The Telltale Honk

We were late with the rent again.

Well, Garrett was late with the rent again. I always set aside my half before the beginning of the month, along with half of the electric, gas, and internet bills. I kept track of everything in a loose-leaf notebook marked SETH’S BILLS on the cover, the same way since my first job at Wendy’s when I was sixteen. Back then, it felt like a very adult thing to do, a symbol of drive and initiative. Now it was a source of chronic stomachaches.

When Garrett and I became roommates, we agreed that we’d pay the rent with checks written on my bank account, and Garrett’s contribution would be made through a monthly automatic transfer. That worked for about six months, until Garrett abruptly quit his IT job at a law office (which made considerably more money than I did) to pursue clowning.

I thought the clown thing was amusing at first. He collected anything related to clowns. His love for clowns wasn’t ironic either: inspired by his grandfather, who worked with a traveling circus as a boy, he treated clowning with grave regard. When a friend joked about clown pornography, Garrett insisted that it was like spitting on the Mona Lisa, an insult to the art. Bring up John Wayne Gacy, and you’d get a lecture about how he didn’t respect clowning, because he didn’t know not to make the ends of his mouth pointy when doing his makeup. “A sham, an impostor,” Garrett said with disgust, as if that was worse than murdering 33 people.  

My jaw clenched when he moved into the apartment and I saw how many boxes were marked with some variation on “clown”: clown books, clown dolls, clown figurines, clown art. Garrett kept it confined to his bedroom, though, save for a set of well-worn Ronald McDonald dishes in the kitchen, and a ceramic figurine of Emmett Kelly he insisted on displaying in the living room, because it was expensive and he wanted guests to admire it. We rarely had guests, however, and none of them admired (or even noticed) the figurine, which was Emmett Kelly wearing a filthy coat and torn pants, holding a piece of paper with the word LAWSUIT on it. I assumed there was a story behind it, but never asked.

I considered the clown thing to be an affectation, a quirk, not anything I needed to worry about. Sure, his phone’s ringtone was a clown horn, which was irritating, but would have been more so if anyone ever called or texted him. The TED Talks, those should have been worrying. At first, Garrett watched the usual inspiring bullshit: a guy who beat cancer twice before climbing Mount Everest, the first female ambassador to Bolivia, an 11-year-old jazz prodigy. Then he focused on talks about finding your purpose in life, whether it was working with the poor in Africa, or opening a sustainable vegan taco truck.

He watched dozens of these things, sometimes nodding and smiling like he was in the audience, but I never expected that he’d actually take their advice and quit his job (in this economy!) to follow his bliss. Despite the clown thing, he seemed like a sensible guy who’d work with the poor on the weekends.

And then, Garrett announced, with pride and a touch of smugness, that he quit his job to pursue clowning full-time.

“I…what?” I stammered.

“I know this may be startling,” Garrett said patiently. “But you have to understand, this has to happen now or it never will. I’ll be 35 next year. Frosty Little was 20 when he started clowning professionally and–”

“Fros…who?” I interrupted, but Garrett continued as if he didn’t hear me. “I’ve lost so much time already. I know what I want to do with my life, and it’s clowning.”

“Do you have a gig already? Like a circus or something?”
“No, circuses hire from clown colleges,” Garrett answered. “I’m self-taught, remember?”

“Are you going to do birthday parties then?”

He gave me a withering look. “I’m not a whore, Seth.”

He would be a street clown, “like the old masters in Paris,” standing on corners or in subway stations and delighting onlookers with his antics. Considering almost no one carried loose bills or change on them anymore, it was a bad time to start busking, but Garrett was convinced he’d be a hit. “Just give me three months, you’ll see. People want to see old-fashioned, wholesome entertainment. All paid for in cash, no taxes, it’ll be great.”

Garrett ran out of money within two months. Though he claimed to have known for a while that he wanted to be a street performer, he saved nothing from his actual job in preparation for it. Other than the pitiful amount he earned working 10 to 14 hours a day clowning, he had no source of income, and his parents were unwilling to help him chase his dream, no matter how many TED Talks he sent them.

Besides the fact that no one had spare cash for buskers anymore, Garrett was a lousy clown. His makeup was sloppy, giving him a seedy, rolled-in-the-gutter look. He couldn’t get the hang of juggling and only knew how to make one balloon animal: a penile dog that popped in his hands while tying it up. It was impossible to believe he wanted to be a clown his whole life. He looked like he had lost a bet.

