I have a secret life. Oh, it’s no big deal, just some moonlighting now and again. But it has to come to an end today.
My name is Rebecca. I’m a former police officer. Last year, I injured my back rescuing a fat woman from a fire. All because she kept looking for her stupid cat while her stupid house went up in flames. It was really the woman that was stupid because any cat would have been gone at the first hint of fire. But what could you expect from someone who put catnip into candles and lit them on the cat’s birthday….
As the responding police unit at the scene of the fire, my partner Dave and I were waiting for the fire engine and using the loudspeaker:
“Occupant, please exit the building. You may be in danger,” he boomed.
I grabbed the handset. “Get out, stupid! Your house is on fire!”
But she ignored us and continued searching for her cat. The crackling police radio announced that the fire engine had gone off the road en-route and was stuck halfway down the embankment above the river. The driver ― another idiotic feline-lover apparently ― had swerved to avoid a cat.
We bravely ran into the burning house to persuade the overfed cat-fanatic to leave before the place collapsed. She resisted so I zapped her with the Taser and down she went, a slight mistake, because now she was just a deadweight, although more weighty than dead.
Dead, we could’ve left her behind but instead we dragged the twitching body out of there on a smouldering carpet. Both the cat and the carpet were Persian but I didn’t care because I was suddenly in searing agony from straining to haul the fat woman.
Dave handcuffed the woman to a mailbox and ripped my uniform open to give me CPR, claiming later he thought it was a heart attack. After disgustingly swapping spit and kneading my boobs, I managed to stop him with a knee to the groin.
Fifteen blocks away, the firemen were uselessly trying to lure a singed Persian cat out of a tree. A tow-truck arrived and attempted to pull the fire engine up the hill so they could resume their emergency trip. It was a big tow-truck but the fire engine pulled it down the hill anyway, after the hand-brake failed. Away it went, accelerating backwards, and knocking over the tree with the cat in it. The tree fell on the tow-truck driver as he jumped clear, breaking his leg as the cat landed, claws first, on his head.
The fire engine ended up on the dirt track next to the river and the driver managed to get it back onto the road from there. The tow-truck was left balancing precariously above the track. Then the trucker’s brother came sliding uncontrollably down the hill on his ass and bumped into the truck, toppling it off the cutting, from where it rolled into the river and sank.
The firemen finally arrived but the house had burned out, leaving them to deal with a screaming fat woman trundling about in circles and a topless police officer sprawled semi-paralysed on a smoking rug.
I was on medical leave for months after the Great Fire Fiasco, thanks to my injured back. Perhaps I misled the orthopaedic specialist and the physiotherapist a little but what the hell, I deserved a good holiday, especially as my back soon got better on its own thanks to gardening, lifting weights and jogging on the treadmill in my home gym.
Despite looking fit, healthy and tanned, the next thing I knew, I received a medical retirement with full benefits and 80% of my salary as a monthly disability pension along with a big fat lump sum. It was like winning the lottery. My colleagues threw a big farewell party down at the station and seemed really happy about everything.
My secret life began a year later. I was bored, bored, bored. To keep my disability benefits I had to lead a sedentary life in public. One day I saw an advertisement for a clown package deal. What the hell was that?
A phone call revealed that it was a complete clown business for sale, including a clown car, outfits, magic tricks, props, and so on. I realized this was perfect ― I could hire myself out for kiddie parties and do pratfalls and tumbles in clown makeup and nobody need ever know my identity. Sight unseen, I bought the clown package there and then and Bruno ― the seller― arranged to ship everything to me by rail, to the next town, where I planned to base myself as a secret clown. I was going to have fun and make money!
At the railway station, I got out of a taxi and found my goods. The clown car had no roof and was ridiculously tiny; I thought Bruno must be a midget, a small one. The crate of accessories was much bigger than the car. An unexpected problem as the lock-up garage I’d hired for my secret clown HQ was on the other side of town. How the hell was I going to get it all there?
Luckily, a beery group of men emerged unsteadily from the station’s bar to help. Joking cheerfully, they wrestled and heaved the giant box onto the top of the little car and tied it down. Then we discovered I couldn’t get in. Grumbling, they pulled the box off and I got in and they put it back on again.
It was very cramped under the crate and now the car wouldn’t move because the weight of the box had pressed the body against the wheels. I was stuck in the car and the car was stuck. The men began swearing unnecessarily and drifting off for more beer but one clever guy named Jack returned with a forklift he’d found and picked me up in the car with the crate on top and off we went.
Eventually we made it to Clown HQ, picking up a police escort along the way. I used the makeup kit in my handbag to apply a clown face so they wouldn’t perhaps recognise me. Jack and the cops unloaded the box so I could get out. After the cops left, Jack suddenly became very amorous in the garage while I was bending over the crate. I had to hit him twice with a size 24 clown shoe before he cooled his jets and staggered away.
