Our Clowns.

Our Clowns.

We talked about clowns. In my opinion, the creepiest among the creeps is the Russian harlequin from the banks of the Congo, a misfit in a camp of misfits.

Then we speculated about the origin of the character: with a face shrouded in red, wide smile painted over human lips, always in the company of kids, feared and hated by the kids. I offered my theory, perhaps an archetype from Medieval Age, an executioner, when this type of death didn’t cause psychological trauma in the living, but rather was a highlight of the day. Perhaps the hooded man was a subject to warn misbehaving kids.

He met his clown on a deserted road somewhere in Ohio. It was late on a rainy night, when the moon was hiding in the clouds and the hungry owl couldn’t leave her nest. As another car was passing by, my friend looked at the driver for a moment and here he was, a clown, with a painted smile and red ragged hair. To make the matter worse, the bastard waved and disappeared in the night.

He told me that even the memory of that event still agitates him. Maybe it was the smile or the hair.  Maybe no one prepared to meet a reckless clown in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere. Or, I suggested, maybe it was Death on the way from her hobby activities to her real job. I also told him that he may be the lucky one because she didn’t change her attire yet.

After that, we sat silently, shoulder to shoulder, watching the fire in the fireplace from a safe distance and thinking own thoughts that hovered between the Congo and Ohio, between now and then…

c:NKO 8/14/12