Watching Garrett come home after competing in Times Square with multiple Elmos and SpongeBobs was like watching a French silent film. Horn hanging low on his chest, squirting flower drooping, trying not to trip over his big shoes, his painted-on grin fighting with his actual frown. I would have felt sorry for him if it hadn’t been the third month in a row that I had to scramble to make up his share of the rent and bills. Pity would have been possible if his phone didn’t honk-honk every few minutes when he was home, as either bill collectors nagged him or other street performers coordinated where they’d be working next.

Garrett slumped in a living room chair, looking mournfully at the Emmett Kelly statue as if he expected it to shame him.

“Hey, uh…I know this is a bad time, but I really need you to–” I began, but he waved me off. “I know, rent’s due. Just give me a couple more days, okay? I heard from a Hello Kitty that there’s a League of Catholic Voters convention coming to town, and they love clowns. I’ll get it to you for sure.”

But he didn’t get it to me, and Mr. Szymanski, our landlord who lived downstairs, informed me that he had a “three strikes and you’re out” rule for late rent. He gave us until the end of the week to get him the whole thing, plus late fees. No matter how many times I went over my SETH’S BILLS notebook, no additional money magically appeared. Moving back to my mother’s house in Hyattsville, Maryland, loomed on the horizon.

I was on my second dose of Pepto when Garrett came home, droopier than ever. Not even bothering to take his rainbow-striped jacket off, he once again slumped in the living room chair. Usually, I’d leave him to his moping, but this time I stood there, staring at him and all but tapping my foot with my arms folded like an angry housewife.

Eventually, he acknowledged me. “What?”

“How much money did you make tonight?”

Garrett let out a long, exasperated sigh. “Man, Seth, don’t–”

“No, I mean it,” I said. “How much money did you make?”

Staring back at me, he reached deep in the pocket of his baggy, patched pants and pulled out a wad of mostly $1 bills, shoving them into my hand. “There, happy?” he said. “Wanna pick me up by my ankles and shake me?”

“No, I’m not happy. We’re gonna get kicked out, you know that? Do you understand? I can’t–”

Honk honk. His phone chimed, and Garrett rooted around in his pocket.

“I can’t keep covering you,” I continued. “I understand this is your dream and all, but–”

Honk honk.

“Hey, can you maybe put that fucking thing on vibrate or something?” I snapped. “I’m tired of hearing it.”

Garrett looked at his phone and shoved it back in his pocket. “No, I need to know where the next gig is so I can make money and you can get off my ass about it.”

He sounded like a sullen teenager (albeit one dressed like a clown), and though it aggravated me, I took a breath and continued in a calmer voice. “Again, I understand this is your dream,” I said. “But my dream is being able to pay the rent on time. I’m sorry, but I really need you to go back to work.”

Garrett looked startled and even offended. “Who the hell are you?” he snapped. “This is work. I’m not selling car insurance or whatever it is you do, but at least I’m doing what I want to do. I’m an entertainer, and the money isn’t always–”

“An entertainer?” I repeated, my voice rising. “Who are you entertaining, the blind? You’re the worst clown I’ve ever seen. You can’t tell a joke. Your wig smells. You look like a child murderer. I wouldn’t invite you to perform at a prison.”

He stood up in shock, stumbling over his big yellow shoes, and I almost laughed. “I don’t have to take this!” he shouted.

“You do until you give me some money. Here,” I walked over to the TV cabinet and snatched up the Emmett Kelly figurine. “Why don’t you sell this thing? You said you paid a lot for it.”

“I did, six hundred dollars,” he said, with defiance.

“Yeah, well, six hundred dollars would help a lot right now.”
“I’m not selling it.”
“Then I guess you’d better see how much kidneys are going for these days.”

“I’m not selling it!” Garrett repeated. “That’s a rare Emmett Kelly, they only made one hun–”

“I don’t give a shit about Emmett Kelly!” I shouted. “Fuck Emmett Kelly!”

I threw the figurine at a wall, and it exploded like a grenade was hidden inside it. We were both silent for a moment, and though Garrett was still wearing his makeup, I could see dawning horror cross his face, as if I had just thrown an urn containing his mother’s ashes.

“Oh, shit,” I said, my voice softer. “I’m sorry, man, I’m just–”

Horror turned to rage, and Garrett pushed me, hard enough to send me stumbling backwards. “You dick!” he shouted. “I should beat your ass!”

I pushed back. “This is your fault! If you hadn’t quit your–”

He pushed me again. “Eat shit, you lousy office drone!”

His phone honk-honked again, and I pushed him a second time, bellowing and putting all my weight into it. Garrett stumbled and fell backwards, his head hitting the corner of the coffee table with a sickening crunch.