A Car for Clowns

I thought my father owned this house, but I’ve been wrong about better things. I was wrong about how long a tomato can stay in the fridge. I was wrong about someone loving you hard enough so that it never stops. I was wrong about naming my dog and my second dog and the dog after that. I can never get a dog’s name right. I thought my father owned this house until Mr. Shell, who I just met, knocked on the door and told me there’s no rent. I knew there was no rent, because I never knew there had to be rent. Mr. Shell gave his condolences upon my dad, and then told me I had to start coming up with rent, because hadn’t he already forgiven about six months of it? I didn’t know what he’d forgiven or what he held onto. I’ve been wrong about the kindness of people, especially when they’ve been wronged. I know I didn’t wrong Mr. Shell, but my father might have. I can’t ask him, because he isn’t here anymore, and he never owned this house. I don’t resent my father today, but I might tomorrow.

If I’m in trouble, I send my aunt down the road a text with three fire emojis. She knows this means she needs to come get me, and sure enough, after Mr. Shell’s visit and three small fires, my aunt pulls up in the car she bought from the circus that used to belong to too many clowns. I’m pretty tall at 6’4” and I can just about fit in it so I don’t know how they got all those clowns inside, but I guess that’s what makes it so thrilling. I enjoy my aunt from down the road, but one time we went for cinnamon rolls and when I went to go see if they had any powdered donuts at the other end of the bakery, she told the lady behind the counter that her nephew is “not all there.” I know what she means, and I can explore it from both sides. The side that means I’m mentally not astute and the side that means I’m somewhat non-existential. Not tangible. Something you can put your hand through. I’m not either of those things. I don’t think I’m all right, but I’m certainly more right than wrong. My father never worried about how I was, because I did the dishes and took out the garbage. Anymore than that, and you have to wonder who a person is trying to impress.

My aunt from down the road took me to the hot dog restaurant we like and she told me that it was time to move in with her. I didn’t want my father to die just so I could be alone in my own place, but it was something that cast a small fire of positivity over the cold, cold grief. My father loved the Bee Gee’s and we would sing “Nights on Broadway,” but I knew it wasn’t the Broadway a mile from us where Dad can get a pint and I can get fries with kimchi on them. There are better Broadways with bigger dreams, and I thought about moving there when Dad died and I thought I could sell the house he didn’t end up owning. I don’t want to move in with my aunt and wait for her to die so I can be sad and then let a small fire tell me that real estate is part of the healing process. Besides, she might have a daughter or something. Nobody visits with her other than me, but people sometimes have children they don’t talk about or even acknowledge, and when they die, those kids still get their house and the quilt they keep in their spare room that has two dolphins kissing on it.

After finishing my hot dog, I told my aunt I needed to use the men’s room and she asked if I needed any help. I have used the men’s room by myself since I was ten, but she doesn’t understand the kind of assistance someone like me might need. In her mind, there are gifts, there are grunts, and there are grievances. I know I’m no gift, and I can’t work hard enough to be a grunt, but I’m no grievance. I can scrub a pot and finish a crossword puzzle, and that was only to impress my dad.

In the men’s room, I use the urinal and wash my hands. The man behind me is standing, waiting, pretending he’s going to wash his hands, but he’s really just waiting for me to leave so he can run the water and put his hands under the dryer so I can hear it as I walk away and assume he’s hygienic. That’s the type of person who should be accompanied to the men’s room by their aunt who lives down the road. When I get back to the table, I tell my aunt that, yes, I’ll move in with her, but only until I can save up enough money to get my own place. I don’t know how saving money works, because I’ve never really had any, but I know my dad said something about checks I get from the government and maybe an investment or two. I’ll have to look into it when I’m finally cleaning out his bedroom. I went in there the morning after he died to start tidying up, but then I found a DVD labeled “Pottery Experiments” and something told me to save the straightening for later.

When we’re back inside my aunt’s car, she pulls some gum out of the glove compartment, and the compartment door bangs me on the knee, and not all that softly. She offers me some gum, and I take two pieces, because one does next to nothing after you’ve eaten a hot dog covered in pickled onions. My aunt from down the road asks if I’m comfortable, and I tell her I am, because what right do I have to be uncomfortable when there used to be a hundred clowns in here? Maybe more? Maybe two hundred. Am I any better than a clown? At least they’ve been to college.

The man in front of us runs the red light, and my aunt honks her horn at him. It sounds like a red nose being honked, but maybe I imagined that part.

I wouldn’t say I’m creative, but a thought is a thought, isn’t it?

If nothing else, it’s something to think about.