The Running of the Clowns
My butt was numb from the hard plastic chair; my fingers stuck together from the blue residue left from the cotton candy I inhaled in five minutes. (Mom let us get sweet prizes this time because it was the circus. “We have to!” My sister and I pleaded with her.) I sat on the edge of my seat staring beyond the sea of chairs and into the deep pit below us.
“Punchbug!” Erin yelled out as she smacked my arm.
The yellow Beetle pulled into the pit. My arm still stung from the slug. I watched the clowns spill out from inside the car. Tall ones, short ones, fat ones, skinny ones. A crayon box of colors filled my vision. I wondered when the supply of clowns would stop, if it ever would, but glad that they were down there, far away from me.
One of the clowns began to talk but I was too distracted by his outfit to pay attention to what he was saying. Purple pants, blue shoes – flat as a pancake! – yellow shirt, green suspenders, orange hair and a huge red flower stuck to his shirt. I was jealous of this outfit - he didn’t have Erin telling him that those don’t match at all. I imagined what it would be like to be able to wear all those colors at once. He looked straight at me, I saw a blue tear painted on his face and wondered why he was a crying clown. Everyone turned their smiles to me, laughter engulfed me.
The clown with fake emotions started to climb the stairs, making his way in my direction. My heart started to pound. My hands began to sweat. My breathing quickened as he came closer and closer. Why couldn’t he have stayed down there with the others?
He stopped right next to where Mom was sitting and reached his white gloved hand out toward me. Flight or fight took hold of my five year old mind. I didn’t want him touching me. I jumped up and my little legs started to run. And I raced myself. My small, skinny body fit through the waves of seats easily. No one stood in my way. I bolted, trying to get as far away as possible.
Mom was jogging behind me, struggling to make it between the rows, calling me back to her. “It’s okay Kate. He’s not going to hurt you!” Her voice echoed in my fleeing mind.
The clown was trailing her. I could hear his giant shoes flapping on the floor. Then another one appeared in front of me. This one’s colors were all mixed up. And no tear on his face (why wasn’t he crying?) instead a small tiny hat perched on top of his head.
I panicked. The only thing that I could do was to squeeze under his arm and run up the aisle. Just when he thought I was running to him, I slipped under the hat-topped clown’s arm (his silk shirt brushed against the top of my head) and ran as fast as I could, as high as I could get. The clown’s steps echoed behind me. Mom behind him, the fear of what I’d do next etched across her face, the crying clown flapping behind her, and others joining the race.
Reaching the top of the aisle, I looked back and saw a trail of colors. The lead clown was just about to reach me when his pancake shoes became too much for him. He started to topple over. I reached out my tiny hand. I loved the smooth, cool feel of the silk as I helped him finish the fall. I wanted that shirt.
Mom jumped out of the line just before the dominoes of clowns started to collapse, all their shoes too big to handle and the rainbow of colors falling down, one on top of each other.
Mom ran up the stairs and lifted me into her arms.
“Don’t you ever do that to me again.” She whispered in my ear as she squeezed my body to hers harder than she ever had before. I didn’t think that she would ever let go, maybe she didn’t want to.
The audience thought it was all part of the circus act. Their laughter reached me and mom, surrounded us, the reunited, hugging couple. Fear, relief and love flooded mom’s face. Comfort, Tears of fear, relief and love filled mine.
I felt a bruise begin to form on my arm, the same spot from earlier, as Mom and I walked back to Erin hand in hand, the blue tear left in my mind.
“I still don’t understand how you can be afraid of clowns with circus in our blood.” Mom whispered to herself.
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