Excitedly, I put on a clown outfit and took the little car for a test drive. People waved and smiled until I pressed a big red button on the dash and large fireworks began shooting off in all directions. Pedestrians ran for cover and I heard the serial crunching of a multiple pile-up accident behind me. Well, it wasn’t my fault that Bruno hadn’t included an instruction manual, so I quickly zoomed off.
At home the following day, I began practicing my clown routines and slapping on the clown makeup. My husband unexpectedly came home during his lunch-hour and I quickly put a paper bag over my head, sulkily pretending I was depressed about turning thirty, until he worriedly left again.
The following week everything was ready, including the advertising flyers. Soon, there was a phone call; but that booking was a misunderstanding. After my late arrival in the clown car at a rowdy bachelorette party, the guests somehow thought I was Bruno the male clown-stripper. I tried explaining the mistake as the wild-eyed, boozy women yanked at my clothing but they discovered my breasts and started throwing cake and snacks at me. A snarling blonde Amazon took a baseball swing at me with a massive purple dildo but luckily I ducked and she missed, knocking a little old lady flying off her feet instead. I made a hasty getaway in the clownmobile, using the fireworks as a smokescreen, when they all started fighting with each other like crazy monkeys running amok in a liquor store.
A new batch of (edited) flyers went out. Another booking came in and it was definitely a children’s party this time. To add a twist to the forthcoming show I gave a boy who was going to be at the party ten bucks to pretend to be afraid of clowns.
Immediately upon arrival at the party, I began chasing this kid around and terrorising him with my evil clown face and a pair of shiny hedge-clippers smeared with tomato sauce. He put on a good act, crying and screeching and even wetting his pants.
“HELP ME! MOMMEEEE!” he kept screaming, which wasn’t part of the script.
His interfering mother became hysterical but I calmed her into unconsciousness with a choke-hold. One of the dads tried grabbing me and I responded in self-defence, repeatedly hitting him in the nuts with a giant plastic hammer as he lay sobbing on the ground. Things were getting out of hand, and worsened when the kid wouldn’t drop the act. Then I realised it wasn’t the same boy and this one really did have coulrophobia.
I didn’t know this condition could be contagious but apparently it is ― all the other kids were now also screaming in terror every time I moved. I decided to leave because all these bad parents had such unstable children, but not without first demanding the rest of my fee!
The grown-ups must have really liked the show because they all lined up and gave me so much extra cash and jewellery souvenirs that I had to tuck the hedge-clippers under my arm to fit everything in my big funny hat.
I quickly left before they changed their minds. Out in the street, the driver of a fancy Mercedes somehow swerved into the clownmobile, scratching his paintwork, but I generously let him go as he was a child psychologist on an urgent call-out somewhere.
Well, that’s the tale of my secret life as a clown, up until yesterday. Now I’m fed up with the clown business and have decided to get rid of everything and go back to gardening. There was also an article in the local paper this morning about some psychopathic clown committing robbery with a dangerous weapon and I can’t afford to be associated with people like that. Not as an ex-police officer with a disability pension.
Suddenly, the secret cellphone I am using for the clown business rings. I’m shocked to see on the screen that it is Mitch, the commander down at the police station and frantically search for something to disguise my voice. All I can find are a couple of mini-tampons in my handbag and I painfully shove them into my nostrils.
“Huddo…”
“Bruno the clown?”
“Yeb.”
I listen to the commander. It is awful, tragic news. It makes my eyes water or perhaps that is the tampons. Mitch says that a piano from the music school upstairs fell out of a faulty window, landing on a sergeant. The medics say it is hopeless, once the piano is lifted off him the sergeant will die. Meanwhile, he is conscious and taking whisky for the pain. According to Mitch, the sergeant is an orphan who grew up in a circus and his dying wish, before they take the piano away for repairs, is to see a clown again.
“Bruno the clown, can you please come down to the station right away?”
“Led me dink about id,” I reply.
I think about it. If I go down to the station there is a good chance someone will recognise my voice unless I leave the tampons stuck up my nose. But I can’t do that. Or can I? No, I can’t. I could take the helium canister for the balloons along and breathe that to make my voice squeaky ― but what if it runs out before someone comes to take the piano away? I could claim to have another appointment but it might seem rude to leave before he dies.
So it will be a big risk to go there. On the other hand, this is a dying policeman’s last request. I really don’t know what to do. Ignore or go? Then I make my decision.
As always, I will do the right thing.
Yah, slapstick for sure. Glad it worked for you… humour writing is hit and miss.
You certainly have a fertile imagination.
