Written on 2/9/2011
Sarah woke and noticed make-up on the pillow. It was dented where a head had been, the sheets wrinkled and damp. She slowly realized that she was back in her hotel room, when a wave of nausea hit her, and she ran to the toilet. She felt better after being sick, although weak and sweaty. She couldn’t believe she had done it again; gotten drunk, picked up some clown and brought him home. This one had left behind a business card. It had the standard balloons and flowers they all did, and picture of him, grinning like a fool. On the back of the card he’d written, “Call me. Your friend, Bobo.”
Her father had been a professional Santa, so maybe that’s why she had a thing for clowns. She was comfortable around men in costumes. She’d woken up with so many of them, they’d become a blur of wigs, baggy pants and grease paint. The thing about them all was they were just a bunch of hacks. They all had day jobs; most of them worked at Wal-Mart, and did the clown stuff on the side. Still, they did somehow seem transformed in their floppy shoes and rubber noses. And since nobody else wanted them, they were easy to pick up if she felt lonely, or bored, or horny. She couldn’t believe how far she’d fallen. Traveling the country, giving talks at back-water conventions to telling tales of her former glory. The phone rang.
“Ms. Palin?” the voice said, “Your cab is waiting for you.”