The Clown

I could go out now. I could drive a car again. I hadn't even been dressed for two months. It was time.

So I showered and went to my closet. A shirt, some jeans. . . . But these weren't mine. I couldn't begin to get them on. What the hell? I tried another pair, but the result was the same. Two months of lying in bed and eating three squares a day plus snacks had done a number on me. I went to the mirror. I guess I didn't look so good. Jesus Christ, how was I going to go to the store to buy pants if I couldn't put any on? I couldn't wear my pajamas. And so miserably, I found the biggest pair of pants I had and struggled to suck in my gut enough to get them fastened. But I couldn't. I was sweating. Bad.

I called my mother in a near panic to tell her. "What am I going to do?" I asked.

"There are some safety pins in the kitchen drawer. See if you can get your pants fastened with one."

More sucking, more sweating. Finally, it was done. I put my shirt over the top of my pants and found my keys. I couldn't breathe.

Outside, everything was too bright. It was Saturday, so there were people about the complex. I walked by a couple who said hello. I raised my hand in an awkward wave. I felt ridiculous. Surely they were talking about me now. "What the hell was wrong with him," I imagined the fellow saying to the girl. She would wrinkle her nose as if she smelled something bad and then the two of them would laugh. I was fat, pale, pasty, flabby, stiff, and ill-dressed. I wanted to go inside, take my clothes off, and go back to bed.

I unlocked the door to my car. Bending to sit made everything worse. Sitting, I pushed my hips forward and leaned back as far as I could trying to ease the pressure. I was certain the safety pin wouldn't hold, that something would tear or break and with a sudden "pop" I would be exposed. But excruciatingly and with great care, sucking in my stomach, my thighs already going numb, I was able to keep it fastened.

I strarted the engine and put the car in reverse. I couldn't turn to look over my shoulder, of course, so I looked into the rear view mirror and prayed that I wouldn't hit anything. Then I eased out onto the highway. Zip, zip. . . Holy Moses. The speed limits must have changed. By now my shirt was soaked with sweat, my heart beating like a rabbit's. My hair was beginning to feel greasy.

The Mall. People were everywhere, a giant horde of "normal" folks marching around merrily on their day off. It made me dizzy. But I had to get pants. I couldn't stay in these much longer. And so I went into a men's store and made a beeline for the jeans.

A slick man came over right away. He was thin, wearing slim polyester pants and a polyester shirt tucked in and pinned to his underwear. That is what I guessed, anyway. He had short hair with long sideburns and a short mustache. When he said, "May I help you," there was condescension in his voice. But I didn't have time to argue.

"I need a pair of jeans," I said quickly.

"What size?"

I told him a size two up from what I used to wear. I could tell he thought that was funny, but he pulled some out of a stack.

In the dressing room, I couldn't get them on. I stuck my head out and saw slick standing over by the register. "Hey," I yelled, I need a larger size. He took his time reacting, turning to the fellow he was talking to and saying something that made the other fellow grin, then slowly he walked over to the jeans and pulled out another pair.

They looked ridiculous. They waist was much larger than the length. They were clown pants. I thought of a silly song I had once heard, "A little song, a little dance, a little seltzer down my pants." I looked into the mirror. I was a clown, alright, but the pants fit around my waist. This was the size. This was me. But now what? Was I going to wear them out or try to squeeze back into the pair I wore in. I thought about that for a moment before deciding not to provide the salesman with any more fun. And so, tortuously, I squeezed back into the pants I had come in, sweating and panting squirming, trying to fasten the latch of the safety pin over and over again.

Back home, I ripped off my clothes and fell into the bed. I lay there for a moment thinking. I reached down and felt my stomach. It was hideous. How had I let this happen? Why hadn't I noticed. I thought about Sherri. Maybe she had never realized. It was always dark or dim. I was always lying down. I was miserable. And I was hungry. What the hell. I got up to see if there were any more of the cinnamon rolls my mother had bought.