Bozo Comes To Town

Bozo the awful clown came to town. Streets were shut down. A corridor was cleared from the airport where his gaudy plane had touched down to the old War Memorial coliseum. It has been renamed since. But the old names stick. Like memories of the way things used to be. My grandfather's name is carved a wall near a beer stand. He was a drunk, Grandpa, and Mom kept him an arm's length from us. Grandpa called me Bub. He may not have remembered my name. Or just liking the sound of Bub for a chubby kid who reminded him too much of his daughter. And his suffering wife. A decade gone before I was born. In place of her, he showed me to eat pie out of a bowl with milk poured over. One piece, he said, isn't enough. And another would go into my bowl. Sinking into clouded milk and floating crust. A glutton, Grandpa was. With a strange smell. I can still conjure that smell, but can't describe it, even a little. I imagine Bozo and his entourage walking past Grandpa's carved name, the beer stand. Bozo in an ill-fitting suit, ridiculous hair, terrible orange makeup. A joyless soul wondering about the smell. Finding himself wishing for a whole pie. A glass or bowl of milk. Choking on a fake laugh he's rehearing for the crowd he knows he'll depsise. This awful town. This ridiculous memorial to suckers. He walks on in awful, too-big shoes. His frown painted on like a tattoo. A scowl really. And there's the crowd. So small these days. Losers from this backwater town chanting his name. Because they've forgotten all the others.