and even though he pats himself on the back for recognizing that the language is Finnish, he doesn’t speak Finnish, so it’s useless knowledge, like most of his knowledge. If only the curtain would come down. But there is no curtain on this modest stage, and not much of a set, only a couch with a sign propped up on the couch back that reads “Do not sit here. Thank you.” He hangs up the phone and turns to the audience. His tongue sticks to the roof of his dry mouth. He pries it loose with a pinky that smells of tuna. He means to say, “Clearly, a mistake has been made,” but he doesn’t know what mistake or who made it, and thinking of saying something so vague, and in the passive voice, no less, brings on another wave of shame, so he begins to do an awkward robotic dance, kind of like the sort of thing he used to do in the eighties when forced to dance at clubs to New Wave music. Maybe this sort of thing is cool now, he thinks to himself, maybe it’s retro, maybe they’ll take it as ironic instead of desperate. He continues to dance his robotic dance, chopping his hands stiffly through the air and jerking his torso around like a punch-press. This is going really well, he thinks to himself. Really, really well.
